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  The scriptures compare practicing the Dhamma to starting a fire. In the days before the invention of matches or magnifying glasses, fire had to be started by the primitive means of friction. People used an instrument like a bow, held horizontally. In its looped string they entwined a vertical stick whose point was inserted into a slight depression in a board, which was in turn filled with shavings or leaves. As people moved the bow back and forth, the stick’s point twirled, eventually igniting the leaves or shavings. Another method was simply to roll that same stick between the palms of the hands. In either case, people rubbed and rubbed until sufficient friction accumulated to ignite the shavings. Imagine what would happen if they rubbed for ten seconds and then rested for five seconds to think about it. Do you think a fire would start? In just this way, a continuous effort is necessary to start the fire of wisdom.

  Have you ever studied the behavior of a chameleon? The scriptures use this lizard to illustrate discontinuous practice. Chameleons approach their goals in an interesting way. Catching sight of a delicious fly or a potential mate, a chameleon rushes suddenly forward, but does not arrive all at once. It scurries a short distance, then stops and gazes at the sky, tilting its head this way and that. Then it rushes ahead a bit more and stops again to gaze. It never reaches its destination in the first rush.

  People who practice in fits and starts, being mindful for a stretch and then stopping to daydream, are chameleon yogis. Chameleons manage to survive despite their lack of continuity, but a yogi’s practice may not. Some yogis feel called to reflect and think each time they have a new experience, wondering which stage of insight they have reached. Others do not need novelty; they think and worry about familiar things.

  “I feel tired today. Maybe I didn’t sleep enough. Maybe I ate too much. A little nap might be just the ticket. My foot hurts. I wonder if a blister is developing. That would affect my whole meditation! Maybe I should just open my eyes and check.” Such are the hesitations of chameleon yogis.

  FOUR: SUPPORTIVE CONDITIONS

  The fourth cause for developing the controlling faculties is to make sure that suitable conditions are met for insights to unfold. Proper, suitable, and appropriate activities can bring about insight knowledge. Seven types of suitability should be met in order to create an environment that is supportive of meditation practice.

  The first suitability is that of place. A meditative environment should be well furnished, well supported, a place where it is possible to gain insight.

  Second is what is known as suitability of resort. This refers to the ancient practice of daily alms rounds. A monk’s place of meditation should be far enough from a village to avoid distraction, but near enough so that he can depend on the villagers for daily alms food. For lay yogis, food must be easily and consistently available, yet perhaps not distractingly so. Under this heading, one should avoid places that ruin one’s concentration. This means busy, active places where the mind is likely to be distracted from its meditation object. In short, a certain amount of quiet is important, but one must not go so far from the noises of civilization that one cannot obtain what one needs to survive.

  The third suitability is that of speech. During a retreat, suitable speech is of a very limited kind and quantity. The commentaries define it as listening to Dhamma talks. We can add participating in Dhamma discussions with the teacher—that is, interviews. It is essential at times to engage in discussions of the practice, especially when one is confused or unsure about how to proceed.

  But remember that anything in excess is harmful. I once taught in a place where there was a potted plant that my attendant was overzealous in watering. All its leaves fell off. A similar thing could happen to your samādhi if you get involved in too many Dhamma discussions. And one should carefully evaluate even the discourses of one’s teacher. The general rule is to exercise discretion as to whether what one is hearing will develop the concentration that has already arisen, or cause to arise concentration that has not yet arisen. If the answer is negative, one should avoid the situation, perhaps even choosing not to attend the teacher’s discourses or not requesting extra interviews.

  Yogis on intensive retreat should of course avoid any kind of conversation as much as possible, especially chatting about worldly affairs. Even serious discussion of the Dhamma is not always appropriate during intensive practice. One should avoid debating points of dogma with fellow yogis on retreat. Thoroughly unsuitable during retreats are conversations about food, place, business, the economy, politics, and so forth; these are called “animal speech.”

  The purpose of having this kind of prohibition is to prevent distractions from arising in the yogi’s mind. Lord Buddha, out of deep compassion for meditating yogis, said, “For an ardent meditator, speech should not be indulged. If indeed speech is resorted to frequently, it will cause much distraction.”

  Of course it may become really necessary to talk during a retreat. If so, you should be careful not to exceed what is absolutely necessary to communicate. You should also be mindful of the process of speaking. First there will be a desire to speak. Thoughts will arise in the mind as to what to say and how to say it. You should note and carefully label all such thoughts, the mental preparation for speaking; and then the actual act of speaking itself, the physical movements involved. The movements of your lips and face, and any accompanying gestures, should be made the objects of mindfulness.

  Some years ago in Burma there was a high-ranking government official who had just retired. He was a very ardent Buddhist. He had read a lot of Buddhist scriptures and literature in the fine translations available in Burmese and had also spent some time meditating. His practice was not strong, but he had a lot of general knowledge and he wanted to teach, so he became a teacher.

