This week we're looking at case 24 in the Gateless Barrier, a classic collection of Zen koans. It's an interesting case which poses a question that sooner or later every meditation teacher must confront (usually sooner!) - how can one convey a wordless experience in words?

So, without further ado, let's get right into it.

Speech and silence

The monk starts by quoting an aphorism that was presumably well known at that time (although I don't know the original source myself - if you do, please leave a comment!): 'Speech and silence involve alienation and vagueness.'

At first sight, perhaps this seems a tad harsh. I certainly don't set out to alienate people every time I speak - although I can't speak to my success rate. And sometimes silence is the most appropriate response to what's going on, rather than some vague, wishy-washy attempt to avoid dealing with the situation at hand.

What this is really getting at is the nature of communication itself. It's pretty remarkable, really - so much so that the historical Buddha described three 'miracles', the third and highest of which was 'the miracle of instruction' - that is, that it's even possible to teach something as subtle as meditation to another person.

What actually happens when we put something into words? We start with our own direct, first-person experience, in all its vast richness and complexity. We identify the key aspects of that experience which we'd like to convey to someone else - thereby reducing the totality of the experience to a list of bullet points, discarding the rest. Then we search through whichever language(s) we speak to try to find concepts within that language that line up as closely as possible with our experiential bullet points - now moving more fully from experience itself into the realm of the purely conceptual, the realm of concepts and ideas, the realm of words.

At this point, we're several steps removed from the original experience - we've become 'alienated' from our starting point. We're now inhabiting a purely mental space, one of language and thought. But we're not even done yet - we're only halfway there.

Now we find a way to send our words to another person - by speaking, by writing an email or text message, through an elaborate series of fortune cookies. At this point, the matter is out of our hands, and we can only hope for the best.

Because now the recipient has to perform the whole process in reverse. They'll pick up the words we've sent over - well, maybe! Depending on how closely they're paying attention, they'll hopefully pick up some of the words, but maybe not all of them. Next, they translate those words back into concepts - but into their own concepts, rather than ours. Different people can interpret the same words in very different ways, depending on their own life experience, conditioning and so forth. One person's idea of 'relaxing' can be totally different to someone else's, for example - maybe to one person it means a quiet walk in the woods, whereas for another it means playing a high-intensity video game blasting aliens.

So by the time the recipient has converted our words back into their concepts, they could have something pretty similar to what we intended, or something really different. To make matters worse, we're still a couple of steps removed from the original experience that we intended to convey. If the person we're communicating with has had the same experience we have, or something close enough, then the concepts they reconstructed from our words may be near enough to trigger a recognition of the shared experience. If the other person hasn't had that experience, we may be met with a blank stare, or our words may be interpreted to mean something else entirely. The 'alienation' involved in speech (and linguistic communication more generally) is a serious obstacle - the moment we open our mouths to speak, we're departing from the experience, and something vital is lost.

Given all this palaver, it's a miracle that we can ever explain anything to anyone else! And yet what's the alternative? If someone asks us about our experience of meditation and we simply sit there silently, feeling into our experience without attempting to convey it, there's no possibility for communication to take place. And so 'silence' can be equated with 'vagueness' - you ask me what's going on in my practice, and I just smile. A fat lot of good that does you!

And so the monk has his question. If speech involves alienation but silence is vagueness, what are we supposed to do? How do we find a way through this maze?

South of the Lake, in springtime

Zen master Fengxue doesn't reply directly to the monk's question. Rather, he offers a poetic depiction of an idyllic scene - south of the lake, in springtime; flowers blooming, their fragrance heavy on the air; partridges calling to each other as they come and go. It's an evocative image (and is probably more poetic in the original Chinese, although the translation above by Thomas Cleary is pretty nice too).

Master Fengxue lived in the Tang dynasty of China. I'm not much into poetry myself, but I've heard that the poets of that era had a unique ability to evoke scenes from daily life with their verses - the modern-day Zen teacher and poet Henry Shukman has said that Tang dynasty poetry often has the power to transport him to another time and place. Of course it can never be the same as having lived 1,400 years ago in China - but the effect is striking nevertheless, and has a power of its own.

