LingBao’s Sutra of Meditative Contemplation: 靈寶定觀經
- Xing Shen
- Nov 25, 2025
- 27 min read
Updated: Dec 24, 2025
I’ve been working on this translation for about four months. To keep myself from revising it endlessly, I’m choosing to publish it one section at a time. While I do that, I’m gathering feedback. When it all comes in, I’ll revise the work once more.
Please click on Translator's Note to see what inspires this work and how everything is organized.
Practicing the Method
Sutra | 1 夫欲修道，先能捨事。 Practicing Tao begins with letting go of worldly distractions. |
Annotation | 註：修己之心，名為修道。一切無染，名為捨事。 Refining the mind is practicing Tao. Freeing the mind from entanglement is letting go. |
Reflection:
The more literal translation is, “Practicing Tao begins with letting go of worldly affairs.”
In ancient times, this often meant leaving home for a monastery—stepping away from family and society to focus fully on self-cultivation.
Today, many of us seek spiritual growth while carrying the responsibilities of daily life—what the tradition calls cultivating the mind in the world (入世修行). We are family members, coworkers, friends, and neighbors. Our days are full. Our schedules are long.
For this reason, practice has to find its place inside ordinary life. The chances to grow are everywhere—at home, at work, in conversation, and in the small pauses we barely notice.
And this is where distractions come in. We live with constant stimulation that ancient cultivators never faced, which makes our attention scatter easily. Life pulls at us from all sides—chores to finish, errands to run, people who need us. Even in quiet moments, the mind slips into autopilot, searching for something to check or something to worry about.
Letting go doesn’t mean stepping away from life. It means loosening our grip on what distracts the heart that longs to practice—our original, sincere intention (初心). Distractions reveal how easily the mind wanders without warning, which is why practice often begins by gently setting aside whatever keeps breaking our focus.
A simple way to begin is to notice where the mind drifts. When I’m tired, I tend to scroll without thinking. Minutes pass, then more, until I realize I’ve wandered far from my intention to practice. The moment I notice this, I return to letting go. That small shift matters, even when it doesn’t seem like it.
How about you? Where does your attention tend to wander these days?
Refining the Mind Amid Distractions
As we work with distractions, we begin to understand what letting go really means. It begins with noticing when the mind starts to drift and choosing not to follow it.
With that pause, even small distractions begin to settle, and the mind becomes easier to see. We notice how it chases what feels pleasant, avoids what feels uncomfortable, and fills quiet moments with inner chatter. Without realizing it, the mind takes on the “color” of whatever it meets and gets carried along.
When we are swept along like this, a quiet unease follows. That discomfort often sends us reaching for distractions again. Letting it soften can bring a bit of peace, but because the habits underneath remain unchanged the peace fades.
This is why the sutra speaks of refining the mind. The mind is like gold ore. Before it can shine, it must be refined again and again so its impurities can fall away. In the same way, steady practice softens old habits and reveals the mind’s natural clarity.
We are not trying to become someone new. We are uncovering what has always been there. From that clarity, wisdom and goodness arise on their own, just as gold shines once it is refined.
With this foundation in place, attention begins to turn inward on its own.
Sutra | 2 外事多絕，無與忤心。 Let go of outer distractions again and again until nothing pulls the heart away from practice. |
Annotation | 註：六塵為外事，須遠離也。六塵者：色、聲、香、味、觸、法，更不染著，名為多絕。心境兩忘即無煩惱，故名無與忤心。 The “six dusts” are the six sense-objects—form, sound, scent, taste, touch, and thought. These outer conditions can easily stir the mind, so they are best kept at a wise distance. Letting them go again and again is what clears away distraction. When both mind and conditions soften into quiet, the heart that longs to practice stays undisturbed and nothing pulls it away from practice. |
Reflection:
The first line gives us a place to begin. The next shows us how to continue when distractions return.
Here, “outer” distractions do not only mean what happens outside us, like sights and sounds. They also include the thoughts that stir the heart that longs to practice.
Because distractions can come from both outside and within, the sutra uses a strong word here that means “to end something completely” (絕). At first, I wondered how I could possibly cut myself off from the world, especially since I still need to live, work, and care for others. That concern felt reasonable. Over time, I began to see that it was really a quiet form of resistance.
