Chapter 5
What This Means for Other Meditators
This chapter is part of Vipassanā in Jhāna: A Personal Narrative and Practical Guide, by Gary Buck.
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Chapter 5
What This Means for Other Meditators
Reading Time: about 46 mins. 9,200 words.
Can We Generalize?
There is a question that comes at the end of every research study in the social sciences: “How well do these results generalize to other people, in other situations?” I think we should consider the same question here: how well do these experiences of mine generalize to other vipassanā meditators? Frankly and honestly, I do not know. I cannot state categorically that others will get similar results by practicing as I did. It is simply impossible to know for sure.
However, I know that other vipassanā students do in fact attain jhāna. And I know of others who have attained all four jhānas as I did. I assume that many others have done so as well. I also know that there are many people just like me: namely, dedicated vipassanā students who have lived their lives trying to keep good sīla, who are practicing vipassanā meditation as best they can, meditating on a regular basis, and attending retreats when possible. There are hundreds of them in the US, and probably thousands across the globe. Many of these vipassanā students are far more dedicated than I am and have done far more meditation than I have. Is there any reason to think they cannot experience the same states I did? I think not! So, although it is not possible to make general statements based on the experience of one person, I think there is every reason to assume that many other meditators who significantly increased their effort would attain jhāna, and be able to use them to improve their practice.
Other scholars are very encouraging. In a series of interviews with meditation teachers, Richard Shankmann asks Bhante Gunaratana whether anyone can attain jhāna, who replied by saying, “Everyone can attain jhāna, but some people are very slow. Some people are fast.” Asked the same question, Ajahn Ṭhānissaro replied, “I don’t see why not. But there is the question of whether everyone will be interested, or put in the necessary effort” (Shankmann, 2008).
But perhaps pāramī are also important. For those who may not know, the idea of pāramī is common in the Theravāda tradition. This is the idea that we build our spiritual practice over a number of lifetimes, and pāramī are those important spiritual qualities that we cultivate over these many lifetimes. It is kamma, good kamma. In previous lives, if we have cultivated certain wholesome actions, these result in favorable tendencies or outcomes in our later lives. Thus, we are not blank slates, but the results of our kamma—namely, our past actions of thought, word, and deed—which come with us and have a strong influence on our current life. Those who take readily to Dhamma practice are said to have “good pāramī.” It is quite possible that a person needs to have built up the right pāramī in order to attain jhāna.
And we do not have to believe in multiple lives to hold such a view. If we express the idea in more prosaic terms, perhaps some people do not have the right skills, or the right proclivities, to develop these states, while, conversely, perhaps others do. People obviously differ. Some people naturally live good moral lives; others do not. Some are kind; others are not. Some take to Dhamma practice much more readily than others, and some seem to make faster progress than others. Different people have different tendencies. Perhaps some meditators may not be able to attain that first jhāna, while others may find it easier than I did. Surely, if they have good enough pāramī to have already developed a strong Dhamma practice, they will often have good enough pāramī to attain the first jhāna.
However, we do not know what pāramī we actually have. We do not know how much we can attain until we try. And whether we have good pāramī or not, the task is the same: namely, to cultivate our spiritual practice as best we can, here and now. So what follows is the advice I would give to any meditator, in whatever tradition, in whatever religious context, who wants to attain jhāna. I believe that the advice I offer is based on general characteristics of the mind, and that it should apply to anyone, anywhere, regardless of what they believe. Attaining jhāna, it seems to me, is a question of controlling the mind—of building one-pointed concentration. Of course, this needs to rest on a foundation of good sīla, but for me, jhāna was simply a natural consequence of a concentrated mind.
Importantly, I should clarify that I have no training or experience in teaching meditation. I give this advice based entirely on generalizing from my own experience. So remember, it is based on a sample of one person—and we all know that we should be wary of generalizing from the anecdotal evidence of one person.
And if you take my advice, work for one-pointed concentration and attain jhāna, will your experience be the same as mine? Is jhāna the same for everyone? Again I do not know. I only know how I experienced jhāna. And I feel very confident that my experience of jhāna accorded quite well with the accounts of jhāna found in the suttas. The standard description of jhāna—a progression of four levels, with specific jhāna factors associated with each level—is exactly what I experienced. But a friend, a professor who studies this field, told me that other descriptions of jhāna that he had seen—which also accorded well with the accounts of jhāna found in the suttas—differed in some respects from mine. As a consequence, he said that he has come to believe that people are not identical in their psychological makeup, so their experience of jhāna is not identical.
This seems like a sensible caution. People can differ considerably in both their physical and psychological characteristics. So perhaps your jhāna will not be quite the same as mine. I think in general terms, it will be a pleasant, concentrated experience that accords well with the classical descriptions found in the suttas. But the details of the experience may be very different from mine. And your ability, or your desire, to incorporate jhāna into your vipassanā practice may also be different from mine. I think that is quite possible.