So one way to interpret Fengxue's response is that he's trying to show the monk a middle way between speech and silence - that words, although cut off from the direct sensate reality of first-person experience, can still be powerfully evocative, stirring a response in the listener. The words must be well-chosen; the speaker must have a clear grasp of what's to be expressed, and have some skill in the delivery. But if those requisites are in place, then communication isn't the hopeless case it might appear to be at face value.

From words to the wordless

Over the millennia, many different approaches have been developed to try to lead people toward the wordless experience at the heart of all contemplative traditions. Early Buddhism has its insight practices; Zen has Silent Illumination and koan practice; other traditions have their own particular styles and approaches too. Each of these is a method, a means to an end - the method is not itself a form of wisdom, but leads to wisdom if taken far enough. So the teacher offers the method to the student, who practises with it for some time - there's usually some discussion back and forth, as the teacher attempts to determine how the student is working with the method, and offer advice if they're a little off track. Eventually, however, the student grasps the essence of the method, and all that remains is to use the method to go deeply enough to reach the wisdom it reveals.

To make this more concrete, let's take a look at the 20th century Chinese Zen master Sheng-Yen's description of the process of working with a koan, such as the question 'Who am I?'

Stage 1: Reciting the koan

In the beginning, we sometimes don't know what to make of the koan, and to make matters worse, our busy minds are wandering hither and yon, refusing to settle for any length of time on the question we're trying to explore. All we can really do at this point is to continue to repeat the question over and over - 'Who am I? Who am I?' until our minds settle enough that we can start to dig into it more deeply.

Stage 2: Asking the koan

As the mind settles, we develop an interest in the question. Other people seem to be getting something really important out of finding out who they really are - so I want to know too! Now the question becomes a genuine question, not just a kind of mantra used to settle the mind.

As we ask the koan, all kinds of thoughts may come up at first - perhaps our thoughts and beliefs about who we are, or clever attempts to 'solve' the koan through logic. We may at times even feel like 'Aha, I've cracked it - it's xyz!'

But the answer to the koan is not a thought, no matter how ingenious. All we can do is notice these thoughts, set them to one side, and continue to ask. And so, over time, we begin to develop the 'sensation of doubt' - a strong feeling, which can be very physical for some people, of wrestling with this question but being unable to resolve it.

Stage 3: Investigating the koan

As the sensation of doubt arises, we develop an overwhelming desire to find the answer to the koan. It's much easier to focus now on the question because we're so intent on answering it. The koan begins to show up in the course of our daily lives - as we brush our teeth in the morning, 'Who is brushing these teeth?' As we walk down the road, 'Who is walking?' As we fall asleep, 'Who is falling asleep?' The practice may even continue through the night.

Stage 4: Watching the koan

At some point, the question answers itself. My Zen teacher Daizan sometimes says that a koan is a question which from the outside has no answer, but from the inside is no problem at all. What happens here can't be put into words - you must have the experience for yourself. When you arrive at your true nature, you wake up - you experience kensho.

And yet seeing it once typically isn't enough. We may have had a breakthrough - we may have resolved our 'investigation' of the koan - but we aren't done yet. Sooner or later, our habitual patterns reassert themselves, and we find our vexations and discontents starting to come back. We may well find that our lives have been transformed, but not fully - there's more to be done.

And so it's necessary to continue to practise - to keep 'watching' the koan. In some Zen lineages, you may be given a different koan to work with here, but in other traditions you'll stay with the same one your whole life - continuing to use the question as a means to reconnect with your true nature, continuing to remind yourself again and again who you really are, until the wisdom has become so bone-deep that it can be forgotten entirely, your life now indistinguishable from the Great Way of Zen.

Practise well!

This week we're looking at case 23 in the Gateless Barrier, 'Not Thinking of Good or Evil'. It's one of the longer stories in the collection (second only to case 2), so the line above is the pivotal excerpt which we might work with in formal meditation. We'll look at the whole story a little later on, but I'd like to set it in a broader context. So in this article we're going to take a look at the life and times of Huineng, the Sixth Ancestral Master of Zen. Along the way we'll explore two competing views of how Zen practice unfolds, and we'll even attend a poetry competition. So let's get into it!