The sutra speaks this way because distractions do not disappear easily. They return again and again. Practice is about letting them go each time they appear—not by avoiding life, but by not letting them take hold.
This steady effort is like creating the right conditions for a seedling to grow. It needs consistent warmth to take root. When it is moved back and forth between hot and cold, it struggles to settle.
A beginner’s heart works the same way. It can be pulled around by anything it meets. Gently letting go protects that early intention and allows it to anchor itself without wavering when distractions appear.
As the mind grows more settled, practice naturally deepens. We begin to see more clearly what is happening within.
The Dust Within
We begin to notice small stirrings inside—quiet cravings, subtle judgments, and faint feelings of unease that seem to come out of nowhere. The sutra calls these stirrings dust: anything that disturbs the settled mind. They are small signs that clarity has been lightly clouded.
The mind is like a mirror—clear and bright by nature. Dust is not the real problem. It only clouds the surface when we let it settle. When we hold on to what appears or push it away, even a tiny speck can blur our view.
But when we notice it and let it pass, the shine returns on its own. Each return to clarity is like wiping the mirror clean. And even then, no matter how clear it becomes, a little dust often finds its way back.
Dust Becomes Habit
Over time, we begin to see that the dust in the mind is not new. It has been there for a long time. What we once could not see has left quiet traces, and those traces slowly rise again.
One way to understand this comes from Consciousness-Only teachings (唯識). These teachings explain how everyday experiences turn into habits. Small moments leave marks in the mind, even when we do not notice them.
The sixth function of consciousness, often called the thinking mind (意識), is the part that names what we see. When our eyes notice a red, round shape, the mind compares it with what it already knows and calls it an “apple.” This helps us move through daily life. At the same time, it narrows what we see. We may forget the sunlight, soil, and rain that helped the apple grow.
This thinking mind also forms a sense of “I.” From many thoughts and memories, a simple story appears: this is me. The story can be useful. But when we believe it too strongly, we begin to cling to it.
The thinking mind does more than name things. It also reacts. Thoughts and feelings arise, and the mind responds with liking or disliking. These reactions seem small, but they do not disappear. Over time, they sink deeper and begin to feel personal.
The seventh function of consciousness, the selfing mind (末那識), holds onto this sense of “I.” It turns experience into “mine.” The apple becomes my apple. A passing feeling becomes “I want this” or “I don’t like that.” This happens quietly, often without us noticing.
Because of this, even simple moments can begin to feel heavy. Over time, life starts to revolve around “me.” Each time the mind adds “mine” to experience, that habit quietly takes root.
These habits settle into the eighth function of consciousness, the storehouse mind (阿賴耶識). This is where past experiences are kept. Some impressions are light and clear. Others carry craving or resistance. Over time, they shape how we see ourselves and the world.
When the right conditions appear, these stored habits rise again as familiar thoughts and feelings. They can make the sense of “I” feel solid and real, even though it is built from memory and habit. As we move through life, these patterns quietly guide what we notice and how we respond.
As we begin to understand this, we can see how dust moves through the mind—and how gentle, steady practice can slowly clear it.
Seeing Beyond Dust
From here, the teaching turns from dust to clarity—from what blocks our view to what helps us see clearly.
At this point, “letting go of outer distractions” goes beyond what we see and hear. It also means loosening our grip on the thoughts and ideas we hold onto tightly. As we do this, our view becomes clearer.
An apple is no longer just a fruit. It becomes part of a larger picture that includes sunlight, soil, and rain. Letting go of the label “apple” does not make it disappear. It simply opens our view so we can see everything that brought it into being. When this happens, we are no longer limited to what appears before our eyes.
The same is true for the sense of “I.” Letting go of it does not mean we stop existing. The body is still here, and thoughts and memories still come and go. But we begin to see the sense of self in a new way—not as something fixed, but as a flowing stream of experience. We still speak, work, and care for others, but we take things less personally.
As we learn to let go, the mind grows lighter. What once felt like “I am this” or “I own that” begins to feel more like “this is life moving through.” When this shift appears, a quiet kind of freedom opens up. Life continues as usual, yet the heart feels more open and clear.