To further reinforce the professor’s point, I also had a conversation with an old friend, who said essentially the same. He is a dedicated, life-long meditator, and very experienced meditation teacher; someone who has used all four jhānas in his own practice. He told me that he had come to believe that people don’t all experience jhāna in the same way. His point is that since people talk about them in different ways, describe them in different ways, and use them in different ways, then they must be experiencing them in different ways; which seems to me like a sensible conclusion. We all have different histories, different abilities, different beliefs and different aspirations. These create the world in which we live, and so we all live in different mental worlds. It seems natural that our experience of jhāna will be different.
The important point being that the experience of jhāna seems to differ considerably between one person and the next. And just in case this point needs more emphasis, the reader can go back to Shankmann (2008). In the second part of that book, he interviews a number of well-known vipassanā teachers; their views on jhāna differ considerably from each other. So, my dear reader, your experience will perhaps be quite different from mine. But however you experience it, whatever you think about it, I am convinced that it will be a very rewarding spiritual experience.
I think this helps to explain why there are so many conflicting views about jhāna, and so many differing ideas about how we should use jhāna in our meditation. In some cases, of course, confusion can arise because people may be using the word “jhāna” with varying meanings; referring to different types of concentration from that being described in the suttas. It is clear that the word “jhāna” can have different meanings in different contexts. (More about that later.) But putting that aside, among those who use the word in the “classical” meaning, namely as it is used in the suttas, I am sure that they are often describing experiences different from mine. And further, I am also sure that many will feel they can relate these “different experiences” to the standard descriptions found in the suttas; just as I can do with my experiences. Please bear this in mind
The Nature of Jhāna?
I think it is worthwhile to explore the nature of jhāna a little more. My wife has a favorite saying: “the events and experiences of our life have no inherent meaning, in and of themselves; they become to us what we see them as being.” In other words, people make sense of their experiences based on their own beliefs about the world. We all tend to interpret things by fitting them into our own pre-existing frameworks of knowledge and understanding. Hence people are likely to fit their experience of jhāna into what they think, or believe, about jhāna, or what they think jhāna is like.
I think this is what I did; and this is evident in my descriptions of jhāna in Part One. I had read descriptions of jhāna as a progression of four levels, with specific jhāna factors associated with each level, and since that was what I expected, that is what I experienced. But I often wonder whether I would have understood them in that same manor, if I had not already read those descriptions. I will never know, obviously, but I am inclined to think I would not have come up with that particular framework. The reason I say that is because now, years later, my experience of jhāna is very different from how I first experienced it.
When I first experienced these states, they seemed absolutely incredible. I was simply astounded by their intense purity. But now, years later, they have become a normal part of my inner life, and I don’t pay them much attention. These incredible experiences have morphed into simple, everyday normality. When meditating nowadays, my efforts consist of trying to prevent discursive thought arising, and then trying to rest my mind calmly on the object of meditation. I do not think about this jhāna, or that jhāna, I do not pay particular attention to any of the jhāna factors, nor to any of the sensations associated with each jhāna, and I no longer experience that particular feeling of moving up from one jhāna to another, or moving to a higher level.
I have come to regard that familiar model of the four-levels of jhāna as a simple theoretical model; a useful over-simplification of a very complex underlying, multi-dimensional reality. For me now, it makes as much sense to regard jhāna as a continuum of increasing concentration, and as you go along that continuum, sometimes “these” characteristics arise, and sometimes “those” characteristics arise, which are to be observed with detached disinterest. But nothing is definite; nothing is certain.
And there is one thing that seems very different. At times, I now observe thought while in all the jhānas, including the fourth jhāna. And not just thought, but images, or ideas, or just knowing things. The mind is not as still as I used to think. I do not know how to explain this. Maybe when I am in a higher jhāna and thoughts arise, I slip down to the first jhāna—where thoughts are possible—but then I go back automatically to the higher jhāna when thinking stops. Although Leigh Brasington, in his interview with Richard Shankman (Shankman, 2008) says he thinks this is possible, I am not sure about this—it just seems like too much jumping around from one state to the another.
Or perhaps the traditional description of jhāna—with four levels of jhāna and specific jhāna factors associated with each one—is just over-simplistic, and inaccurate. Perhaps it is just a useful theoretical model, and like most theoretical models, it does not take full account of the complexity of what is described; namely the variety of different ways these states can materialize, nor of the flexibility or permeability of the boundaries between them.
Or maybe after years of jhāna practice, the mind is just much stronger and more capable of difficult mental feats. Just like a person who joins a gymnastics club; after years of hard training and dedicated practice, they will be able to perform much more difficult feats of physical strength or gymnastic agility compared to what they could have done when they started training. Perhaps regular use of these jhānas has resulted in a level of mental flexibility, or control, that I did not have before. And as a result, perhaps I am accessing more subtle, normally unconscious parts of my mind that I could before.
So, while I do not know why I now observe thoughts in jhānas, when I did not notice them at first, the simple fact is that thoughts, and other sorts of mental activity, do arise while in all the jhānas. The only discussion I have encountered of this is Jack Kornfiled in his interview with Richard Shankman. While Kornfield is describing jhāna, Shankman asks him to clarify, “There are no thoughts?” To which Kornfield replies:
Not absolutely, not at the level of jhāna I have practiced. It is not that there are never any thoughts, but for the most part it becomes really silent. It is like going from the windswept, weather-filled atmosphere, getting to the surface of the ocean, and then dropping down below the level of the water, like a scuba diver, into a completely silent and different dimension. While there are some reflections that might go by, it is a completely different state of consciousness.” (Shankman, 2008).