The humble beginnings of Huineng, the Sixth Ancestor

The protagonist of our story is Dajian Huineng, who lived in the Tang dynasty in China. (Typically he's simply called Huineng. The name is pronounced 'hway-nung', although it's also quite common to hear it said more phonetically - Chinese transliteration is pretty counterintuitive!) He's considered to be one of the most important Zen masters in the whole lineage. His life story can be found in the Platform Sutra, on which this article will lean quite heavily.

Prior to taking up Zen practice, Huineng was an illiterate woodcutter, selling firewood to support his widowed mother after his father's professional disgrace and subsequent untimely death. One day, while in the market, Huineng met a monk reciting the famous Diamond Sutra. When Huineng heard the words, he had a sudden breakthrough to enlightenment.

Eagerly, he asked the monk where he had learnt this Sutra. The monk replied that he came from a monastery in Huangmei, where he studied with the Fifth Ancestor, Hongren.

(In the Zen way of reckoning things, there are 28 Indian Ancestors, beginning with the historical Buddha, then Kasyapa, then Ananda, and on down the line. Bodhidharma, who brought Zen to China, is considered the final Indian Ancestor and the first Chinese Ancestor, from where the lineage goes Huike, Sengcan, Daoxin, Hongren, Huineng.)

Soon thereafter, Huineng fortuitously came into enough money to take care of his mother's needs without needing to keep selling firewood, and so Huineng said his farewells and travelled to Huangmei, in the north of China. As a southener himself, Huineng was from a different ethnic group to the northeners, and was subject to considerable prejudice along the way. The other monks, who were well-educated northerners, treated the illiterate southener with contempt.

Perhaps by way of a test, even Hongren himself launched an opening salvo at poor old Huineng about his ethnicity.

Hongren asked, 'Where are you from, and what is it you seek?'

Huineng said 'Your disciple is a commoner from Xinzhou in Lingnan, and I have come this far to pay reverence to you. I wish only to achieve buddhahood and do not seek anything else.'

Hongren said, 'If you're from Lingnan, then you must be a hunter. How could you ever achieve buddhahood?'

Huineng replied, 'Although people may be from north or south, there is fundamentally no north or south in the buddha-nature. Although this hunter's body is different from Your Reverence's, how can there be any difference in the buddha-natures within?'

At this point, Hongren could see that there was something special about Huineng, but equally that he would have a hard time trying to find acceptance with the other monks, so he was assigned to work in a shed behind the monastery, pounding rice to remove the outer husks. Some time later, Hongren met Huineng secretly and began teaching him, out of view of the rest of the monks.

The poetry contest, and transmission of the robe

One day, Hongren announced to the community that his time was coming to an end, and that he was looking for a successor before he passed away. Hongren invited his monks to write poems demonstrating their realisation and write them on one of the temple walls; whoever wrote the finest poem would then receive transmission (which we discussed in detail last time).

Most of the monks thought to themselves 'Obviously the head monk, Shenxiu, will win - there's no point in the rest of us bothering.' But Shenxiu was deeply troubled - on some level, he knew he didn't have 'it' yet, but due to his position it would be unthinkable not to contribute a poem. In the end, he wrote the following on the wall:

Our body is the bodhi tree
And our mind a mirror bright
Carefully we wipe them hour by hour
And let no dust alight

According to the Platform Sutra, Hongren wasn't particularly impressed with this, and told Shenxiu to go away and try again. In the meantime, however, the other monks had dutifully learnt Shenxiu's verse, and one such monk happened to be reciting it as he walked past the shed where Huineng worked. Huineng asked about the verse, and - after berating him for being a thick southerner - the monk gave him the back story to the poetry competition. Huineng was still illiterate, but he asked if someone would be willing to write a poem of Huineng's own creation on the wall alongside Shenxiu's. Fortunately, someone agreed, and Huineng had the following (perhaps the original diss rap?) written up on the wall:

There is no bodhi tree
Nor stand of a mirror bright
Since all is empty
Where can the dust alight?

When Hongren saw this, he knew he had a true successor. However, having seen Huineng's treatment in the temple, he also knew that the community would never accept him. So Hongren met Huineng late at night, gave him the transmission in secret, and then told him to flee the monastery, and to travel for some time to continue to deepen his understanding before finally setting up somewhere to teach.