Little by little, the way we see things begins to change. Perhaps this is how the wise view the world. They describe it in simple steps: at first, mountains are mountains and rivers are rivers. Everything seems fixed and separate. With practice, mountains are no longer mountains and rivers are no longer rivers. We begin to see change and impermanence. With deeper insight, mountains are mountains and rivers are rivers again, but now we see their interdependence. The mountain gives the river its path, and the river shapes the mountain’s face. They rise and flow together, showing that appearance and essence are never apart（見山是山，見水是水；見山不是山，見水不是水；見山還是山，見水還是水）.
When the mind becomes clear in this way, practice naturally turns toward something very simple: sitting quietly and meeting the mind directly.
Sutra | 3 然後安坐，內觀心起。 Then take the seat of awareness and gently look within to see what rises in the mind. |
Annotation | 註：諸煩惱既去，則坐立始安。若覺一念起，必須除滅，務令安靜。慧心內照，名曰內觀；漏念未除，名曰心起。前念忽起，後覺則隨；心既滅，覺照亦忘，故稱除滅。凡心不起，名之為安；覺性不動，名之為靜，故稱安靜。 After the troubles of the mind ease, the body settles—whether sitting or standing. As soon as a thought appears, notice it clearly and let it fade. That gentle noticing is inner contemplation. When awareness loses sight of a thought, the mind follows it. When awareness meets it and lets it go, both mind and thought settle into calm while awareness stays steady. When the mind no longer stirs, that is peace. When awareness stays unmoved, that is stillness. Together, peace and stillness deepen into true calm. |
Reflection:
As the heart grows steadier in practice and the senses begin to settle, the next step is to sit in quiet awareness.
Taking the Seat of True Awareness
To “sit” here does not only mean sitting on a chair or cushion. It means returning to the seat of awareness itself—the still ground that has always been with us.
Different teachings give many names to this same place: the place of utmost goodness (至善之地), the mysterious door of creation (玄牝之門), Mount Spirit (靈山寶地), or the hidden portal (玄關). Though the names differ, they all point to the same inner ground.
When we rest in this seat, the body may move, yet awareness remains steady. From this calm center, we sense a quiet presence that has always been here (真人靜坐), whole and unmoving even as conditions rise and fall.
At first, these words may sound like theory. In time, they begin to point toward something we can feel—a silent place within that has been waiting for us to notice.
Watching the Untrained Mind
From this quiet ground, we can watch thoughts rise and fall without getting caught in them. Still, when the mind is untrained, it is easy to be swept away.
The key is simple. When a thought appears, we allow it to fade on its own while remaining settled in awareness.
This does not mean pushing thoughts away. Instead, we meet them with gentle attention. We watch them appear, linger briefly, then drift back into silence. With practice, a small space opens between thinking and knowing. In that space, thoughts slowly loosen their hold.
This letting go is the heart of practice. Yet it must be realized directly. Don’t take my word for it, or anyone else’s. In the end, our true nature must be our own guide—自性自渡. Nothing is more valuable than our own experience of truth. Only then do the words of the Buddhas come alive, and we realize for ourselves that they speak what is true.
Meeting Restlessness Where It Is
As we bring this practice into daily life, we begin to notice how restless the mind can be—almost as if it has a life of its own. We sit down hoping for peace, yet what often appears first is the very restlessness we wish to calm.
This can feel discouraging. Still, this stage matters. It shows us what the mind has been carrying all along.
As restlessness becomes clearer, we may feel the urge to run from it. But when we run, it follows. It returns the moment things grow quiet because it is not outside us. It rises from old habits within the mind.
In Zen, returning thoughts are reminders. They come back so we can see what we once turned away from. Even when we distract ourselves, the habits beneath continue moving quietly below the surface. Sooner or later, we meet them again.
The good news is simple. When we meet them with kindness, they begin to soften on their own.
When my mind feels scattered, I have found that combining a chant with the breath can help. A quiet chant, held gently in the heart, gives the mind a steady place to rest. I stay with the short sacred phrase I was taught and let its rhythm guide my breathing.
After a while, the words fade, and I remain with the breath alone. The shift feels natural, as if the chant gently hands the mind over to the breath. I do not fight restlessness. I give the mind something kind to lean on until peace returns on its own.