  One day he came to the center in Rangoon to meditate. When I give instructions to yogis, usually I explain the practice and then compare my instructions to the scriptural texts, trying to reconcile any apparent differences. This gentleman immediately began to ask me, “From where did this quotation come and what is its reference?” I advised him politely to forget about this concern and to continue his meditation, but he could not. For three days in a row, he did the same thing at each interview.

  Finally I asked him, “Why are you here? Did you come here to be my student, or to try to teach me?” It seemed to me he had only come to show off his general knowledge, not because he wished to meditate.

  The man said airily, “Oh, I’m the student and you’re the teacher.”

  I said, “I’ve been trying to let you know this in a subtle way for three days, but I must now be more direct with you. You are like the minister whose job it was to marry off brides and bridegrooms. On the day it was his turn to get married, instead of standing where the bridegroom should stand, he went up to the altar and conducted the ceremony. The congregation was very surprised.” Well, the gentleman got the point; he admitted his error and thereafter became an obedient student.

  Yogis who truly want to understand the Dhamma will not seek to imitate this gentleman. In fact, it is said in the texts that no matter how learned or experienced one may be, during a period of meditation one should behave like a person who is incapable of doing things out of his or her own initiative, but is also very meek and obedient. In this regard, I’d like to share with you an attitude I developed in my youth. When I am not skilled, competent, or experienced in a particular field, I do not intrude in a situation. Even if I am skilled, competent, and experienced in a field, I do not intrude unless someone asks for my advice.

  The fourth suitability is that of person, which chiefly relates to the meditation teacher. If the instruction given by one’s teacher helps one to progress, developing concentration that has already arisen or bringing about concentration that has not yet arisen, then one can say that this teacher is suitable.

  Two more aspects of suitability of person have to do with the community that supports one’s practice, and one’s own relationship with the community of
other people. In an intensive retreat, yogis require a great deal of support. In order to develop their mindfulness and concentration, they abandon worldly activities. Thus, they need friends who can perform certain tasks that would be distracting for a yogi in intensive practice, such as shopping for and preparing food, repairing the shelter, and so on. For those engaged in group practice, it is important to consider one’s own effect on the community. Delicate consideration for other yogis is quite helpful. Abrupt or noisy movements can be very disruptive to others. Bearing this in mind, one can become a suitable person with respect to other yogis.

  The fifth area of suitability, of food, means that the diet one finds personally appropriate is also supportive to progress in meditation. However, one must bear in mind that it is not always possible to fill one’s every preference. Group retreats can be quite large, and meals are cooked for everyone at once. At such times, it is best to adopt an attitude of accepting whatever is served. If one’s meditation is disturbed by feelings of lack or distaste, it is all right to try to rectify this if convenient.

  The Story of Mātikamātā

  Once sixty monks were meditating in the forest. They had a laywoman supporter named Mātikamātā, who was very devout. She tried to figure out what they might like, and every day she cooked enough food for all of them. One day Mātikamātā approached the monks and asked whether a layperson could meditate as they did. “Of course,” she was told, and they gave her instructions. Happily she went back and began to practice. She kept up her meditation even while she was cooking for the monks and carrying out her household chores. Eventually she reached the third stage of enlightenment—anāgāmī, or nonreturner—and because of the great merit she had accumulated in the past, she also had psychic powers such as the deva eye and deva ear—that is, the abilities to see and hear distant things—and the ability to read people’s minds.

  Filled with joy and gratitude, Mātikamātā said to herself, “The Dhamma I’ve realized is very special. I’m such a busy person, though, looking after my household chores as well as feeding the monks every day, I’m sure those monks have progressed much further than I.” With her psychic powers she investigated the meditation progress of the sixty monks, and saw to her shock that none of them had had even the vaguest ghost of a vipassanā insight.

  “What’s wrong here?” Mātikamātā wondered. Psychically, she looked into the monks’ situation to determine where the unsuitability lay. It was not in the place they were meditating. It was not because they weren’t getting along—but it was that they were not getting the right food! Some of the monks liked sour tastes, others preferred the salty. Some liked hot peppers and others liked cakes, and still others preferred vegetables. Out of great gratitude for the meditation instructions she had received from them, which had led her to profound enlightenment, Mātikamātā began to cater to each monk’s preference. As a result, all of the monks soon became arahants, fully enlightened ones.

  This woman’s rapid and deep attainments, as well as her intelligence and dedication, provide a good model for people like parents and other caretakers, who serve the needs of others, but who do not need to relinquish aspirations for deep insights.

  While on this subject, I would like to talk about vegetarianism. Some hold the view that it is moral to eat only vegetables. In Theravāda Buddhism there is no notion that this practice leads to an exceptional perception of the truth.

  The Buddha did not totally prohibit the eating of meat. He only lay down certain conditions for it. For example, an animal must not be killed expressly for one’s personal consumption. The monk Devadatta asked him to lay down a rule expressly forbidding the eating of meat, but the Buddha, after thorough consideration, refused to do so.

