Meditation and Culture: The Interplay of Practice and Context 9781472579904, 9781474220088, 9781472579911

Table of contents :
Cover
Half-title
Title
Copyright
Contents
List of Illustrations
Acknowledgments
List of Contributors
Introduction
1 Meditative Practice and Cultural Context
Section 1: Traveling Practices
2 The Daoist Adaptation of Buddhist Insight Meditation
3 Ignatian Visual Meditation in Seventeenth-Century China
4 Modern Meditation in the Context of Science
Section 2: Competing Practices
5 Mindfulness and Mindlessness in Early Chán
6 Reverence and Quietude in Neo-Confucianism
7 Meditative Pluralism in Hanshan Déqing
Section 3: Competing Cultures
8 The Hindi Sants’ Two Yogic Paths to the Formless Lord
9 Inner Islamization in Java
10 Cinnabar-field Meditation in Korea
Section 4: Cultural Mosaics
11 Tibetan Chöd as Practiced by Ani Lochen Rinpoche
12 Vedic Chanting as a Householder’s Meditation Practice in the Tamil Saiva Siddhanta Tradition
13 Spontaneous Thoughts in Meditative Traditions
Notes
References

Citation preview

Meditation and Culture

Also available from Bloomsbury Meditation in Judaism, Christianity and Islam, edited by Halvor Eifring Spirituality: A Guide for the Perplexed, Philip Sheldrake A History of Modern Yoga, Elizabeth De Michelis

Meditation and Culture The Interplay of Practice and Context Edited by Halvor Eifring

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

LON DON • OX F O R D • N E W YO R K • N E W D E L H I • SY DN EY

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square London WC1B 3DP UK

1385 Broadway New York NY 10018 USA

www.bloomsbury.com BLOOMSBURY and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2015 Paperback edition first published 2017 © Halvor Eifring and Contributors, 2015 Halvor Eifring has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Editor of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury or the author. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: HB: 978-1-4725-7990-4 PB: 978-1-3500-3626-0 ePDF: 978-1-4725-7991-1 ePub: 978-1-4725-7992-8 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Meditation and culture: the interplay of practice and context/edited by Halvor Eifring. – 1 [edition]. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-4725-7990-4 (hb) – ISBN 978-1-4725-7991-1 (epdf) – ISBN 978-1-4725-7992-8 (epub) 1. Meditation. 2. Religion and culture. I. Eifring, Halvor, editor. BL627.M396 2015 204’.35–dc23 2015019642 Typeset by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India

Contents List of Illustrations Acknowledgments List of Contributors

vii viii ix

Introduction 1 Meditative Practice and Cultural Context Halvor Eifring

3

Section 1 Traveling Practices 2 The Daoist Adaptation of Buddhist Insight Meditation Livia Kohn

11

3 Ignatian Visual Meditation in Seventeenth-Century China Nicolas Standaert

24

4 Modern Meditation in the Context of Science Øyvind Ellingsen and Are Holen

36

Section 2 Competing Practices 5 Mindfulness and Mindlessness in Early Chán Robert H. Sharf

55

6 Reverence and Quietude in Neo-Confucianism Rur-bin Yang

76

7 Meditative Pluralism in Hānshān Déqīng Halvor Eifring

102

Section 3 Competing Cultures 8 The Hindi Sants’ Two Yogic Paths to the Formless Lord Daniel Gold

131

9 Inner Islamization in Java Paul D. Stange

147

10 Cinnabar-field Meditation in Korea Don Baker

162

Section 4 Cultural Mosaics 11 Tibetan Chöd as Practiced by Ani Lochen Rinpoche Hanna Havnevik

175

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Contents

12 Vedic Chanting as a Householder’s Meditation Practice in the Tamil Śaiva Siddhānta Tradition M. D. Muthukumaraswamy

186

13 Spontaneous Thoughts in Meditative Traditions Halvor Eifring

200

Notes References Index

217 242 263

List of Illustrations Figure 9.1 Figure 9.2 Figure 9.3

Figure 9.4

Figure 9.5 Figure 9.6 Figure 11.1 Figure 11.2

Figure 11.3

Figure 11.4 Figure 12.1 Figure 12.2

The founder of Sumarah, Sukinohartono, at his home in Yogyakarta in 1970. (Photo: Soebagio of Ungaran). Sudarno Ong at a meeting in Ungaran (near Semarang) in 1973. (Photo: Suyono Hamongdarsono). Suwondo Hardosaputra (center) at a meditation meeting in his home at Kratonan (Surakarta) in 1976. (Photo: Suyono Hamongdarsono). Sudarno Ong, with Suprapto Suryodarmo on his right and the author on his left, at a meditation meeting at the home of Suyono Hamongdarsono in Solo (Surakarta) in 1976. (Photo: Suyono Hamongdarsono). Arymurthy speaking to the Sumarah national conference in Surakarta in 1973. (Photo: Suyono Hamongdarsono). Zahid Hussein (center foreground) at the Sumarah conference in Surakarta in 1973. (Photo: Suyono Hamongdarsono) A monk practicing chöd at the gate of Tashilhunpo monastery. (Photo: Havnevik 2010). A mural of Ani Lochen’s lineage in Longchen Rabjampa’s cave at Gangri Thökar. Ani Lochen, bottom right. (Photo: Havnevik 2001). New mural at Samding with portrayals of Machig Labdron (top left) and some of the Dorje Phagmo reincarnations. (Photo: Havnevik 2010) Statue of Ani Lochen at Shugseb Nunnery. (Photo: Havnevik 2004). Tantric painting of sound and deities on the bodily parts. (Photo: M. D. Muthukumaraswamy). A page from Sanskrit Srirudram in Tamil script used by practitioners. (Photo: M. D. Muthukumaraswamy).