Here, restlessness becomes the teacher. From this same ground, the sutra points out three movements and invites us to release them at the root.
Sutra | 4 其次有貪著、浮游、亂想，亦盡滅除。 When clinging, drifting, or scattered thoughts appear, let them fade completely. |
Annotation | 註：眾心不起，妄念悉忘；妄想不生，何曾有貪著，故曰滅除。 When the mind grows still, deluded thoughts naturally fade. As they no longer arise, there is nothing left to cling to. In that stillness, everything comes to rest, and the pull of delusion falls away completely. |
Reflection:
From this same seat of awareness, we begin to notice three common patterns in the mind: clinging, wandering, and scattering. They often appear in this order. First, we cling to a thought. Then the mind wanders as it follows other thoughts. Finally, attention scatters, and focus is lost.
I see this pattern clearly in my own meditation. A memory or idea appears, and I cling to it, asking questions like “Why did that happen?” Before I realize it, my mind has wandered far from where it began. When I first started meditating, I often wondered why distraction came so easily. But when I traced my thoughts back, I was struck by how quickly the mind could leap from one idea to being completely lost. There is a common saying that captures this lightning speed of a caught-up mind—thousands of miles in an instant（十萬八千里）.
Seeing How the Sense of “I” Forms
This helps us see how the mind works beneath the surface. A memory rises from the storehouse of consciousness. The thinking mind names it and tries to understand it. Then another part of the mind adds “me,” turning the experience into something personal. In this way, thoughts gain weight and begin to matter more than they need to.
Buddhism describes this pattern through four common confusions of the sense of self: (末那四惑):
Self-delusion (我癡): Mistaking what is not “me” for “I.”
Self-view (我見): Turning that mistake into a belief.
Self-conceit (我慢): Comparing ourselves to others.
Self-love (我愛): Holding what we like and resisting what we don’t.
They may appear in different ways, yet they share one root problem—the mind takes “I” too seriously.
Because of this, simple moments turn into personal stories. A casual remark begins as sound. Then the mind asks, “Was that about me?” Suddenly, the moment feels heavy, even though nothing outside has changed.
The restlessness we feel does not come from the thought itself. It comes from the “I” that holds onto it. From this comes a sense of dis-ease—a word I first learned from Jon Kabat-Zinn whose work opened the door to meditation for me. We often try to ease this unease through distraction, yet lasting peace does not come from anything outside.
Breaking the Chain
The way forward is to notice this process as it happens. When awareness is absent, one thought leads to another like waves rolling across the sea. But when we notice the very first thought and let it go, the chain ends. Seeing things clearly weakens delusion’s hold. This is why the sutra speaks firmly about eliminating (滅除) these movements of the mind—before they gather force and pull us along.
Even a brief pause can show us how this works. We notice a thought rising and choose not to follow it. In that small pause, we can feel both the weight of delusion and how easily it begins to loosen. What once felt solid starts to soften.
Over time, old habits fade not because we push them away but because we stop feeding them. Each time we let go, the mind grows lighter. Change comes quietly, through many small moments of release. This is how peace and stillness gradually find their way into our lives.
Now that we have learned to let go at the root, the sutra invites us to keep going—gently, and without stopping.
Sutra | 5 晝夜勤行，須臾不替。 Keep practicing with steady effort, day and night, without interruption. |
Annotation | 註：晝之言淨，夜之言垢，垢淨兩忘，日夜勤修，無有間替，故名不替。 Purity is like daytime and impurity is like night—clear and clouded states that mirror the mind. True diligence is to keep cultivating through both, never stopping even for a moment. As the sense of clear and clouded fades, practice flows without a break, steady through whatever comes. |
Reflection:
This line helps us create a daily rhythm that is steady and gentle. Our practice isn’t limited to certain times or places. It quietly flows through our day, shaping how we walk, wait, eat, and even sleep.
Before I learned this sutra, I usually stopped practicing when I went to bed. At night, my mind would wander freely, almost as if it knew I wasn’t paying attention. For a long time, I was disciplined during the day, but not so much at night.