This simile of going from the weather-filled atmosphere and dropping into a silent world below the water, captures this very well. For me, there is thought in jhānas, but it is very different from our normal sense-sphere thought.
But there is much more. While writing most of the sections of Part Two of this book (including these very pages), I was obviously deeply involved in thinking about what I should say. Over that period, I attended a number of ten-day retreats, where I spend most time in the fourth jhāna, and I also kept a strong daily practice at home, sitting for two or three hours per day, largely in jhāna. While silently meditating in jhāna, focused on my sensations, either on retreat or at home, uninvited thoughts would unexpectedly pop into my mind about what to write. This happened many times. Some of those thoughts were quite simple, such as; “replace this word with that word;” but other thoughts were far more complex, “before that paragraph, add another paragraph explaining such-and-such.” Or “reorganize that whole section.” There were even times when I would draft, or rehearse the language of a section in my mind. I do not know whether I remained in jhāna when I was thinking about these things, but when I dismissed the thoughts, I was back in exactly the same mental state as when the thought first appeared. And later, when I came back to examine these ideas once I went back to my writing, these thoughts and ideas proved to be very insightful and important.
Of course, the reader is maybe wondering whether I was actually in the fourth jhāna; whether I was mistaken, and was really in the first jhāna. I wondered that myself, and I considered how I could actually test whether I was in jhāna or not when these thoughts arose, and if so, in which one. There is no such thing as an objective test of jhāna, of course, but I did eventually think of something. If I was fully settled in the fourth jhāna, as I believed I was, then I should be able to easily move up to the next level of concentration, namely the arūpa jhāna. So I set my mind on the mental idea of “infinite space,” and just tried to focus my mind and relax. An hour or so later, I did indeed enter the arūpa jhāna. Which means that I was in the fourth jhāna when all these very creative ideas arose.
It may not seem so strange that simple thoughts and images would arise now and again, in the fourth jhāna, but I do not know how to explain this extensive creative thinking: ideas just flowed.
However, one thing seems very clear about jhāna: namely that the mind has not stopped. Conscious thought has stopped, or is seriously reduced, but the mind is still functioning quite well, and perhaps even better, but out of conscious awareness. Of course, the mind is still running the automatic physical and mental process that it always does. These processes occur with little or no conscious effort. But it seems to me that the mind is also processing sensory and mental input; is evaluating complex situations; is still coming to conclsions; making decisions, and creating insight completely outside our conscious awareness.
In fact, I am beginning to believe that the mind works more efficiently when the conscious mind is still, as in jhāna. Insight arises more easily, and more readily. As explained above, this has happened frequently with insights related to my writing, but I have come to believe that it is also happening with insights regarding the nature of mind and matter; the understanding of anicca and anattā, as well insights supporting my own spiritual development in general.
I have come to believe that jhāna is a very perceptive, or receptive state, that gives us access to levels of thought, or levels of insight, that would not be accessible otherwise. This is why jhāna is so beneficial to our understanding of Dhmma. This same point is made by Bhante Gunaratana in his interview with Richard Shankmann (Shankmann, 2008), when he says; “only when you are in jhāna, not out of jhāna, can you see that most subtle reality in the body and mind.” Polk (2016) discusses this issue at some length, and attempts to relate this to current thinking in modern psychology about the nature of unconscious processing.
And most importantly, I assume that this is main reason that the Buddha was such a strong advocate of jhāna. It is simply a very insightful state.
The Importance of Effort
The key to attaining jhāna, for me, was increasing the effort to improve my concentration. That is all that changed. I significantly increased my level of effort. Then, once I got on the jhāna train, it just seemed to carry me along. All I did was try hard to keep focused on the object of meditation. I had no special instruction and no special knowledge. It was hard work at first, but as my concentration increased, it became easier. Each state naturally developed into the next. My simple advice is that meditators should try to make a lot more effort. That worked for me, and it seems reasonable that it will work for others. No guarantee, of course. Some may find it easier than I did; others may find it harder; and some may never attain jhāna. We do not know. But to say it again, something that is possible for one is likely possible for others.
So what exactly did I do? Nothing special. In Part One, I have described how, on that first course, I put my attention on the sensation on the upper lip, trying every microsecond to drill my mind into that sensation. It was hard work, and I fought hard, with unrelenting effort, for each and every mind moment. I made some serious mistakes, too, and created a lot of agitation and tension in the process. It took me time to learn how to make the necessary effort in a relaxed manner, and time to learn how to maintain that elevated level of effort. It takes discipline. The mind does not like it. It is a skill I had to learn, and one I am still learning. The result was one-pointed concentration, and that led naturally and automatically to jhāna. But the instruction is very simple: “make more effort.” That’s all. If there is a secret sauce, that is it.