150 152

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155 157 158 178

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182 184 192 196

Acknowledgments The conference on Cultural Histories of Meditation that was the starting point for this book was made possible by generous support from the following institutions: Chiang Ching-kuo Foundation for International Scholarly Exchange, Taipei Department of Culture Studies and Oriental Languages, University of Oslo PluRel, University of Oslo Kultrans, University of Oslo The Institute for Comparative Research in Human Culture, Oslo

The initial planning of the conference and the book took place during the five months the editor spent as a guest researcher at Research Center for Monsoon Asia, National Tsing Hua University, Hsinchu, Taiwan, in 2009. The conference took place at the Acem International Retreat Centre Halvorsbøle, Oslo, Norway, in May 2010. In addition to the editor, the organizing committee included Svend Davanger and Terje Stordalen, both from the University of Oslo. The following persons helped in the organization of the conference or assisted in the work with the book: Wubshet Dagne, Yue Bao, Regina Cinduringtias Pasiasti, Torbjørn Hobbel, Stig Inge Skogseth, Alexander Lundberg, and—last, but not least— the editor’s patient and loving wife, Joy Chun-hsi Lu, who has provided much food both for thought and for the belly along the way. The editor would hereby like to express his deep felt gratitude for all kind support from these persons and institutions, as well as others who have offered help along the way. This includes the anonymous reviewers who have given their feedback on earlier versions of the book. Oslo, January 1, 2015 Halvor Eifring

List of Contributors Don Baker, Professor of Korean Civilization, Department of Asian Studies, University of British Columbia, Canada. Author of Korean Spirituality (University of Hawaii Press, 2008); coeditor of Journal of Korean Religions. Halvor Eifring, Professor of Chinese, Department of Culture Studies and Oriental Languages, University of Oslo, Norway; General Secretary, Acem International School of Meditation. Editor of Hindu, Buddhist and Daoist Meditation (Hermes 2014) and Meditation in Judaism, Christianity and Islam (Bloomsbury Academic, 2013). Øyvind Ellingsen, Professor of Cellular Cardiology, Norwegian University of Science and Technology, Norway; Initiator, Acem International School of Meditation. Coauthor of “Nondirective Meditation Activates Default Mode Network and Areas Associated with Memory Retrieval and Emotional Processing” (Frontiers in Human Neuroscience, 2014) and “Increased Heart Rate Variability during Nondirective Meditation” (European Journal of Cardiovascular Prevention and Rehabilitation, 2011). Daniel Gold, Professor of South Asian Religions, Cornell University, USA Author of Provincial Hinduism: Religion and Community in Gwalior City (Oxford University Press, 2015) and Aesthetics and Analysis in Writing on Religion: Modern Fascinations (University of California Press, 2003). Hanna Havnevik, Professor of the History of Religion, Department of Culture Studies and Oriental Languages, University of Oslo, Norway. Author of Tibetan Buddhist Nuns: History, Cultural Norms and Social Reality (Norwegian University Press, 1989); coeditor of Women in Tibet (with Janet Gyatso, Hurst 2005). Are Holen, Professor, Department of Neuroscience, Norwegian University of Science and Technology, Norway; Head, Acem International School of Meditation. Coauthor of “Nondirective Meditation Activates Default Mode Network and Areas Associated with Memory Retrieval and Emotional Processing” (Frontiers in Human Neuroscience, 2014) and “Increased Heart Rate Variability during Nondirective Meditation” (European Journal of Cardiovascular Prevention and Rehabilitation, 2011). Livia Kohn, Professor, Boston University, USA Author of Zhuangzi: Text and Context (Three Pines Press, 2014) and Meditation Works: In the Daoist, Buddhist, and Hindu Traditions (Three Pines Press, 2008). M. D. Muthukumaraswamy, Director, National Folklore Support Centre, India. Robert H. Sharf, D. H. Chen Distinguished Professor of Buddhist Studies, Department of East Asian Languages and Cultures, University of California, Berkeley, USA; Chair,  Center for Buddhist Studies, University of California, Berkeley, USA Author