After studying this sutra, I began to practice at bedtime. Whenever a thought appeared—clinging, wandering, or scattering—I learned to let it go. At first, I stayed awake longer than usual, worried I might not fall asleep. After a few nights, I found that I could drift off more quickly. Even if I woke up in the middle of the night, I remembered to practice.
Now I understand that practice doesn’t really stop at bedtime. Nighttime is a safe space to let go of everything. There is nothing to plan or fix. It is simply a time to be aware. Over time, I noticed that same calm beginning to appear during the day too—first in small moments, then more often. Practicing and living began to feel like one fluid experience.
Awareness of Purity and Impurity
As practice becomes steadier, we also begin to notice changes in the mind itself. It may be clear for a while, then cloudy again, then clear once more.
At first, distinctions like pure and impure, clear and clouded, are helpful. They show us what settles the mind and what stirs it. It’s natural to judge ourselves when we notice these shifts. Wanting clarity is also natural at the beginning. Without that wish for peace, we might give up before we find it.
With time, we begin to see that clarity is not something to chase or hold. It simply shows that the mind is settling. It does not mean the journey is finished.
We can see this in ordinary moments. When it’s time to do the dishes, my mind might say, “Another chore.” If I let that thought go, even placing a plate in the sink feels easier. Then another thought appears—now I’m calm—and that one gets released too.
Letting both go, the moment softens a little. Nothing about the task changes, but my relationship with it does. It no longer feels like something I have to push through. The seventh layer of consciousness doesn’t rush in to make the moment about “me.” It becomes something I can meet just as it is.
Over time, these small moments help us trust the calm that sits behind the mind’s ups and downs. What rises and fades is only the weather of the mind. The calm itself stays steady underneath. As we keep practicing, clarity returns on its own. Each time it does, it feels a little easier, like coming home. Little by little, our days begin to move with that same quiet awareness. This becomes a new rhythm of life, at least for now.
Forgetting Both Purity and Impurity
This is a deeper level of understanding. The sutra will speak of it later, but since it appears here, it’s worth touching on briefly.
As practice continues, clear and cloudy moments still come and go. Yet we no longer push for one or try to avoid the other. The old lines between them begin to fade. We notice the changes, but we stop treating them as success or failure. What shifts is our attitude. These moments feel less personal, no longer something we need to hold or fix.
What remains is a smoother flow. Bright moments and dim moments blend without the old tension. Seen this way, diligence is not about working harder. It is about returning, again and again, to the stillness that has always been there.
Sutra | 6 唯滅動心，不滅照心。 Still the stirred mind but not the light of awareness. |
Annotation | 註：妄想分別，名曰動心；覺照袪之，故名為滅。慧照常明，無有空間，故名不滅照心。 When the mind starts chasing thoughts and slipping into judgment, it becomes stirred. When awareness meets that movement and lets it soften, the mind settles again. Through it all, the quiet light underneath never fades. It shines through each moment, steady and unbroken. |
Reflection:
In time, two things begin to stand out: the stirred mind and the awareness that sees it. The stirred mind appears when we chase a thought or try to push it away.
At this point, the stirred mind is not just an idea. It is something we can actually feel. We often call this feeling restlessness since we have not yet learned to recognize what the mind is doing. It can feel like being tossed by waves in a wide ocean and not knowing where we are. As practice continues, we begin to see that this restlessness is simply the mind in motion.
When a thought arises, we can feel that stirring right away. Many of us try to calm it by pushing thoughts away, forcing focus, or tightening the body. These efforts may bring brief relief, but they often dim awareness and leave us feeling more confused than clear.
What Quiet Reveals
As the mind grows quieter, something simple but important becomes clear. The mind still clings at times. It still wanders and scatters. Yet we begin to see that these movements are empty and always changing. With this understanding, something shifts. What once pulled us in now feels more distant, like watching waves from the shore. From there, the waves no longer pull us under, even if we still notice them.
At this point, we may wonder what keeps these waves moving when the mind feels quiet. When we look more closely, we notice something softer still at work: the habit of returning to thoughts about “I.”
The seventh function of consciousness continues to move quietly, shaping experience around a sense of self. This is why a faint feeling of “me” can remain even when the mind seems calm.
