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Guided Meditation: Direct Experience

Good day. I am happy to greet you to this meditation session together and to be here with all of you. I love seeing the names and locations people are from in the chat, and for those who don't see it, it is quite impressive—from all over.

One of the ways that the Buddha characterized his own teachings is that they rely on direct experience. That is in contrast to the religious leaders of his time, whose teachings were articles of faith. They took it on faith that they received it from someplace else: from the tradition, from sacred texts, based on their preferences, based on what they had reasoned out for themselves as logical, based on intuition, or based on what their teacher said.

Instead of those other sources of knowledge, the Buddha relied on what he could know directly. That is what Buddhism points to for each of us. This idea of sitting in meditation in the present moment is to place us in a location in time and place with a kind of attention that is connected to, sees, or is present for our direct experience. This includes the direct experience of the body, the eyes, the ears, the nose, the tongue, and also the direct experience of what is unfolding in the mind.

There is something we can see directly in the present moment that cannot be seen anywhere else, and that is what this practice is helping us to discover. We can know something for ourselves, see it for ourselves.

This practice becomes a very fortunate practice in that it turns out it's possible to really feel at home in the direct experience of the present moment. It is possible for that to be a place where our preoccupations with the past and the future, our ideas, fantasies, preferences, and the stories we tell ourselves—some of which are quite painful—all recede into a deep sense of simplicity of being, a contentment of being here and now. Not for its own sake, but rather, it turns out this is the way of being that coincides with really being able to see things as they truly are and to have direct experience.

Perhaps those few words will inspire you to be curious about what your connection to direct experience might be. What is your experience, and can that be a place where there's a simplicity of being? It's not something you have to work out logically, believe by faith, or have preferences for liking or not liking. It is just something to be settled with, breathing in the middle of it.

Assume a meditation posture that is supportive for you in being attentive to the present moment. Generally, it means having a posture that expresses some alertness. Even if you're not lying down, there might be some way of adjusting your head, chest, spine, or arms where there is some intentionality involved to be here and present.

Then also relax in this posture. Do not slump, but relax the muscles that do not need to be tight, kind of settling in. Take a few long and slow deep breaths, relaxing as you exhale.

Let your breathing return to normal, but feel that breathing from the inside out. Be aware of the body's own experience of breathing. Here is where direct experience comes into play: you don't have to be concerned with your preferences for what breathing is like, the tradition of how it is supposed to be, or some logic of reason you've worked out about how you are supposed to breathe. It is enough just to be familiar with the breathing as it is.

Perhaps, as you exhale, relax into the body breathing. Especially on the exhale, relax into the breathing body. Whatever occurs as you're meditating now, how do you know it as a direct experience, as the immediate experience of now?

Direct experience doesn't need any thinking about the experience. It is just a knowing mindfulness, almost a silent awareness of what is happening now: in the body as you are breathing, in the ears as you hear, in the eyes as you see, and in the mind as there is mental activity. As you think, the content of your thoughts is not important, but the direct experience of thinking can be known.

And then, as we come to the end of the sitting, the ability to prioritize the direct experience we have can give us a very different relationship to other people than if we experienced them through our judgments, biases, and projections—the colored glasses we wear or the cobwebs through which we see.

To clear away much of the distortions, assumptions, or biases with which we see people, and to be present simply and fully with the direct experience of another person, is a way of sharing in the humanity of our lives. It is a way in which, hopefully, what is deep inside of us can sense what is deep inside of another: their humanity, their suffering, their joys, and their fundamental value as a living and breathing human being.

May it be that this practice of meditation helps us to see others in new ways, in ways where we feel, sense, and share a common humanity. From that form of direct experience, it is easier and cleaner for there to be goodwill, generosity, kindness, and care towards others.

May this direct experience of life inspire us to live for the welfare and happiness of others in whatever way is appropriate for each individual. May this practice we do together support the happiness of others, provide people with a greater sense of safety and peace, and open the doors to freedom. May all beings be well and happy.

Dharmette: Sutta Stories - The Preservation of Truth

For this week's little Dharmettes, I would like to continue with the idea of stories. But this time, I want to tell the stories of the Buddha from the suttas^[1]—from the ancient literature that we have in our tradition. They purport to be the direct records of the Buddha, not just common stories that are often told about him. Instead, these are stories that contain wonderful teachings. Some of them might not be "great stories" in a literary sense, but they are stories that contextualize the teachings, helping them to stand out and be highlighted.