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of Coming to Terms with Chinese Buddhism: A Reading of the Treasure Store Treatise (University of Hawaii Press, 2002); coeditor of Japanese Buddhist Icons in Context (Stanford University Press, 2001). Nicholas Standaert, Professor of Sinology, University of Leuven, Belgium. Author of Chinese Voices in the Rites Controversy: Travelling Books, Community Networks, Intercultural Arguments (Institutum Historicum Societatis Iesu, 2012) and The Interweaving of Rituals: Funerals in the Cultural Exchange between China and Europe (University of Washington Press, 2008). Paul D. Stange, Retired Senior Lecturer in Asian Studies, Murdoch University, Perth, Western Australia. Author of The Politics of Attention: Intuition in Javanese Culture (Politik Perhatian: Rasa dalam Kebudayaan Jawa, LKiS, 1998) and Modern Javanism: Truth in Sumarah Practice (Kejawen Modern: Hakikat dalam Penghayatan Sumarah, LKiS, 2009). Rur-bin Yang 楊儒賓, Professor, Department of Chinese Literature, National Tsing Hua University, Taiwan. Author of The Significance of Dissent: Intellectual Trends against Neo-Confucianism in Modern East Asia (異議的意義－近世東亞的反理學思潮, National Taiwan University Press, 2012) and From the Five Classics to the New Five Classics: The Neo-Confucian Reappraisal of the Confucian Canon (從《五經》到《新 五經》, National Taiwan University Press, 2013).

Introduction Meditation may seek to bring about self-transformation by interiorizing elements from the context (outside-in) or by helping the person open up to latent impulses residing within (inside-out). The different perspectives presented in this volume illustrate the multifaceted and multidirectional relation between meditative practice and cultural context.

1

Meditative Practice and Cultural Context Halvor Eifring

Behind the stereotype of a solitary meditator closing his eyes to society, meditation, like any other human activity, always takes place in close interaction with the surrounding culture. Even when seeking to reach a dimension beyond all phenomena, it is clearly situated within the social, cultural, and historical context in which it is practiced. There is often a tension between the transcendent aspirations involved in meditative practice and the ways in which it is deeply embedded in custom, tradition, and doctrine. This volume studies cases in which the relation between meditative practice and cultural context is particularly complex. The aim is to get a more nuanced and realistic view of the tangled interactions between practice and context, and to get closer to an answer—or rather several answers—to the question: What is the relation between meditation and culture? The volume gives no single answer. Taken together, however, the many different viewpoints included amount to an argument concerning the complexity of the relation.

Transformations of the self One dimension of this complex relation concerns the question of how the changes associated with meditation come about. Meditation is about self-transformation, and the relation between meditative practice and cultural context depends on the nature of the self that meditation aspires to transform. If the self is a social, cultural, and linguistic construction, shaped from external forces, like the Bergsonian moi social but without the connotations to superficiality, then meditation is a way of integrating impulses from the outside. If the self is the seat of individual consciousness and agency, derived from within, like the moi profond, then the surrounding culture can still facilitate self-transformation, but mainly by helping the person open up to latent impulses residing within. If the social and individual selves both turn out to be but useful abstractions—dissolving into a number of postmodern selves, or merging into a higher self grounded in a cosmic or divine

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impulse, or perhaps mutating into Buddhist realizations of no-self—then this poses yet other questions, for who is then the person meditating?1 The social, cultural, and linguistic constructivism that has dominated cultural and religious studies for decades tends toward the contextual view, in opposition to what it disparagingly calls the essentialism of those who understand the self in realist terms. However, while today no one seriously disputes the formative role of contextual factors, one-sided constructivism has more recently been challenged from a variety of angles, some arguing for the agency of the individual subject in the face of external influences, others for the centrality of the body and its energies, as well as affective, intuitive, and other prelogical aspects of consciousness, yet others opening up for spiritual, noumenal, or perennial dimensions beyond materialist or naturalist visions of reality.2 The widespread tendency to emphasize social, cultural, and linguistic constructivism and marginalize alternative approaches is problematic in a number of ways. It has gone hand in hand with a general resistance to cross-cultural comparison, as well as a skepticism toward generic concepts that seek to transcend individual traditions. It has brought phenomenological approaches in discredit. The focus on external context has tended to take the interest away from the psychobiological changes brought about by the technical features of meditation. This has in turn precluded meaningful dialogue with the natural sciences, which typically go to the opposite extreme, pulling meditative practice out of its cultural context and into the laboratory. The contextual focus tends to a priori favor external rather than internal explanations of the working mechanisms of meditation, as in the suggestion that its effects build on a form of autohypnosis or autosuggestion rather than stemming from the technical elements of the practice itself, not to speak of spiritual, noumenal, or perennial qualities. Paradoxically, the one-sided emphasis on cultural context tends to discourage meaningful discussion of the relation between meditative practice and the culture within which it is situated, since it either ignores practice altogether or reduces it to a function of the culture in which it is situated.3 Both internal and external factors may be at work in one and the same meditative practice.4 For instance, the focus on sound rather than meaning in some of the Tamil Śaiva Siddhānta practices discussed by M. D. Muthukumaraswamy in this volume suggests that some of the effects of these practices are triggered from within by technical aspects of the meditation method, while other effects rely on semantic elements in the external context, as suggested by the recourse to texts in Tamil explaining the meaning of the Sanskrit texts involved in the practice. By focusing on meditative practice and the complexity of its relation to the cultural webs surrounding it, this volume tries to address some of the issues that are easily ignored in contemporary cultural or religious studies. The volume as a whole has no single answer to questions concerning the nature of the self, and the individual authors may have different views on the relation between meditation and culture. As a whole, however, the volume seeks to integrate a number of different perspectives and, in doing so, to argue for a multifaceted rather than a one-directional relation between practice and context.