So far, we may have noticed how distraction and delusion stir the mind. But even good thoughts can do the same. They may feel harmless, yet holding onto them still creates movement. As I watched this more closely, I began to see how easily the mind mistakes its own reflections for truth. A thought appears, we believe it, and the mind runs with it. Even good thoughts, when held too tightly, can cloud awareness.
This realization was humbling. I saw how virtue, once claimed by the self, can become another veil. Practice does not deepen by pushing good thoughts away. It deepens when we let them flow freely—unclaimed, unmeasured, and whole.
From there, I began to notice something even subtler: the quiet pull toward “I” that can hide inside good intentions.
When Goodness Turns Into Self
Good thoughts matter, but we do not need to own them. At first, this idea can feel unsettling. We may worry that letting go of good thoughts means losing our goodness. In truth, the opposite is true. Letting go does not weaken goodness. It keeps it intact.
When goodness arises and we do not cling to it, it stays pure. But when we begin thinking “I did something good” or “I am a kind person,” the sense of self quietly enters. This is how goodness turns into attachment to merit (功德相), something the Buddhas repeatedly warn us about.
Mencius once described this clearly. When we see a child about to fall into a well, compassion arises right away. It is not because we know the parents, want praise, or dislike the sound of crying. 今人乍見孺子將入於井，皆有怵惕惻隱之心。非所以內交於孺子之父母也，非所以要譽於鄉黨朋友也，非惡其聲而然也。
This points to compassion that appears before self-interest. It rises from our deeper nature. But once we claim it as “mine,” the sense of self slips in and clouds it. True kindness stays clear only when it flows naturally, without seeking recognition or reward.
Later, another thought may appear: “They will be grateful,” or “Others will admire me.” What began as pure compassion now feels mixed. The self has quietly returned.
Returning to Pure Awareness
Letting go of “I” does not take away goodness. It keeps it alive. Caring thoughts arise more easily when we are not caught inside our own story.
When we feel that subtle pull toward “I,” we can let it pass. Often, this brings a sense of openness. From there, action flows naturally. We might think “I’ll check on them later” or “I’ll send a message now” without making the moment about ourselves.
Little by little, goodness grows quietly—unclaimed and whole. As we begin to notice the pull toward “I” sooner, we see how even a small tug can cloud awareness. When we catch it early, the mind stays open and clear.
Over time, this clarity deepens. Awareness becomes like clear water. It reflects everything and holds onto nothing. Each time we let go, clarity grows a little more. What once felt difficult now feels simple. The mind opens on its own—calm, bright, and at ease. By gently observing the mind in this way, we prepare ourselves for deeper understanding and learn to see the subtle ways the self appears.
Sutra | 7 但凝空心，不凝住心。 Let the mind settle into openness but do not hold onto calm. |
Annotation | 註：專注曰凝。不起一切心，名空心。一切無執著，名之不凝住心。 To bring the mind into focus is to let it settle. As deluded thoughts no longer arise, the mind grows clear. If the mind holds to nothing—not even stillness or peace—it remains free from grasping, open and at ease. |
Reflection:
Imagine setting down a cup of water that has been stirred. If we leave it alone, the movement fades and the water clears on its own.
The annotation explains this line using the idea of “focusing” (凝), but for beginners, I find it more helpful to think of it as “settling.” Focusing can feel tight, as if we are adding effort to the mind. Settling is gentler. It allows the mind to calm naturally, without strain, and feels closer to what the sutra is pointing to.
Settling Without Holding
As we settle in this gentle way, a sense of quiet begins to show up. This is the same stillness we first learned in Line 3—fresh and simple at the beginning.
Now the challenge is different. When we feel that peace, a part of us wants to grab onto it, but the moment we try, it slips away. It’s a subtle thing. Even trying to hold onto calm creates movement in the mind. Later, the sutra will speak more about this in the second pitfall. For now, just let that calm be there without clinging to it.
As we practice more, we start to see stillness and restlessness in a new light. They are not two separate states we move between. They rise and fall in the same space of awareness, like waves in a body of water. The waves show us the depth, and the depth shapes the waves. This helps us understand why forcing calm never truly works. Stillness is already there, steady and unshaken, no matter how the mind may move.