Although most of my experience is in the U Ba Khin tradition, I think it is reasonable to suppose that this applies equally to vipassanā meditators in other traditions, whether Mahāsi Sayadaw, Pa Auk, Thai Forest, or others. In all cases, we are observing mind and matter, trying to develop awareness of their true nature, anicca. And we are all working within the framework of the Satipaṭṭhāna Sutta. It seems to me that regardless of exactly where we focus our attention, if we can reach one-pointed concentration, then jhāna will follow. I think this would also apply equally well to meditators whose main practice is ānāpāna.
I mainly focused my attention on physical sensations to attain jhāna, but not exclusively. At one time, many years ago, I also attained jhāna by focusing on the light that appeared in my mind’s eye, and on another occasion I attained jhāna by focusing on the thought that all beings should be happy. So why not other objects of attention? There are many other meditation traditions, both Buddhist and non-Buddhist. If it is one-pointed concentration that leads to jhāna, and strong effort is what leads to that level of concentration, then it seems reasonable to assume that meditators in any tradition could benefit from increased effort. I cannot claim this to be actually true, since it is beyond my experience, but it seems reasonable to suppose so. Thus, to all meditators, in any tradition, I would say: “give it a try.” It might work for you. And surely no harm can be done by working hard and building concentration.
However, as one friend insisted, I am not the only meditator who has made strong efforts. Other meditators also make effort, yet they do not attain jhāna. This is obviously true, and I have thought long and hard about it. There are a number of possible reasons for this. I think it is possible that I applied the effort much more strongly, or perhaps somewhat differently, than many other meditators. Below I want to discuss three things regarding my understanding of effort. But beyond that, I think there are some important psychological characteristics that may be preventing serious meditators from attaining jhāna even though they have the innate ability and make the required level of effort. There are two such psychological barriers that I want to discuss.
Firstly, regarding effort, there are many different levels of effort. My father was a very hard-working man. Brought up in poverty during the Depression, he believed that hard work was the key to success. As a teenager, I worked with him. When he worked, it was with determined and focused effort. It was hard to keep up with him. If you wanted a tea break, “certainly get yourself a cup of tea, but don’t stop working.” A cigarette? No problem, but keep working. Chat to friends? As much as you like, but don’t slow down. I can still hear his voice to this day: “C’mon, get back to work.” He taught me how to work hard with sustained focus, something for which I am deeply grateful.
He used to joke that there are twelve different speeds of working, and that most people who think they are working hard are not working anywhere near as hard as they could. He was right. You can see this in daily life if you look around. Watch people working in an office, a store, a building site, or wherever. Very few people work as hard as they could. Most people find a comfortable pace and stick with that. Some do work harder than others, obviously, but still nowhere near what is possible. Most people have little idea what really hard work is, and little experience of doing it.
There is also considerable evidence that quieting the mind to reach a state of one-pointed concentration requires tremendous effort. There is an old simile, found in the ancient texts, in which the process of developing one-pointed concentration is likened to taming an angry, wild bull. The bull is tamed by tying a rope around its neck and fixing that rope to a stake, the rope being ānāpāna, mindfulness of breathing. The bull lunges, jumps, kicks, and thrashes around with its enormous strength, trying everything it can to break free and escape, but the rope holds it tight and brings it back repeatedly. After a long struggle, the bull slowly quietens down. Eventually, it simply lies down next to the stake.
The tremendous power of that wild bull is then brought under the control of the meditator, who can use that power in meditation to cut the bonds that bind us to a life of dukkha, misery. This is a very dramatic image, but it is exactly how I felt about the struggle to get my mind sufficiently concentrated to enter jhāna.
It takes far more effort than most people realize to get the mind under control, to a one-pointed state. In previous meditation retreats, I had worked steadily and comfortably, but not hard enough. Working at an easy, comfortable pace, you can get fairly concentrated—the mad bull does quieten down a lot—but it never gets completely quiet. It was not until I sat that first twenty-day course, when I significantly increased my effort, that I managed to quieten this wild bull of a mind. That is when the results came. The initial effort required to reach the point where jhāna arises is considerable, but the benefits are enormous.
Secondly, the effort has to be directed at improving concentration (samādhi), not just at improving continuity of awareness (sati). I never used to distinguish between these two when meditating. I tried hard to reach a point where my mind would mostly stay on the object of meditation—there might be a few thoughts now and again, but not strong enough to pull my mind away—and then I assumed that I had good concentration. I would then level off into a pleasant, relaxed, comfortable state. That was a mistake.
Continuity of awareness is important, of course, and is clearly related to good concentration, but the two are different. Having reached a point where awareness is mostly continuous, there is still a need to build concentration. You can use this awareness to observe and monitor the effort you are making, and through this continual awareness you can manage the entire meditation process. Building concentration requires ongoing effort to make the mind finer and finer, and to have it rest more firmly on the object of meditation.
It took me a long time to learn how to build concentration, and I made many mistakes. That is why I experienced so much tension on my second retreat. I was pushing hard, trying to increase my concentration, but pushing hard in the wrong way. The effort needs to be continual and focused, but relaxed, without tension. This has been an ongoing challenge for me, and still is.