Meditative Practice and Cultural Context

5

Tradition and modernity One issue in the complex relation between meditation and culture concerns the many questions surrounding the links and breaks between tradition and modernity. In modern contexts, meditation is often learned in secular settings such as evening courses, practiced at home after work, and understood in terms of health and wellbeing. Such contexts are often neutral in the sense that they do not presuppose a specific religious worldview. Culturally, however, the modernity of which they are part also carries with it notions and assumptions that are far from self-evident, such as the technical nature of meditation, the physiological and neurological basis of its effects, as well as a strong emphasis on the individual. In this volume, Øyvind Ellingsen and Are Holen’s chapter on meditation and science focuses on this approach to meditation.5 Even modernity, however, is far from homogeneous. The eclectic spirituality of New Age and related movements often rejects institutionalized religion, but at the same time sees itself in contrast to the neutrality and rationality of a scientific outlook. The twentieth-century Javan movement called Sumarah, discussed in this volume by Paul D. Stange, includes Muslims, Christians, Buddhists, and agnostics, and combines an emphasis on individual choice with the collective focus of communal meditation. Another modern spiritual phenomenon, described by Don Baker, is the multifaceted revival of cinnabar-field meditation in twentieth-century Korea, combining exaggerated claims about its historical origins in deep antiquity with a complete break with its actual premodern roots. Both movements remind us that modernity is not always a Western phenomenon, but comes in different versions in all parts of the world.6 Modernity and tradition are not exclusive entities, and traditional forms of meditation live on even today. In the early-twentieth-century Tibetan Buddhist setting described by Hanna Havnevik there are as yet few signs of any break with tradition, its meditative practice as well as its cultural and material context closely resembling those of earlier centuries. To some extent, this is even true of the early-twenty-first-century photographs included in her chapter. However, the extensive changes that have taken place in Tibet since 1950 turn these photographs into reminders of a tradition that is slowly losing foothold against a larger social order shaped as much by Chineseinspired forms of modernity as by Tibetan tradition. In the early-twenty-first-century Tamil setting described by Muthukumaraswamy, the Śaiva Siddhānta form of recitative meditation lives on in the mixture of age-old tradition and hypermodernity that is present-day India.7 In many traditions, the teaching of meditation was restricted to certain groups of people. In the Tibetan Buddhist case discussed by Havnevik, it had to take place within a line of spiritual transmission in order to be deemed effective. In the Tamil context discussed by Muthukumaraswamy, only people from certain castes were (and still are) allowed to learn it. The Jesuit practices discussed by Nicolas Standaert and the early Chán practices discussed by Robert H. Sharf were at first mainly, though not exclusively, restricted to monastics. On the other hand, part of the attraction of the Hindi sants discussed by Daniel Gold was their relative openness to people from all walks of life, not only renunciants. Some of the Daoist practices described by Livia

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Kohn were taught to laypersons, in particular aristocrats, as were the various NeoConfucian practices discussed by Rur-bin Yang and the traditional cinnabar-field meditation discussed by Baker. In such contexts, meditation became part of a literary culture and was sometimes learned from texts rather than living teachers. Sometimes a distinction was made between meditation methods that were deemed suitable for monastics and those that even laypersons could practice, as in the contrast between Chán and Pure Land practices discussed in the two chapters by Halvor Eifring. For the most part, however, the dissemination of meditation techniques to a larger part of the general population is a feature of modernity. This is partly due to the traditional role of meditative practice. Meditation was typically associated with some form of retreat from ordinary life, often including the renunciation of family life, professional careers, and wealth amassment, or at least one or two of these. In quite a few cases, meditation was part of an eremitic lifestyle in the mountains, forests, or deserts. More frequently, it took place in monasteries or ashrams, often in rooms or halls specifically set aside for meditation. Sometimes, it was part of a retreat period, as in the thirty-day retreats associated with the Jesuit spiritual exercises or in the seven-day, three-month or three-year retreats practiced by some Buddhist monastics. Even when meditation was brought into lay contexts and private homes, it was still largely linked to ideas and ideals inspired by renunciant attitudes, though for some, such as the Neo-Confucians discussed by Yang, this created a certain degree of tension with their social and familial values. Even in traditional contexts, meditation was sometimes believed to bring about health effects, but then mostly by triggering the intervention of spiritual forces rather than as a result of concrete physiological or psychological changes. By and large, the meditative focus on health and well-being for ordinary people with a stressful work life and demanding family commitments is a modern phenomenon. It may seem natural to connect some of these differences to a contrast between religious and secular interpretations of meditative processes. In modern times, meditation is often understood in either scientific or experience-based terms, whereas the various meditative traditions tended in a number of different ways to invoke a dimension beyond sensory perception and intellectual thinking. The renunciant view of meditation was linked to the quest for such a dimension, which like other phenomena involving the inner life of man was usually associated with what we would now call religion. Note, however, that before modernity religion and philosophy were not clearly distinguished in non-European cultures, or even in classical Europe. Moreover, quite a few modern meditation movements continue to refer to spiritual dimensions, and where traditional approaches to meditation are still alive, they are often combined with a scientific interest, as in Buddhist monasteries in Taiwan. Tradition and modernity cannot always be easily told apart.