Sensing the Ground Beneath Movement
When I walk, the mind stirs, and there is also a steady ease underneath it—something that does not move at all. Without the stirred mind, I might not even notice that stillness.
As this understanding settles into daily experience, it becomes clearer in simple moments. Over time, this steady background becomes easier to notice because the mind has softened enough to stop covering it up.
The first time I felt it, I was surprised by how empty it seemed. I could not find the right words for it because language felt too small and no concept could capture it. Even though it had no shape, it did not feel like nothing. It felt alive in a quiet way, like a gentle space that was aware on its own. Whatever thoughts came up could not muddy its clarity or disturb the calm wisdom within it.
In that moment, I realized that what we explored in Line 3 was not a far-off idea. It was this steady presence, right here, which is the seat of true awareness.
From Narrow Attention to a Wider View
As this steady presence settles into experience, our way of seeing begins to shift. We start to notice not just each ripple, but the wider space that holds it.
In the beginning, practice feels close-up. A thought comes, we notice it, and then we come back to what matters. That is how we build steadiness, little by little. Then the view begins to widen. Stillness and movement become parts of one flow, rising and falling together. Our practice shifts from merely noticing each thought to resting in the awareness that holds them all.
Over time, the mind becomes less narrow. It settles more easily, and stillness deepens without effort. The mind feels less like something to fix and more like something to observe.
Letting Clarity Guide the Mind
As we go deeper, stillness reveals itself in a new way. Clarity is a type of stillness that does not resist anything that comes to the mind.
Sometimes the phrase “empty mind” (空心), which comes from a more literal translation, can sound like we are supposed to block every thought. But trying to do that only creates tension. A clear mind is different. It allows thoughts to come and go without letting them pull us in different directions.
Little by little, we stop measuring our practice by how calm we feel. Instead, awareness becomes the guide. Even when thoughts are moving, awareness can stay steady. The moment we notice restlessness without judgment, that noticing is awareness at work. Each instance of clear seeing helps the mind settle a little more.
As clarity deepens, the struggle with our thoughts begins to ease. A thought stops feeling like something solid or separate. It is just the mind shifting for a moment. In everyday experience, it seems like a thought appears first and then the mind reacts to it.
But as awareness gets clearer, we see that this is not really how it happens. There is no gap. The stirring itself is the thought. Even a tiny inner pull is already the beginning of thinking.
A thought is not a separate “thing” that pops up. It is the mind moving in a certain way, showing itself as a word, an image, or a reaction. When we see this, it becomes easier to understand that a thought is both the movement and the sign of movement, quietly revealing the mind’s activity beneath the surface.
As this becomes clearer, something else begins to unfold. Awareness starts to recognize itself. This marks a quiet shift in how we relate to the mind.
When Awareness Recognizes Itself
At first, we try to work with every thought—analyzing, correcting, questioning. But soon we see that the important part is not the content. It is simply noticing that thinking has begun. The moment we see a thought forming, we are no longer lost in it.
Awareness knows that the mind is thinking. In that clear moment, this knowing becomes easier to recognize.
As Joseph Goldstein puts it, “We don’t have to work on the content of a thought; we can just know it as a thought.” In that moment, the thought is seen clearly, but it no longer leads the mind.
This gentle awareness relaxes the mind. It shows us that awareness does not calm the mind by force. It brings stillness through simple recognition. When we stop trying to hold the mind still, it begins to rest on its own. Thoughts lose their grip, and stillness quietly grows. The mind learns to let go naturally, leading to a clear sense of calm that feels bright and alive.
When awareness is recognized in this way, its effects begin to show up in everyday life.
A Natural Ease
I used to worry that letting go too much might make me lose my direction or dull my sense of self. But I learned that what fades away is not my purpose. It is the tension. The body still moves. The mind still responds to life. Everything starts to feel a bit lighter. I find myself reacting less and being more present. Even in busy moments, there is more space.
Over time, this becomes the natural rhythm of practice—steady, ordinary, and vibrant. Clarity begins to follow us into our day without the need for protection. Perhaps this is what the sutra means by resting in clarity without clinging to it. Clarity does not need to be chased. It is already present. When it can rest without being held tightly, a gentle ease appears on its own.