The next day, when it became known that Huineng had received the robe and bowl and fled the temple, there was uproar. One monk - a former military general named Huiming (or simply Ming) with a reputation for being a tough customer - set out to pursue Huineng and bring back the robe and bowl.

And this is where our koan begins - thrown right into the middle of the action.

The koan

This week is the final article in a series on the Satipatthana Sutta, the early Buddhist discourse on how to practise mindfulness. Previous articles in this series have looked at mindfulness of the body (through mindfulness of breathing, scanning the body, the Four Elements and the charnel ground contemplations) mindfulness of vedana (the way each experience strikes us as pleasant, unpleasant or somewhere in between), mindfulness of mind states, and the beginning of the section on mindfulness of mental phenomena (covering the Five Hindrances and the Five Aggregates). This week we're finally coming to the end of this weighty discourse, looking at the Six Sense Spheres, the Seven Factors of Awakening, the Four Noble Truths, and the Buddha's predictions for the prospects of anyone who works diligently with these practices. It'll be another lengthy one this week, so let's get straight into it!

The six sense spheres

The first practice we'll look at today is the six sense spheres (sometimes called the six sense bases). Here's what the Buddha has to say:

Again, monks, in regard to dhammas [one] abides contemplating dhammas in terms of the six internal and external sense-spheres. And how does [one] in regard to dhammas abide contemplating dhammas in terms of the six internal and external sense-spheres?

Here [one] knows the eye, [one] knows forms, and [one] knows the fetter that arises dependent on both, and [one] also knows how an unarisen fetter can arise, how an arisen fetter can be removed, and how a future arising of the removed fetter can be prevented.

[One] knows the ear and sounds... the nose and odours... the tongue and flavours... the body and tangibles... the mind and mind-objects...

The word being translated as 'sense-sphere' here is ayatana. Translations vary, but basically it means something like the 'domain' of a particular sense. Each sense is also broken down into its 'internal' and 'external' component, which means 'the sense organ' and 'the sense object' - so, for example, the eye (internal) and forms/coloured shapes (external), the ear (internal) and sounds (external) and so on.

Sometimes you'll encounter these 'twelve ayatanas' mentioned in combination with the 'eighteen dhatus'. In the latter case, twelve of the eighteen are the sense organs and sense objects we've already seen, while the other six are the corresponding sense-consciousnesses, which tie together the sense organ and the sense object - so, for example, in order to have a visual experience, you need a functioning eye, one or more forms for the eye to perceive, and eye-consciousness to be in operation.

The idea of six senses can sometimes strike Westerners as a bit funny - no Bruce Willis here, I'm afraid. As you can see from the list in the final paragraph, however, in the Buddha's way of viewing things, the thinking mind is considered the sixth 'sense organ', and the thoughts it thinks are considered the corresponding sense objects. (More generally, the sixth sense sphere covers 'mental activity', so if you regard emotions as partially or primarily mental phenomena, they go here too. Basically, if it isn't one of the first five, it's mental activity and goes in the sixth bucket.)

The upshot of all this is that we're being asked to examine our sensory experience and our inner landscape, through the lens of these six senses. Even if we go no further than that, this can be an interesting practice in its own right. Simply following our experience moment to moment and noticing 'seeing, hearing, seeing, thinking, feeling, seeing...' can be a powerful insight practice in its own right - it's one form of the famous Mahasi 'noting' technique, and it works particularly well as an exploration of impermanence, because if you note for long enough you can't help but notice that your experience is constantly changing.

However, the instructions in this discourse suggest that we go one step further than 'mere' noting. Look at that middle paragraph - we're invited to explore 'the fetter that arises dependent on [a sense organ and a sense object]', and to come to understand how that fetter arises, how an arisen fetter can be removed, and how a future arising of the removed fetter can be prevented.

If you think this sounds a lot like the instructions for working with the Five Hindrances that we covered in the previous Satipatthana article, you'd be right! Once again we're interested in exploring the cause and effect relationship leading to unwholesome states of mind, and developing skill in letting go of those unwholesome states. (In just a moment we'll see the positive counterpart to this exercise, when we get to the Seven Awakening Factors.)

But wait, what the heck is a fetter?