  In those days as now, the majority of people ate a mixture of animal and vegetable food. Only Brahmins, or the upper caste, were vegetarian. When monks went begging for their livelihood, they had to take whatever was offered by donors of any caste. To distinguish between vegetarian and carnivorous donors would have affected the spirit of this activity. Furthermore, both Brahmins and members of other castes were able to join the order of monks and nuns. The Buddha took this fact into consideration as well, with all of its implications.

  Thus, one needn’t restrict oneself to vegetarianism to practice the Dhamma. Of course, it is healthy to eat a balanced vegetarian diet, and if your motivation for not eating meat is compassion, this impulse is certainly wholesome. If, on the other hand, your metabolism is adjusted to eating meat, or if for some other reason of health it is necessary for you to eat meat, this should not be considered sinful or in any way detrimental to the practice. A law that cannot be obeyed by the majority is ineffective.

  The sixth type of suitability is that of weather. Human beings have a fantastic ability to adapt to weather. No matter how hot or cold it may be, we devise methods of making ourselves comfortable. When these methods are limited or unavailable, one’s practice can be disrupted. At such times it may be better to practice in a temperate climate, if possible.

  The seventh and last kind of suitability is that of posture. Posture here refers to the traditional four postures: sitting, standing, walking, and lying down. Sitting is best for samatha, or tranquility meditation. In the tradition of Mahāsī Sayadaw, vipassanā practice is based on sitting and walking. For any type of meditation, once momentum builds, posture does not really matter; any of the four is suitable.

  Beginning yogis should avoid the lying and the standing postures. The standing posture can bring about pain in a short while: tightness and pressure in the legs, which can disrupt the practice. The lying posture is problematic because it brings on drowsiness. In it there is not much effort being made to maintain the posture, and there is too much comfort.

  Investigate your own situation to find out whether the seven types of suitability are present. If they are not, perhaps you should take steps to ensure they are fulfilled, so that your practice can develop. If this is done with the aim of making progress in your practice, it will not be self-centered.

  FIVE: REAPPLYING HELPFUL CONDITIONS FROM THE PAST

  The fifth way of sharpening the controlling faculties is to bring about the completion of meditative insight using what is called “the sign of samādhi.” This refers to circumstances in which good practice has occurred before: good mindfulness and concentration. As we all know, practice is an up-and-down affair. At times we are high up in the clouds of samādhiland; at other times, we’re really depressed, assaulted by kilesas, not mindful of anything. Using the sign of samādhi means that when you are up in those clouds, when mindfulness is strong, you should try to notice what circumstances led to this good practice. How are you working with the mind? What are the specific circumstances in which this good practice is occurring? The next time you get into a difficult situation, you may be able to remember the causes of good mindfulness and establish them again.

  SIX: CULTIVATING THE FACTORS THAT LEAD TO ENLIGHTENMENT

  The sixth way of sharpening the controlling faculties is cultivating the factors of enlightenment: mindfulness, investigation, energy, rapture or joy, tranquility, concentration, and equanimity. These qualities of mind, or mental factors, are actually the causes that bring about enlightenment. When they are present and alive in one’s mind, the moment of enlightenment is being encouraged, and may be said to be drawing nearer. Furthermore, the seven factors of enlightenment belong to what is known as “noble path and fruition consciousness.” In Buddhism, we speak of “consciousnesses” when we mean specific, momentary types of consciousness—particular mental events, with recognizable characteristics. Path and fruition consciousnesses are the linked mental events that constitute an enlightenment experience. They are what is occurring when the mind shifts its attention from the conditioned realm to nibbāna, or unconditioned reality. The result of such a shift is that certain defilements are uprooted, so that the mind is never the same afterward.

  While working to create the conditions for path a
nd fruition consciousness, a yogi who understands the factors of enlightenment can use them to balance her or his meditation practice. The enlightenment factors of effort, joy, and investigation uplift the mind when it becomes depressed, while the factors of tranquility, concentration, and equanimity calm the mind when it becomes hyperactive.

  Many times a yogi may feel depressed and discouraged, having no mindfulness, thinking that his or her practice is going terribly badly. Mindfulness may not be able to pick up objects as it has in the past. At such a time it is essential for a yogi to pull out of this state, brighten the mind. He or she should go in search of encouragement and inspiration. One way to do this is by listening to a good Dhamma talk. A talk can bring about the enlightenment factor of joy or rapture, or it can inspire greater effort, or it can deepen the enlightenment factor of investigation by providing knowledge about practice. These three factors of enlightenment—rapture, effort, and investigation—are most helpful in facing depression and discouragement.

  Once an inspiring talk has brought up rapture, energy, or investigation, you should use this opportunity to try to focus the mind very clearly on objects of observation, so that the objects appear very clearly to the mind’s eye.

  At other times, yogis may have an unusual experience, or for some other reason may find themselves flooded with exhilaration, rapture, and joy. The mind becomes active and overenthusiastic. On a retreat you can spot such yogis beaming, walking around as if they were six feet above the ground. Due to excess energy, the mind slips; it refuses to concentrate on what is happening in the present moment. If attention touches the target object at all, it immediately goes off on a tangent.