It is hard to describe exactly how to increase concentration, but all I can suggest is to choose as subtle an object as possible, gently lay the mind onto the object of meditation, and then work hard to keep the attention on that object every mind moment—every single mind moment. Continual vigilance is important. As your concentration gets stronger, if you observe carefully, you may notice that the mind is moving on and off the object of attention, flickering, very rapidly, very subtly. Work hard to stop that flickering and encourage the mind to simply rest still, laying continually on the object of meditation. The stronger the concentration, the more readily attention will rest there.
The third point about effort is not just that the Buddha frequently pointed out the importance of effort—determined, focused, continual effort—but how he described that effort. Right Effort (sammā-vāyāma) is one factor of the Noble Eightfold Path, and it seems relevant to me that it appears in the meditation (bhāvanā) section of the Path, along with Right Concentration (sammā-samādhi) and Right Awareness (sammā-sati). Right Effort relates directly to our efforts while meditating. It is what we have to do in every single mind moment. Every single mind moment!
The Buddha described four types of Right Effort: the effort to attain desirable mental states; the effort to maintain these desirable mental states; the effort to remove undesirable mental states; and the effort to prevent the return of these undesirable mental states.
To stress again, Right Effort is something we do while meditating, moment by moment. It is simply the continual, ongoing effort to place our attention on the chosen object of meditation—the sensation on the upper lip, in my case—and the moment-by-moment effort to keep it there without letting it slip away. It is the continual, ongoing effort to prevent other thoughts from intruding and to let go of them as soon as they do. It is the continual effort to keep the mind—this wild bull—under control.
This effort needs to be continually applied and then continually re-applied—every single moment. It is hard work. Very hard work.
Monitoring every moment is also very important. I have mentioned a number of times that when in jhāna I was always aware of what was happening, and I felt as though I still had full executive control of my meditation. This is key. We need to be fully aware of what is happening—monitoring our effort and our concentration continually. I think of this as executive control. We should be watching like a hawk, and any deviation from the task at hand should be dealt with immediately. This is sammā-sati (Right Awareness). Vipassanā requires this continual awareness of the mind and mental events.
On a side note, this is why I reject the idea of jhāna as a state of deep absorption in which the mind is totally lost in the object of meditation, as Buddhaghosa claimed. Such absorption may be possible, for all I know, but in every case in which I experienced jhāna, I had full awareness of what was happening and retained the ability to direct my meditation as I wished. In other words, I had strong sati, awareness. There was nothing “absorbed” about it. The mind was unified within itself and resting on the object of attention, not absorbed into it.
But I do want to say one more thing about effort. The task is to work hard and concentrate the mind—that is all. We should not be trying to attain anything from it, and even less should we be craving jhāna. The hard effort, and the concentration that follows, should be regarded as ends in themselves. The only achievement to celebrate is one more mind moment on task—and then another.
So, to summarize this discussion of effort: the aim is to develop sammā-samādhi (Right Concentration), which the Buddha repeatedly said means jhāna. In order to do so, I believe we need to focus on both sammā-vāyāma (Right Effort) and sammā-sati (Right Awareness). And in order to develop the necessary level of concentration, we must make far more sustained effort than most people realize. And we should do this with no desire for success. This is my opinion about effort.
Impediments to Success
However, I also believe that lack of sufficient effort, or effort of the wrong type, is not the only reason that meditators do not attain jhāna. It may not even be the main reason. There are clearly other powerful psychological factors at work. Two obvious possibilities are: firstly, that we need to believe it is possible to attain jhāna; and secondly, we need to allow jhāna to arise and nurture it when it does. I wish to discuss both of these.
As is obvious to us all, our beliefs have a considerable effect on how we interpret our experiences of the world. Christians tend to interpret their experiences in terms of their Christian beliefs. The same applies to Buddhists; they interpret their experience in terms of their Buddhist beliefs. This is true not only for religious beliefs, but whatever our beliefs, whether about science, politics, what we learned at school, or our beliefs about other people; our beliefs form a sort of framework into which we attempt to incorporate all our experiences. This is quite natural.
However, I believe this tendency goes much deeper than just effecting how we interpret our experiences. I think that what we believe may also affect what we actually experience. At least on a mental level. The reason I hold that view is because of an experience I had during the time I was taking those long courses, described in Part One.
On the last day of the fourth of those meditation courses, the one in which I first experienced the arupa jhānas, I did something completely new. In the U Ba Khin tradition, it is customary at the end of every course—usually the day before the course ends—for all participants to sit together after the breakfast break and practice mettā-bhāvanā, meditation to generate loving-kindness, to wish that all beings be well and happy, and to share our merits. At the end of this sitting, the vow of silence is lifted. On the morning of mettā day, before breakfast, it is my own personal habit to practice mettā alone for some time in preparation. I like to get warmed up before the event. On this occasion, I remembered that I had read in the Visuddhimagga that some meditation objects are suitable for certain jhānas but not for others, and that with mettā it is possible to attain the first jhāna, but not beyond that.