Sutra | 8 不依一法，而心常住。 When the mind depends on nothing, it rests in true and lasting peace. |
Annotation | 註：若取一法，即名著相。心不取法，名為不依。現而常寂，故為常住。 When the mind clings to even a single method, it becomes attached to the idea of it. When it holds to nothing, the grip loosens and the mind settles by itself. In that quiet freedom, the mind stays present and still, resting in its own natural peace. |
Reflection:
This line points to a quiet shift that happens in practice: learning to loosen our hold on the very methods that once helped us settle the mind.
When Practice Lets Go of Itself
In the early days of practice, even something as simple as walking can reflect the state of our mind. When I walk while silently reciting a mantra, the words help keep my awareness steady and bring it back when it drifts. When I walk faster, my breath becomes uneven, and my attention scatters. Chanting helps bring my rhythm back together. The words steady my breath, and my breath steadies my awareness.
At first, this simple rhythm is helpful.
As steadiness grows, the way I walk begins to change. My steps and the chant start to move together, and awareness stays present without effort. Over time, the words begin to drop away on their own.
If a thought comes up while I’m walking, there’s no need to rush back to chanting. That would only tighten the mind. Instead, I allow the thought to arise, pass through, and fade. The body and breath continue moving, while awareness remains quietly still beneath them. This stillness is not a special state. It is simply the part of the mind that notices without being pulled.
This change happens quietly. The chanting that once helped no longer feels necessary. When steadiness is already present, holding onto the words can begin to feel like extra effort rather than support.
This is what the sutra is pointing to here. It uses a word that can mean a teaching, a method, or even a thought (法). Here, it points to sensing when a method is no longer needed. What once helped the mind settle can begin to feel like extra effort if it is held on to too tightly.
When we notice this shift, something softens right away. Practice no longer feels like a struggle against restlessness. Instead, it becomes a quiet return to awareness. It feels like coming home to a calm space that has always been there. What once required discipline now unfolds naturally.
This is what the sutra describes in Line 7.
Movement and stillness flow together, and the mind becomes settled and free at the same time.
I am reminded of a line from the Mahāprajñāpāramitā Śāstra (大智度論):
“The Buddha teaches all methods to calm all minds. If the mind were already still, what need would there be for any method?” 「佛說一切法，為治一切心；若無一切心，何用一切法。」
The Buddha also said, “In forty-nine years of teaching, I have not spoken a single word.” He was pointing to the same truth. Methods arise only when they are needed. They are like medicine. As the illness eases, the dosage naturally lightens, and in time it is no longer needed. Both teachings remind us that methods appear only to meet the mind where it is.
When this is seen clearly, the urge to cling begins to fade. Practice releases its own grip. When the method falls away, awareness remains—bright, effortless, and still. Here, stillness and awareness reveal themselves as one. From this point on, practice becomes less about doing and more about resting in their quiet meeting.
Returning Empty-Handed
Many teachings end in a similar way. When the method dissolves, the true heart of practice begins to show itself. This is illustrated beautifully in the Ten Oxherding Pictures (十牛圖), written by the Chan master Kuoan Shiyuan (廓庵師遠). The series tells the story of training the mind, represented as an ox.
At first, the seeker searches everywhere for the ox and cannot find it. Then footprints appear. Later, the ox itself is discovered. With a rope and a whip, the seeker learns to guide it.
As practice deepens, the ox grows gentler and begins to follow on its own. Eventually, both the ox and the seeker disappear. The effort to control gives way to ease. In the final picture, the seeker returns to the marketplace smiling and empty-handed. The rope, the whip, and even the idea of practice have all fallen away. What remains is a simple presence that feels at home in the world.
This reflects our own journey. When we can meet restlessness and return to stillness without struggle, the method has done its work. Practice becomes as natural as breathing. What remains is a quiet trust in awareness itself.
From this place, life may look the same, yet something deep inside has shifted. A steady ease holds through noise and silence, gain and loss, action and rest. Whether walking, working, or chatting with a friend, the mind stays open and relaxed. Over time, stillness becomes a way of life. It is no longer something we search for. The mind learns to let go and rest in its natural ease.
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As of 11/29/2025, the translation project is about 90 pages. It would be too much to upload onto one webpage. From here, I will include links to the word documents when they are ready.