Tangled interactions In addition to this introduction, the present volume is divided in four different sections, each focusing on different aspects of the relation between meditation and culture.

Meditative Practice and Cultural Context

7

The first section regards traveling practices—meditative practices that are transferred from one culture to another. This may involve a move from one religion to another, as when the Buddhist practice called insight meditation was adopted and further adapted by Daoists in medieval China, often combining the neutral observation of Buddhism with the body cultivation and visualization techniques of Daoism, as described by Livia Kohn. It may also involve a spread from one geographical location to another, as when Jesuit visualization techniques were transferred from Europe to China in the seventeenth century, remaining Christian but being more easily adopted due to their similarities to Buddhist and Daoist practices, and making heavy use of Daoist technical vocabulary, as discussed by Nicolas Standaert. In modern times, the most widespread meditation practices have traveled from Asia to Europe and America and further on to the rest of the world, including back to Asia, in the process often being pulled away from their original religious and cultural contexts and reembedded in various secular frameworks, most notably the scientific settings discussed by Øyvind Ellingsen and Are Holen. The second section regards competing practices—one and the same culture encompassing different techniques in various degrees of competition. Robert Sharf shows how early Chán Buddhism displayed a strong tension between an emphasis on mindfulness in its Northern and East Mountain schools and a focus on “no mind” or, in Sharf ’s words, mindlessness in its Southern School. Rur-bin Yang shows how early Neo-Confucians struggled with the conflict between the Buddhist- and Daoistinspired meditative practice of “quietude” and the more obviously Confucian practice of “reverence,” sometimes combining the two, at other times rejecting the former in favor of the latter. In what superficially seems to be a less competitive mode, the late Ming Chán teacher Hānshān Déqīng simultaneously espoused four different forms of Buddhist meditation, but is shown by Halvor Eifring to actually have reduced these four to a single practice, and to have either ignored or rejected practices that did not fit the same mold. The third section regards competing cultures—cases of a single meditative tradition being simultaneously influenced from the outside by several cultural impulses that bring with them conflicting elements of doctrine as well as practice. This includes the Hindi sants flourishing in northern India from the fifteenth century onward, combining impulses from Nath yogis, Krishna devotees, and Sufi mystics, as well as forms of meditation ranging from traditional yoga on the chakras to ecstatic practices involving sounds and points of concentration within the head, as described by Daniel Gold. It also includes the various Islamic, Indic, and even Javanist impulses surrounding Sumarah and other twentieth-century mystical movements in Java, expressed both in their mixed views regarding dualism and monism and in the divergent emphases on the surrender to God or the dissolution of all boundaries in their meditative practice, as discussed by Paul D. Stange. Finally, it includes the various Confucian, Daoist, and Buddhist elements involved in the traditional Korean practice of cinnabar-field meditation, as described by Don Baker, as well as the myth of Tan’gun, the legendary founder of the Korean kingdom several millennia ago, referred to by the various groups reviving the practice in the twentieth century.

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The fourth section regards cultural mosaics—cases in which one and the same meditative culture is built from a kaleidoscope of elements of widely different origins. These cases differ from those in the third section in showing a higher degree of integration of the various elements into a larger whole. The first case is the Tibetan tradition called Chöd, which brings together impulses from classical Buddhism, Tantric Buddhism, Tibetan “folk religion,” and the Tibetan contemplative tradition called Dzogchen, and which includes meditation at haunted sites and charnel grounds as well as rituals for the dying and the dead, partly practiced by monastics but more often by wandering laypersons, as discussed by Hanna Havnevik. The second case is the Tamil Śaiva Siddhānta tradition, which is based on orthodox Vedic texts and the Tantric Āgamas, classical Sanskrit, and the Tamil language, and which includes recitative rituals with meditative qualities, practiced both in temples and lay households, both by Brahmins and by people from non-Brahmin caste groups, as presented by M. D. Muthukumaraswamy. Included in this final section is also Halvor Eifring’s comparative discussion of the doctrinal and practical treatment of spontaneous thoughts in various meditative cultures, focusing on classical Yoga, Christian mysticism, early Daoism, and Pure Land Buddhism.

Section One

Traveling Practices Meditative practices have often traveled from one culture to another. This could involve a move between religions, as when Buddhist insight meditation was adopted by Daoists, or between geographical locations, as when Jesuit visualization was brought to China. In modern times, Asian meditation practices have traveled to Europe and America and further on to the rest of the world, and they have become the subjects of scientific investigation.