The first one is a discourse—the ancient word for discourse is sutta (s-u-t-t-a)—and it is called the Caṅkī Sutta^[2] (usually spelled in English as C-A-N-K-I). It is number 95 in the Middle Length Discourses. I am particularly fond of this sutta. When I teach courses on the ancient discourses, especially the Middle Length Discourses, I like to start with this one. The reason is that the story pivots on a teaching the Buddha gives regarding the preservation of truth: How do we preserve the truth?

To offer that at the beginning of studying these ancient teachings is crucial. How do we study these texts and preserve the truth as we do it? How do we stay truthful in a certain way and not just accept the teachings naively as true simply because they are in the text? How do we relate to these teachings if we do not yet have our own direct experience of them, and how do we talk about it? That is the preservation of truth.

The story involves brahmins visiting the Buddha. In this text, we see a representation of the tension in ancient India between the brahmin caste (the priests) and the warrior or noble caste—the Kshatriyas^[3]—that the Buddha came from. India was a very hierarchical culture; everything was stratified according to these hierarchies. There was a vying for top position between the brahmin class, some of whom were phenomenally wealthy and controlled vast territories, and the warrior noble class, who were often the rulers.

In this text, the Buddha is camped out near a town where there is a brahmin named Caṅkī. He is phenomenally wealthy and has been given land—like a medieval lord given a large territory by the king. The wealth of it is his, and the people in it work for him. He is also very learned in brahminical lore.

One day, the other brahmins in his town hear that the Buddha is nearby, and there is a good report about him being a wonderful teacher. So, they all decide to go visit the Buddha and hear his teachings. However, there is a group of 500 other brahmins visiting from different places, and they get upset that Caṅkī—this great ruler of the territory and great brahmin—is going to visit the Buddha. They say, "It's inappropriate for you to visit the Buddha because you are so wonderful." They list all the ways in which he is great and argue that the Buddha should come see him, not the other way around.

But the brahmin Caṅkī says, "Oh no, no. The Buddha is actually more wonderful." He lists all the special qualities of the Buddha to argue that it is indeed appropriate for him to go see the Buddha. So, they all go to see him.

While they are sitting there having a conversation about the Dharma, there is a sixteen-year-old brahmin priest—a student of the brahminical lore, sacred texts, and teachings—sitting among them. He keeps interrupting the Buddha. At some point, the Buddha says to him (and we don't know exactly the tone of voice or how best to translate the word into English; it's often translated as the Buddha "rebuked" the boy for interrupting the conversation between the elder brahmins and himself, or perhaps he just stopped the young man and said), "You shouldn't interrupt when the elders are speaking."

Then one of the elder brahmins, perhaps Caṅkī, says, "Oh, it's okay, Venerable Buddha. This young man is one of our most learned students. He has memorized all the ancient texts, the histories of the past, and philosophy. He knows it all. Please, it's okay that he is part of the conversation." In the very formal, polite culture of the Buddha's time, the Buddha probably needed clear permission from the elder brahmins to converse with the sixteen-year-old; otherwise, it would have been rude to direct his focus away from them.

Having received permission, the Buddha looks at the sixteen-year-old, who says, "Oh good, the Buddha is now ready to hear my question." The youth then says, "It is definitively said among the brahmins that our sacred texts are the only ones that are true, and everyone else is wrong. What does the Buddha think about this?"

The Buddha, in these kinds of circumstances, does what he often does: he asks counter-questions. He asks the sixteen-year-old student, "Is there any brahmin in the current generation who has directly known and seen the truth of these ancient texts for themselves through their direct experience?"

The student says, "No."

"What about their teachers, the generation before them? And the generation before them? Did any of them say they directly knew and saw the truth of these teachings?"

"No, they never said they directly knew it themselves."

"And if you go back seven generations?"

"Nope, no one in seven generations has said they directly know and see for themselves."

"And if you go back to the people who composed the sacred literature, did they ever make a claim in the literature that they directly knew and saw the truth for themselves?"

The student says, "No, there's no proof that they claimed they saw it directly for themselves."