The fetters

There are actually various lists of 'fetters' - unwholesome mental factors leading to our general unhappiness - in the Pali Canon. The best known is the Ten Fetters, which are the factors which are progressively overcome as we go through the stages of awakening. It isn't totally clear whether the Satipatthana Sutta actually means the Ten Fetters, another list of fetters, or just negative states in general, but the Ten Fetters are an interesting list and give us some useful material for this practice, so let's take a look.

At the first stage of awakening, stream entry, one is said to overcome the first three fetters:

• Identity view: that is, belief in a solid, fixed self, a real 'me' which is surely lurking around here somewhere, I just can't quite put my finger on it right now...

• Belief in the efficacy of rites and rituals: that is, belief that someone else can perform some kind of ritual on your behalf that will free you from suffering; or, alternatively, in another translation, belief that following all the ethical rules of the monastic code is sufficient in itself to wake up fully. (Both are obviously incorrect from the perspective of a stream entrant, so it doesn't really matter which is the 'correct' translation.)

• Sceptical doubt in the Dhamma: that is, that nagging sense that maybe this is a load of hooey, that none of it really does anything, that awakening is just a fairy tale and we're all wasting our time.

All three are very effectively demolished by stream entry.

The second stage of awakening (where one becomes a 'once-returner' - according to the old cosmology, reborn into the human realm at most one more time before attaining nibbana and escaping the wheel of rebirth altogether) doesn't actually eliminate any more fetters, but does substantially weaken the next two:

• Passion for pleasure: that is, the burning need to continue to have nice things and nice experiences, the sense that one's wellbeing is dependent on having enough enjoyment in life.

• Ill-will: that is, bearing grudges and actively wishing harm upon others - the opposite of metta, loving kindness, good will.

At the third stage (non-returner - no more icky human rebirths for you, only one more possible rebirth in a heavenly realm where you'll definitely attain full awakening in the next life), the fourth and fifth fetters are finally eliminated.

Which leaves five 'higher' fetters for the final stage of awakening - where one becomes an arahant, a 'worthy one'. The remaining five are:

• (6 and 7) Desire for rebirth in a pleasant material realm or a pleasant immaterial realm. For modern audiences, we might interpret that as something like 'still wanting to go to heaven when we die'.

• Restlessness: so if you're a generally restless meditator, like me, at least you can take comfort from the fact that it's a tricky one to overcome entirely!

• Conceit: that is, conceiving of a self. At the first stage of awakening you saw for yourself that there isn't any fixed thing which constitutes your self - it's a moving target, a collage of thoughts and sensations. But, at least until you're fully awakening, the illusion persists - you continue to feel like you have a self, even though you know you don't really.

• Ignorance: that is, the fundamentally inaccurate view we have of what's really going on. At the fourth stage, our view finally comes fully into alignment with what's actually happening, and we're no longer confused.

Working with the fetters in our practice

Several of the fetters in the above list make for excellent themes of investigation in our exploration of the sense spheres. For example, we can look at the fourth and fifth - passion for pleasure and ill will, or more generally at craving and aversion.

So, for example, if I'm paying close attention to my sensory experience, I might notice that when I see a chocolate bar, I experience a strong urge to eat it. The sense organ is the eye, the sense object is the chocolate bar, the fetter is craving. If I keep looking, I can also start to see the conditions for the arising of the fetter - for instance, if I'm at work and I'm tired and stressed, the craving is much more likely to arise than when I'm relaxed and content. Through practice, I can learn to catch that craving and let go of it without being forced to act on it - which is good for my waistline. And I can also learn from this how to avoid a future arising of the same fetter - by steering clear of the shop that sells the chocolate when I'm tired and stressed. The net result is that, by paying close attention to my sensory experience, I've now learnt how to deal with a particular category of unwholesome states.

Another interesting fetter to explore is conceit - the arising of the sense of self.

For example, you might notice that as you look around, part of you is automatically figuring out where 'you' are in relation to 'everything else around you' - I'm over here, the keyboard is just within reach, the picture on the wall is further away. Likewise with sounds, we locate the sound in space relative to ourselves - at the centre of awareness, the most important point, the point where 'I' can be found. Another way the sense of self comes up is in relation to our thoughts - for example, I notice that if I have a very clever thought, I tend to want to regard it is 'my thought', whereas if I have an inappropriate thought, I'm more likely to disown it and say 'I have no idea where that thought came from, that's not the kind of thing I would normally think!'