2

The Daoist Adaptation of Buddhist Insight Meditation Livia Kohn

Meditation, as Halvor Eifring says, is “an attention-based technique for inner transformation,” working with the inward focus of attention in a state of mind where ego-related concerns and critical evaluations are suspended in favor of perceiving a deeper, subtler, and possibly divine flow of consciousness. A method of communicating with hidden layers of the mind, it allows the subconscious to surface in memories, images, and thoughts, while also influencing it with quietude, openness, and specific suggestions.1 In this context, insight meditation (vipaśyanā) works with establishing a detached observer or “witness consciousness,” described in modern psychology as the “observing self ” (see Deikman 1982). Available in the Chinese tradition from the early stages of the Buddhist influx, it was not only adapted into Chinese Buddhist practice but was also integrated into various Daoist methods. These included the attainment of nonaction through the stilling of body and mind in oblivion (or immediacy), a kinesthetic guiding of vital energy (qì 氣), as well as the visualization of inner organs and body gods. In their ways of accessing the subconscious, they are fundamentally different from insight meditation, which works largely with the conscious mind. As a result, by the Tang dynasty new integrated forms had developed that were called “observation.” They included several specific forms: “perfect observation,” the closest to insight meditation proper which uses it as a preparation for immediacy and plays an important role in the integrated system of oblivion practice; “stability-cumobservation,” which has a kinesthetic focus and strong energetic effect; and “inner observation,” the visualization and activation of body gods.

Insight practice Insight meditation begins, as first recorded in the sermons of the buddha, with establishing mental stillness called concentration or cessation (śamatha) (Faure

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1986: 103), by focusing the mind on the breath with “mindfulness of breathing” (ānāpānasati). As the Ānāpānasati Sutta says: Breathing in long, he discerns, “I am breathing in long”; or breathing out long, he discerns, “I am breathing out long.” Breathing in short, he discerns, “I am breathing in short”; or breathing out short, he discerns, “I am breathing out short.” He trains himself, “I will breathe in sensitive to the entire body.” He trains himself, “I will breathe out sensitive to the entire body.” He trains himself, “I will breathe in calming bodily fabrication.” He trains himself, “I will breathe out calming bodily fabrication.”

Using the breath and observing the entire body with detachment, the text continues, one practices in a similar way with regard to feelings or subtle physical sensations, the mind or thoughts, and mental qualities such as greed and distress. In each case, the practitioner is asked to sit cross-legged with a straight back and neck, close the eyes, and maintain steady, focused awareness. Eventually, the mind habituates to this profound focus and develops qualities that lead to its full liberation or enlightenment. These include mindfulness, analysis of qualities, persistence, rapture, serenity, concentration, and equanimity (see Rosenberg 1999). Mindfulness as the key quality to be reached through insight meditation is spelled out in further detail in the Satipaṭṭhāna Sutta. This text essentially outlines the same system of practice but goes further in that it also encourages practitioners to establish the witness consciousness or “clear comprehension” in all sorts of daily activities. For example: In going forward [and] going backward, is a person practicing clear comprehension. In looking straight on [and] looking away from the front, is a person practicing clear comprehension. In bending and stretching, is a person practicing clear comprehension. In wearing the shoulder-cloak, the [other two] robes, [and] the bowl, is a person practicing clear comprehension. In regard to what is eaten, drunk, chewed, and savored, is a person practicing clear comprehension. In defecating and in urinating, is a person practicing clear comprehension. In walking, standing, sitting; in sleeping and waking, in speaking and keeping silence, is a person practicing clear comprehension. (See Soni 1980; Thera 1998)

In addition, the text also encourages the distant examination of the four factors—body, sensations, mind, and qualities—with the help of critical and detached observation, seeing, for example, that the body consists of gradually disintegrating parts, that it is made up of the four basic elements and shares their characteristics, and that it is impermanent and bound to die. Observing a corpse in the cremation ground, one is to reflect: “This body of mine too is of the same nature as that body, is going to be like that body and has not got past the condition of becoming like that body.” Both these key scriptures on insight meditation became available in China in the early stages of Buddhist adaptation. Thus, the Ānāpānasati Sutta was translated by Ān Shìgāo 安世高 between 148 and 170 under the title Dà ānbān shǒuyì jīng

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大安般守意經 (T. 602), then was the subject of extensive teaching by Buddhacinga or Fótúchéng 佛圖澄 (231–349), who also served as leading political advisor to the Hunnish rulers of north China (see Wright 1948). The Satipaṭṭhāna Sutta was translated under the title Niànchù jīng 念處經 (T. 26) as part of the complete rendition of the Āgamas in the third century; it helped to spread the practice of insight in the larger Buddhist community. The specific form of insight meditation within Chinese Buddhism was first formulated in the sixth century, with the arising of the Tiāntāi 天台 school. Its founder Zhìyǐ 智顗 (538–97) wrote several important works on “cessation and insight”—or “Stop! Look!” as Michael Saso renders it (2000: 1). Most extensive among them is the Móhē zhǐguān 摩訶止觀 (Great [Outline of] Cessation and Insight, T. 1911; trl. Donner and Stevenson 1993), which outlines the practice in a rather scholastic fashion. He describes cessation in three parts: putting an end to something, dwelling in something, and as an arbitrary name for reality, then emphasizes that it should lead to observation of all reality as empty (see Donner 1987). Next, he divides insight into ten different modes that all lead to the understanding that “all possible determinacies are . . . identical to each moment of experience, just as a thing is identical to its own characteristics and properties, or to its own process of becoming and perishing” (Ziporyn 2004: 549). A shorter and more easily accessible work is Zhìyǐ’s Tóngméng zhǐguān 童蒙止觀 (Cessation and Insight for Beginners, T. 42) (see Bucknell and Kang 1997; Saso 2000). Addressed to beginning monastic practitioners, it divides progress toward enlightenment in ten stages: 1. Fulfilling Karma 具緣; 2. Rebuking Desires 訶欲; 3.  Removing of Screens 棄蓋; 4. Harmonization 調和; 5. Expedient Means 方便; 6. Proper Cultivation 正修; 7. Goodness Manifest 善發; 8. Recognizing Mara 覺摩; 9. Healing Diseases 治病; 10. Realizing the Fruit 證果. The text reveals the degree of Buddhist adoption of Chinese models in that it outlines physical practices such as simple stretches, breath control, and the six healing breaths (Saso 2000: 88–91), which appear variously in Daoist meditation literature. The section on “Harmonization,” furthermore, “on the control of body, breath, and mind could [also] serve as a handy, nonsectarian guide to the basics of Buddhist mental discipline” (Bielefeldt 1986: 133). On the background of these sources and their related practices, then, Tang Daoists— often trained on Mount Tiāntāi and very much aware of Buddhist techniques—adopted insight meditation into their spiritual curriculum.