And so, in the quiet of my own cell, I began practicing mettā, holding the thought, “May all beings be happy.” After some time, I did indeed enter the first jhāna while focusing on this thought. I was able to remain in this state for an hour or so, until breakfast. Interestingly, although my concentration was very strong, stronger than at any other time in my life, before or since—recall that I had been meditating in the fourth jhāna all day long for almost a month, and I had spent four or five of those days in the arupa jhānas—yet I did not progress beyond the first jhāna. Even though I had normally moved naturally into a higher jhāna, as had happened automatically many times every day, yet I remained in the first jhāna for the whole of the time practicing metta.
I assumed at the time that, since mettā is essentially a thought, it is only possible in the first jhāna, which allows discursive thought, but not possible in any of the others, since they don’t allow thought. So that was why I had not progressed to the other jhānas. I felt very reassured that I was able to personally verify something I had found in an obscure ancient text. Such simple experiences, I told myself, gave me a strong feeling of confidence. I congratulated myself on being such a clever chap, such a wonderful meditator, so developed in dhamma that I could personally check out the validity of obscure ideas I found in ancient meditation manuals. Puffed up with pride, I even wrote this up in an early draft of my narrative. What a fool I was!
A kind reviewer of that draft pointed out to me that I had made a mistake, and that my recollection of what Buddhaghosa wrote in the Visuddhimagga was mistaken. He told me that in fact, the Visuddhimagga says that with mettā as the topic of meditation, it is possible to attain the first, second and third jhānas, but not the fourth. I checked this myself, and found he was correct. I was astounded. How come that when I had such powerful concentration, that for the previous twenty-seven days, every time I had entered the first jhāna I had then automatically, with no conscious effort, progressed up to the fourth jhāna—and not just once a day, but many times a day—how come on that occasion I had not done so, even though I now know that it was entirely possible for me to have done so. Why did I not progress to the other jhānas as before? What had prevented me? The obvious explanation is that since I believed it was not possible to enter the second and third jhānas, then I didn’t. I believed I would stay in the first jhāna, so I did. In other words, my beliefs had clearly determined what states arose in my mind.
Does the same thing apply to other meditators? That seems entirely possible; indeed likely. Most vipassanā students have been told repeatedly—sometimes explicitly, but often implicitly—that they will not attain jhāna; that jhāna is a different path. This is what they have been taught by those teachers and writers that they trust. This is the standard belief in the vipassanā community. Could it be that since most meditators believe that they will not experience these states of mind, then these states don’t arise; or at least they ignore the obvious signs when they appear? This is speculation on my part, but this seems very likely to me. Perhaps this explains why more people don’t get jhāna.
And then a second, related explanation arises. Namely, if jhāna does arise, will they welcome it and allow themselves to practice it? Or will they push it aside? In my opinion, many serious vipassanā students do not allow themselves to practice it. Perhaps they think it is forbidden territory; perhaps they think they are falling off the path; or think that they are indulging in forbidden pleasure. Perhaps they are subject to the taboo which I mentioned at the start of this book. I am not entirely sure how they think about it, but somehow, they feel that they should not indulge in these states. A conversation with an old friend led me to this conclusion.
A while ago, many years after those courses described in Part One, I was having dinner at home with an old friend. She is a very intelligent woman, a successful professional, well versed in Buddhist teaching, a life-long vipassanā meditator, and an assistant teacher in the U Ba Khin tradition. I told her my view that jhāna should be incorporated into our practice. After some discussion, she told me that she had also experienced jhāna, but that she had dismissed it, and decided to stay away from it. She offered no details, nor did I ask for any. But for some reason, during her meditation, when jhāna arose in her consciousness, she had rejected it. Such self censorship may be common. Perhaps other meditators feel the same about this topic. It is a taboo topic, so people may naturally tend to avoid it or hide it, and if it does arise, they may be inclined to push it away.
When I first experienced jhāna, I felt something similar. Although I did not reject it, I did hide it. I did not tell anyone for many years. It felt to me rather like a guilty pleasure. I kept it secret, hidden away and no one knew. My secret vice! At times I felt as though I was disrespecting my teachers, that I was being ungrateful to them, and that I was letting the team down, or falling off the path. Perhaps I was afraid of censure by my peers. These complex feelings persisted long after I had learned that jhāna was a beneficial development; long after I knew that jhāna makes vipassanā much stronger. Swimming against the stream is always difficult, and peer pressure is a powerful force.
Again, this is speculation on my part, but perhaps this is another reason why more people don’t get jhāna. It’s a taboo, so they reject it. This seems very likely to me.
To summarize, I believe that these two psychological explanations—meditators do not believe jhāna can arise, or they do not give themselves permission to accept it when it does—account for the fact that many serious meditators, despite making concerted effort, still do not get the benefit of jhāna. Not only must meditators believe that attaining jhāna is quite possible, and beneficial, but they must also give themselves full permission to accept it, and integrate that jhāna into their practice.
So, my dear readers, please believe that jhāna is possible, that it is beneficial for the practice of vipassanā, work hard to attain it, cultivate it and be prepared to incorporate it into your practice. It is a very powerful tool. We must give ourselves permission to use jhāna. And then decide for ourselves how to use it, in whatever way makes sense to us. Some meditators may combine jhāna and vipassanā into one integrated practice, as I have done, or they may keep them as two quite separate practices, if that makes more sense. The important thing to remember is that jhāna sharpens the mind considerably, and that sharpened concentration can then be used to strengthen vipassanā, whether the two are combined together, or they are practiced separately.