It turns out that, through practice, we can actually learn to relax this continual grasping at our experience to identify parts of it as 'me', other parts as 'mine', and the rest as 'definitely not me'. Then our awareness opens up, and sensory experience is just happening - not me, not mine, not a problem. Check it out!

The refrain, yet again

Whichever method you like - simply noting sensory events, exploring craving and aversion, or investigating conceit - we're once again invited to generalise our practice, with the now-familiar refrain:

In this way, in regard to dhammas [one] abides contemplating dhammas internally ... externally ... internally and externally. [One] abides contemplating the nature of arising ... of passing away ... of both arising and passing away in dhammas. Mindfulness that 'there are dhammas' is established in [oneself] to the extent necessary for bare knowledge and continuous mindfulness. And [one] abides independent, not clinging to anything in the world.

In other words - notice that your experience is entirely based on these six senses, notice that everyone else's experience is entirely based on their own six senses as well, and then reflect on the universal nature of sensory experience. Notice your sensory experiences arising, notice them passing away, and reflect on the impermanence of sensory experience. Focus on the nature of your experience rather than getting lost in the content, and ultimately develop continuous mindfulness, which in the long run becomes its own reward, an activity worth pursuing for its own sake. Keep going, and have fun!

The Seven Awakening Factors

Our next practice in this jumbo-sized article is the positive counterpart to the Five Hindrances which we looked at last time - the Seven Awakening Factors, or Seven Factors of Awakening.

Again, monks, in regard to dhammas [one] abides contemplating dhammas in terms of the seven awakening factors. And how does [one] in regard to dhammas abide contemplating dhammas in terms of the seven awakening factors? 

Here, if the mindfulness awakening factor is present in [oneself], [one] knows 'there is the mindfulness awakening factor in me'; if the mindfulness awakening factor is not present in [oneself], [one] knows 'there is no mindfulness awakening factor in me'; [one] knows how the unarisen mindfulness awakening factor can arise, and how the arisen mindfulness awakening factor can be perfected by development.

If the investigation-of-dhammas awakening factor is present in [oneself]... if the energy awakening factor is present in [oneself]... if the joy awakening factor is present in [oneself]... if the tranquillity awakening factor is present in [oneself]... if the concentration awakening factor is present in [oneself]... if the equanimity awakening factor is present in [oneself]...

This article is pretty long already and I've already written a detailed breakdown of the Awakening Factors, so I suggest you go and check out that article if you aren't already familiar with the list. (The first two sections - The Seven Factors of Awakening and Seven Steps to Awakening - are the relevant chunk for today's purposes.)

As regards the practice suggested in the Satipatthana Sutta, it's precisely the positive counterpart of working with the Five Hindrances, or with the fetters as described above in the present article. In both cases we first have to start by identifying whether the relevant factor is present or not, which means getting familiar with how it feels to be tranquil, or restless, or whatever. Then, in the case of the unwholesome states, we learn how to let go of that state, we figure out what causes the state to arise, and we thus determine how to avoid that state arising in the future. In the case of wholesome states like the Seven Awakening Factors, the task instead is to figure out how to cause the state to arise, and, once it's arisen, how to cultivate it to be even better than it already is.

I'm sure you get the idea, so I won't belabour the point. Instead, let's just touch in again with that ever-present refrain, and then move on to the final practice.

In this way, in regard to dhammas [one] abides contemplating dhammas internally ... externally ... internally and externally. [One] abides contemplating the nature of arising ... of passing away ... of both arising and passing away in dhammas. Mindfulness that 'there are dhammas' is established in [oneself] to the extent necessary for bare knowledge and continuous mindfulness. And [one] abides independent, not clinging to anything in the world.

Again - you're capable of wholesome states, and so is everyone else (even that one guy who hides it very well) - wholesome and unwholesome states have a tremendous influence in the world in general. If we see wholesome states arise and pass enough, we can come to appreciate their impermanence (and hence their preciousness). And so we keep going with our practice, hopefully shifting the balance away from the unwholesome and toward the wholesome.