Traditional Daoist forms Oblivion The first documentation of Daoist “sitting in oblivion” (zuòwàng 坐忘) is found in the ancient Daoist classic Zhuāngzǐ 莊子 (Book of Master Zhuāng), which contains the thought of a master of the same name who lived in the third century BCE and is considered the second major sage of ancient Daoism after Lǎozǐ. The text describes states of mind that go completely beyond sensory and conscious perception; it proposes

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a pure level of experience at one with the underlying Dào at the root of creation; it works with paradoxes and probing questions to implode the conscious mind; and it praises unmediated experience of ordinary living in a state of perfect happiness as the ultimate goal of spiritual practice. The essence of oblivion as described here is an experience beyond bodily awareness and conscious perception, at one with the underlying Dào, described as “making one’s body like dried wood and one’s mind like dead ashes” (ch. 2). Another description has: “I smash up my limbs and body, drive out perception and intellect, cast off form, do away with understanding, and make myself identical with the Great Thoroughfare” (ch. 6, Watson 1968: 90; Graham 1981: 95; Roth 2000: 37). The end result of a practice called “sitting in oblivion,” this describes a state where all visceral awareness of emotions and desires is lost and all sense perception is cut off. Completely free from dualistic thinking or bodily self-consciousness, it represents a state of no-mind where there are no boundaries between things and where the person as person has “lost himself ” (ch. 2, Watson 1968: 36, 41). Self-loss or no-mind marks the complete absence of conscious evaluation and an utter lack of feelings—a way of being in the world that is equal to Dào. As the Zhuāngzǐ says: Although “the Dào gave him a human face and heaven gave him a human body, he does not let [feelings of] likes and dislikes enter and harm himself ” (ch. 5). Instead the ideal person preserves his essence, attains long life, and finds a peace of mind that matches heaven and earth. Rather than working through ordinary senses, people who have attained this level use pure mentation or vital energy to interact with the world. As the Zhuāngzǐ says: “Don’t listen with your ears, listen with your mind. No, don’t listen with your mind, listen with your qì. Listening stops with the ears, the mind stops with recognition, but qì is empty and relates to all. This is where you find the Dào” (ch. 4, Kohn 2010: 25).

Qì-guiding The Zhuāngzǐ does not provide detailed descriptions of procedures, but other early documents talk about the activation of qì in the body and its emergence as an agent of internal flow. The earliest document is an inscription on a dodecagonal jade block— possibly a knob on a staff (Chén 1982)—from the fourth century BCE. Its inscription in forty-five characters has been studied variously (Wilhelm 1948; Engelhardt 1996: 19; Lǐ Líng 1993: 320–23). It represents a kinesiological form of meditation: To guide the qi, allow it to enter deeply and collect it. As it collects, it will expand. Once expanded, it will sink down. When it sinks down, it comes to rest. After it has come to rest, it becomes stable. When the qi is stable, it begins to sprout. From sprouting, it begins to grow. As it grows, it can be pulled back upwards. When it is pulled upwards, it reaches the crown of the head. It then touches above at the crown of the head and below at the base of the spine. Who practices like this will attain long life. Who goes against this will die. (Harper 1998, 126; see also Roth 1997, 297–98; Kohn 2008b, 14–15)

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This describes a qì practice still part of Daoist meditation and well documented from the Middle Ages onward. In a position of quietude and sensory withdrawal, practitioners inhale deeply, allow the breath to enter both the chest and the mouth, and in the latter mix it with saliva, another potent form of qì in the body. Moving their tongue around their mouth, they gather the saliva and gain a sense of fullness, then swallow, allowing the qì to sink down. They feel it moving deep into their abdomen, where they let it settle in the central area of gravity, known in Chinese medicine as the Ocean of Qì and in Daoism as the elixir field (dāntián 丹田). There the qì rests and becomes stable, laying the foundation for physical health, spiritual harmony, and advanced forms of practice.