To get back to my basic advice about attaining jhāna: work hard and just let nature take its course. Whatever happens should be observed and accepted with equanimity. We should not be trying to attain anything. I believe it is better to think of jhāna as signposts indicating progress rather than as goals to be achieved. They will come when the mind is ready. Of course, the benefits of jhāna are immense, and our meditation is greatly strengthened when we attain them, but in the final analysis they are no more than steps along the way—or tools we use. Craving for meditative results, such as jhāna, is to fall off the path. Craving for jhāna is no better than craving for anything else. Craving is craving. What we want is hard, continual, sustained effort—and nothing more.
And if we do attain jhāna, while we should be pleased with our progress, we should not become attached to it. We will likely lose it again. Sometimes we may have jhāna; sometimes we may not. Just keep working hard. I also believe that it is a great error to analyze these states too much. They are of immense theoretical interest, of course, and are largely unknown to science. It is natural to want to understand them and their subtle differences. Meditators may want to spend some time investigating them—but not too much. We should not become distracted studying the signposts.
That is all the advice I have about how to attain jhāna.
Maintaining Jhāna in Daily Life
However, if I were reading this chapter, rather than writing it, at this point, there is one question that would be clamoring for attention at the front of my mind. Namely:
All the discussion so far had been about practicing jhāna while in an intensive meditation retreat. So if I do attain jhāna while on retreat, can I then bring that out of the retreat into my daily practice?
The obvious answer is that I don’t know; everyone is different. Obviously, it would depend on the strength of a person’s daily practice. But speaking generally, I think there is both good news and bad news. The good news it that I know that it is possible to maintain jhāna in daily practice. The bad news is that I also believe that it requires a level of commitment and discipline that would be difficult for most people with family and work responsibilities But if a meditator is successful in maintaining jhāna, then daily life is much improved with that level of control over the mind.
My own experience is mixed in this regard. Over the course of a lifetime of practice, and many meditation retreats of varying length, I have usually found it difficult to maintain strong concentration after leaving a course. There are two reasons for that.
Firstly, the transition from meditation retreat back to daily life is often a busy period, and requires some mental adjustment. We have to travel back home, usually a flight or a long drive. This can take time—a whole day, or even longer. Then we are immediately presented with all the responsibilities that have accumulated during our absence These also takes time and a great deal of attention, and keep us busy for days. So the first challenge is to maintain these higher levels of concentration during these days of transition back to the outside world. If we miss sitting for a day or two, or get too caught up in thinking about what has to be done, that wonderful concentration that we worked so hard to achieve simply evaporates.
Secondly, if we do manage to bring our strong concentration back home to our daily practice, how do we maintain it? Most serious meditators I know try to sit two hours a day. This is a considerable challenge for many, and certainly has been a challenge for me. Two hours a day, an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening, has always been difficult for me; I have missed many sittings, and when I did sit, my monkey mind wandered here and there, and I got only short periods with my mind on task. Daily sittings often felt like little more than empty ritual. And even when I am being very conscientious, it takes me an hour or so to quieten the mind, and then the sitting is over. Later in life, I found one very useful solution to that. I like to meditate for one session of two hours every morning, rather than sitting an hour morning and an hour evening. I go to bed early, then get up at five am. I then sit for two hours, and start my day at seven am. During my sitting, it usually takes me an hour or so to quieten the mind and build my concentration, and then during the second hour, I get to practice with good concentration. So I get one hour of strong meditation every day. This helps me maintain a much stronger practice.
I help motivate myself by remembering the old Indian saying that Goenkaji quotes, “while the world sleeps, the yogi is awake!” This allows me to maintain the romantic notion that I am some sort of great yogi, meditating aloof from the world. Such silly ideas can be very helpful!
Often, this two-hour session once a day is enough to maintain the first jhāna in my daily practice. But not always. I have to monitor myself closely, and sometimes I need to sit an extra hour or two, to get my mind back on track. So perhaps the answer is that with three hours meditation a day, I can comfortably maintain the level of jhāna that I was able to bring back from the course. To maintain the higher jhānas, it might be necessary to sit more, or make more effort. But slowly and surely, as I practice more, I get better at maintaining jhāna in my daily practice. I could never have maintained this level of effort when I was working, but now I am retired, and my practice has become a much more important part of my life, I do find it is possible to maintain jhāna in daily life.
And remember, it is far easier, and takes far less effort, to maintain jhāna once you have it, than it is to attain it in the first place. So if a meditator can successfully bring the jhāna back from a retreat, and then successfully incorporate that into their daily practice, the results are certainly worth the effort.
In Chapter Four, I described how the experience of jhāna on those long silent retreats had significantly improved both my daily practice, and the general quality of my life. I experienced better concentration, more mindfulness, more equanimity, and far fewer unwholesome mental states than I had experienced before. My quality of life was significantly improved simply because of the experience of jhāna on those retreats. Even though, at that time, I still had a demanding and busy professional life, and hence I was not able to keep a strong enough daily practice to maintain the jhānas.