The Four Noble Truths

The final practice, both in the fourth satipatthana and in the Satipatthana Sutta as a whole, is the Four Noble Truths. This is the only place where the shorter Satipatthana Sutta, Majjhima Nikaya 10, and the longer Mahasatipatthana Sutta, Digha Nikaya 22, differ - MN10 gives a brief exposition of the Four Noble Truths, whereas DN22 really breaks things out in tons of detail. For the sake of brevity, we'll go with the MN10 version today, but feel free to check out DN22 - it's good stuff.

Again, monks, in regard to dhammas [one] abides contemplating dhammas in terms of the four noble truths. And how does [one] in regard to dhammas abide contemplating dhammas in terms of the four noble truths? 

Here [one] knows as it really is, 'this is dukkha'; [one] knows as it really is, 'this is the arising of dukkha'; [one] knows as it really is, 'this is the cessation of dukkha'; [one] knows as it really is, 'this is the way leading to the cessation of dukkha.'

This is the beating heart of early Buddhism - the central theme of the Buddha's first discourse, and regarded by many as the single most important point in all of Buddhism. So it's perhaps fitting that it comes last in the discourse - after we've already sharpened our mindfulness skills by working on all the other exercises, training ourselves to see clearly and persistently, so that when we finally come to the Four Noble Truths, we've given ourselves the best possible starting point.

Once again, just as with the Hindrances and the Awakening Factors, cause and effect is central to what's being offered here. The first two truths invite us to explore dukkha very deeply - to see the ultimately unsatisfactory nature of our impermanent sensory experience, and to understand how we cause ourselves to suffer unnecessarily as a result of trying to impose a sense of reliability and control onto our experience which fundamentally isn't supportable by what we're trying to work with. And then the last two truths invite us to see how our needless suffering can cease if we're only willing to let go of how we think things should be in order to accept them as they are, and then to cultivate the long path of practice which is required to integrate that attitude of clear seeing and deep acceptance into every moment of our lives.

In this way, in regard to dhammas [one] abides contemplating dhammas internally ... externally ... internally and externally. [One] abides contemplating the nature of arising ... of passing away ... of both arising and passing away in dhammas. Mindfulness that 'there are dhammas' is established in [oneself] to the extent necessary for bare knowledge and continuous mindfulness. And [one] abides independent, not clinging to anything in the world.

The further one travels down this path, the more one sees how clearly humanity as a whole lives in the grip of the false perceptions and assumptions that lead to suffering. As our own vision begins to clear even a little, one can't help but feel compassion for all the needless misery in the world. Fortunately, even suffering is impermanent, and it's something we can learn to work with, and eventually teach others to work with too. In the long run, we learn to walk the path leading to the end of suffering for its own sake, simply because it's a good way to live - it helps us, and it helps those around us. That's good enough for me.

The end of the discourse, and the Buddha's encouragement to practise

The Satipatthana Sutta finally ends with a kind of rallying cry - a reminder of the fruits of the practice, and the promise that those fruits can be yours if you can follow that practice diligently and consistently. (The time estimates should probably not be taken literally, although feel free to prove me wrong!)

Monks, if anyone should develop these four satipaṭṭhānas in such a way for seven years, one of two fruits could be expected for [that person]: either final knowledge here and now, or, if there is a trace of clinging left, non-returning. Let alone seven years ... six years ... five years ... four years ... three years ... two years ... one year ... seven months ... six months ... five months ... four months ... three months ... two months ... one month ... half a month ... if anyone should develop these four satipaṭṭhānas in such a way for seven days, one of two fruits could be expected for [that person]: either final knowledge here and now, or, if there is a trace of clinging left, non-returning. So it was with reference to this that it was said:

Monks, this is the direct path for the purification of beings, for the surmounting of sorrow and lamentation, for the disappearance of dukkha and discontent, for acquiring the true method, for the realization of Nibbāna, namely, the four satipaṭṭhānas.

That is what the Blessed One said. The monks were satisfied and delighted in the Blessed One's words.

And that brings us to the end of this fascinating discourse. I hope you've found something of value in here - I know it's been helpful for me to go through it in enough detail to put these articles together! May you live mindfully and at peace, not clinging to anything in the world. Be well.​