Then the Buddha makes a big statement. Earlier in the text, when Caṅkī is describing the great qualities of the Buddha, he says the Buddha never harms anyone. So what is about to be said could perhaps be seen as a little offensive, but maybe it's just an aikido move addressing the conceit or arrogance of this student who believed he held the absolute truth. The Buddha says, "It seems to me that the brahmins are a little bit like a row of blind people, one holding the shoulder of the next. The one in the front can't see, the one in the middle can't see, and the one in the back can't see."

The student then says, "Well, we have it on faith. Even if we don't directly know and see it for ourselves, we have it on faith."

The Buddha replies, "What is known on faith may be true, but it might also not be true. There is no certainty that just because something is taken on faith, it is true."

"Ah, but it's in our oral traditions! It's in our texts!"

The Buddha says, "Just because it's part of the tradition, it might be true, but it might not be true. There is no way of really knowing just because it's traditional."

Then the Buddha says there are five things that may or may not be true: things taken on faith, things taken as true because we like or prefer them, things taken as true because they are the tradition, things taken as true because we have reasoned them out logically for ourselves, and things taken as true because of an intuitive understanding or sense. He explains that in each of these circumstances, sometimes the conclusion is true, and sometimes it is not. There is no way of genuinely knowing which it is based solely on those sources.

The youth asks, "Well, how do we preserve the truth then?"

This is the pinnacle of the text and why I like it so much. The Buddha says that we preserve the truth by stating the basis upon which we make a claim. If we take something on faith, we say, "It is my faith that this is true." If we take it based on our preferences, we say, "It is my preference that this is true." If it's based on tradition, texts, or teachers, we say, "Based on the tradition, this is what is said to be true." Or, "I reasoned it out for myself, and that's why I think it's true," or "I just have an intuitive sense that this is true."

By doing this, we are not making an absolute claim about what is true. We are making a claim about how we have come to understand what we think is the truth. We are claiming that we have faith or reasons to believe it. Then, it is possible to be in dialogue with people. People can understand the basis of our claims, we can go back and look at the texts together, we can examine their reasoning, or we can appreciate the faith someone has. Being really clear about the basis upon which we take something to be true—saying "this is my interpretation" instead of claiming "this is the absolute truth"—is the pivot of the text.

The student then asks, "Well, how do we discover the truth for ourselves?"

The Buddha says, "If you want to discover it for yourself, go find a monk—a bhikkhu^[4]—who has come to your village. Spend a long time checking that teacher out. Make sure that person doesn't exhibit any traces of greed, hatred, or delusion that might skew how they talk about the truth, where they might be motivated to twist or bend the truth for the purposes of their desires, aversions, or illusions. Really check them out first. When you're confident that they don't seem to exhibit any greed, hate, or delusion that would skew their teachings, then listen to their teachings. Reflect on them, really take them in, and think about them for yourself to find out what's going on."

"Once you have reflected on them deeply, then engage in the practice and do it wholeheartedly. Enter the practice into the world of direct experience until that direct experience opens up and you discover the truth for yourself."

The brahmin student asks, "Is that all there is? Just a discovery?"

The Buddha says, "No, there's one more step, and that is the arrival at truth."

By talking about the discovery of the truth, the Buddha is doing another aikido move—at least this is my interpretation (I'll say that so I preserve the truth!). Rather than talking about abstract truth, he points the student toward how one could practice to achieve the direct experience that the Buddha values the most. It is through practice—mindfulness practice, concentration practice—that this is accomplished.

Once you have discovered the truth, the Buddha says, to arrive at truth, you repeat the same practice again and again until you are fully integrated into it. Then there is no separation between yourself and the truth; in a sense, you become the truth. (The text doesn't say "become the truth," but that is the implication.)

And so everyone is happy. That is the end of the story. It is a fascinating story that sets up the context for why it is so important to emphasize the preservation of truth among people who hold onto truth out of faith, tradition, or reason. There is another way of going about it, which is not just taking teachings—even Buddhist teachings—on faith or because they are in the texts. That is always provisional. What is not provisional is when we have actualized it for ourselves. When we have our own direct experience, then we can say, "Now I know." And then we can arrive at truth by continuing to practice what we have discovered.

That is the story, and I hope that you appreciated that. I will tell some other stories for the rest of the week. Thank you.