Later, after retirement, when I learned how to maintain the jhānas in my daily practice, the result was a second step up in the quality of both my daily practice and my daily life. It took me some time to figure it out, but the key was quite simple; just learn to maintain a sufficiently high level of effort. Again, effort was the key! The results were wonderful, and resulted in a further significant improvement in the quality of my daily life.
To generalize from my own experience, that high level of concentration and equanimity that we develop during daily meditation in jhāna leaks out into everyday life. We become much calmer, wiser, and much happier. The mind still runs around during the day, of course, but much less, and with fewer troublesome or unwholesome thoughts. We live with significantly improved mindfulness and equanimity all day long, and experiencing pleasant sensation is our normal state of being. The world around is in chaos, people are running about, fussing and fretting around us, and we stand like a rock, an island in the storm. A lovely idea! Perhaps I am getting a little bit too poetic again, but the truth is that life is much better when we have control of the mind. And jhāna gives us that—a stable, solid platform on which to build a truly wonderful life.
Summary Advice on Using Jhāna
Having attained jhāna, I needed what the Buddha called a kalyāṇa-mitta—a good friend, a more senior meditator—to advise me how to use this in my meditation. He recommended that all meditators seek such a guide. I did not have the benefit of such a person. But if I had, below is the advice I think I needed to work with jhāna. Perhaps it will help others.
Advice on Using Jhāna
So, once the mind has reached a one-pointed state, consciousness naturally changes into a state called jhāna, and certain characteristics become more prominent, and it becomes much easier to maintain that state. You will experience very strong pleasant sensations throughout the body. Remain calm and focused, and keep working on your concentration until you reach a point where thought no longer arises and you are fully focused on sensations.
These states are both signs indicating progress and powerful tools that will help you do vipassanā much more effectively. The important thing is not to become distracted by them. Keep the mind concentrated and focused on the task at hand—which is awareness of sensations and their changing, insubstantial nature.
You do not need to practice vipassanā differently from how you practiced before; you will simply be practicing it better. The level of jhāna, and which characteristics are prominent in which jhāna, are not important. With practice, such distinctions may become clearer, and you may notice them, but this is not necessary—they are not worth undue attention. Building one-pointed concentration through attention to body sensations, and knowing their nature, is what matters.
However, you do need to manage your concentration. You need to decide how much you should focus on developing and maintaining your level of concentration, and how much you can go through the body, observing your sensations. When observing sensations, whether going through the body part by part, sweeping through the whole body, or just observing the whole corporeal structure, you may find your mind becoming more scattered, losing concentration. So go back to building concentration. How much you focus on building concentration depends on how easily you can maintain your mind on task. Remember, just because the mind is in jhāna doesn’t mean it will constantly stay on the desired object of meditation. You need constant vigilance; constant sati to manage your meditation. You will probably find it takes less effort to maintain your concentration than it took to develop it in the first place. Good. Perhaps you can relax a little and enjoy your meditation. But don’t relax too much. Constant vigilance is still required.
Hard, sustained effort is how concentration is built, and how it is maintained; continual awareness is how you monitor and manage the process. Cultivate this triad—Right Effort (sammā-vāyāma), Right Concentration (sammā-samādhi), and Right Awareness (sammā-sati)—in every mind moment. At all times. This is the way the Buddha taught meditation.
Enjoy the peace and purity of these states, but do not forget that they are impermanent, like everything else. You have them now, but may not have them later. Perhaps they will come and go. Keep your attention on the arising and passing away of sensations within the body, as well as the arising and passing away of mind moments. Keep knowing their nature: they are anicca, constantly changing; they are dukkha, misery; and they are anattā, not you. There is nothing substantial in there; it is all just an impersonal process.
And then enjoy those wonderful physical and mental states. Let them become your daily friends. These are the joys of a good Dhamma life. The Buddha called this “a pleasant abiding” and it certainly is.
This is the best I can offer. I have to say it feels very inadequate for such an important complex task, but perhaps it may help some folks. I sincerely hope so. Because I did not have such a good friend, I made many mistakes. I wasted much time trying to understand these various states, thinking about them, analyzing them, and comparing them far too much. I became trapped in craving for them and created huge amounts of physical tension as a result. I blundered around trying to figure out how to fit them into my practice. I hope this will help other meditators benefit from my experience, and avoid some of these silly mistakes.
To conclude, I believe that serious vipassanā students should make a strong effort to develop one-pointed concentration, and if jhāna arises, they should use this new form of consciousness to strengthen their practice. But even if jhāna does not arise, increased concentration is beneficial in itself. All meditators can benefit from increasing their level of concentration.
And if increased effort does in fact quieten the mind and leads to jhāna, meditators can then decide for themselves whether the result was worth the effort. I am sure many would be very pleased with the results.
To every one of my peers, and to all meditators, I would simply say: “Do not just believe what I say—try it, and then decide for yourself.” There is no downside to working harder, and no downside to getting stronger concentration.
End of Chapter 5
Next chapter:
Chapter 6: What Historical Vipassanā Teachers Say
Previous chapter:
Chapter 4: How Jhāna Changed My Life
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