Visualization The third early form of Daoist practice is visualization, defined as the active, intentional use of imagery to alter or transform mind and emotions. Objects of visualization can be colors or colored energies imagined to pervade parts of the body; they can involve static objects, such as a vase, a diagram, a landscape, or the statue of a deity; and they can be focused on an entire sequence of activities and events, almost in movie fashion, either for detached viewing or active engagement. Since the brain does not distinguish outside stimuli from imagined ones, visualization is a powerful mode of accessing the subconscious mind to retrain brain mechanisms and transform emotional reactions.2 In Daoism, the earliest form of visualization is the infusion of colors into the inner organs, documented in the Tàipíng jīng shèngjūn bìzhǐ 太平經聖君秘旨 (Secret Instructions of the Holy Lord on the Scripture of Great Peace, DZ 1102), a Tangdynasty redaction of meditation methods according to the Han-dynasty Tàipíng jīng (see Hendrischke 2006). It speaks about “guarding the light of the One” and describes the inner radiance of different colors in terms of yin and yang, then adds: In guarding the light of the One, you may see a light entirely red, just like fire. This is a sign of transcendence. In guarding the light of the One, you may see a light entirely yellow. When this develops a greenish tinge, it is the light of central harmony. This is a potent remedy of Dao … In guarding the light of the One, you may see your own abdomen pervaded by light while the four directions are utterly in darkness. This is the light of great harmony, the Dao of great accordance. (Kohn 1993)

The main Daoist school to use visualization, both of energetic colors and body gods, is Highest Clarity (Shàngqīng 上清), which arose in the mid-fourth century among a group of southern aristocrats and grew into the leading school of Daoism under the Tang (618–907). Besides a method of visualizing cosmic energies and mentally guiding them into the five inner organs (heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, and spleen), known as the “Five Sprouts” (wǔyá 五芽),3 they also visualized gods in the body—now seen as

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a veritable storehouse of divine agencies, palaces, and figures. As first documented in the meditation manual Huángtíng jīng 黃庭經 (Yellow Court Scripture),4 the head was the world mountain of Kūnlún and housed nine palaces, each the residence of a divine being. Most important among them was the Níwán Palace 泥丸宮 in the center, also known as the upper elixir field, the residence of the Great One (Tàiyī 太一). While the inner organs were similarly palaces—for example, the Scarlet Palace of the heart and the Dark Towers of the kidneys—the mouth was seen as a wide lake with the tongue as a bridge, the throat as a twelve-storied tower, and the spine as a flowing river, all the residences of body gods and activation centers of qì.

Insight in China When insight meditation entered China in the first centuries of the Common Era, the word used to translate it was “observation.” The Chinese term for “observation” is guān 觀, explained in the Han dictionary Shuōwén jiězì 說文解字 (Elucidating Phrases and Explaining Words) as “to scrutinize.” The term denotes “looking at something in an examining fashion,” thus the usage of guan as “observatory” or Daoist monastery (Schafer 1980: 18). In Daoist meditation texts of the Tang, it appears in three distinct combinations that each infuse Buddhist practice into Daoist systems: the “perfect observation” of reality which involves the establishment of a witness consciousness that allows the detached inspection of one’s life and self in order to attain a purified view of the world and serves as a preparation for letting go of all concepts and bodily identity in a state of oblivion; “stability-cum-observation,” which works with stabilizing qì to a state of deep mental concentration and physical immobility combined with the emergence of an inner spirit radiance that allows the detached observation of life and world; and “inner observation” of the different parts and aspects of the body, including the visualization of its energetic patterns and residing divinities.

Perfect observation “Perfect observation” (zhēnguān 真觀) is the title of a section in the key text on Daoist oblivion meditation in the Tang dynasty, the Zuòwàng lùn 坐忘論 (Discourse on Sitting in Oblivion, DZ 10365; trl. Kohn 2010: 137–58) by the twelfth Highest Clarity patriarch Sīmǎ Chéngzhēn 司馬承禎 (647–735). The text, which grew from lectures given to lay and probably aristocratic followers, divides Daoist progress into seven steps. Practitioners begin with “Respect and Faith,” that is, they have to have heard of the practice, believe that its promises are real, and trust that they have the capacity and energy to attain them. Next, they work on “Interception of Karma,” which in essence means detaching themselves from society and, at least for a practice period, withdraw from ordinary life. Third, they dedicate themselves to “Taming the Mind,” which means the establishment of access concentration with the help of breath observation combined with an increased awareness of just how jumpy and fickle the ordinary mind is. Next, “Detachment from Affairs” sees the first conscious turning away from things, an initial

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level of forgetfulness, where one can let go of worldly achievements which are now merely “superfluous gratifications of passions and desires.” Step five is “Perfect Observation,” followed by a deep trance state called “Stability of Cosmic Peace.” Here even the inner agent that gave rise to the various mental states is actively forgotten. Practitioners find themselves in deep, stable serenity, a restfulness within that needs no stimulation or outer action, but is at the same time accompanied by a radiant heavenly light, the pure energy of the Dào shining through, the power of penetrating wisdom and sign of enlightenment. The last step is “Attaining Dào.” Adepts realize oneness with heaven and earth, a life as long as the universe, and various spiritual powers (Kohn 2010: 60–61). The section on observation, closely following Buddhist models, using Buddhist terminology, and integrating key concepts such as karma and retribution, encourages adepts to understand the interconnectedness of all phenomena, not only in abstract terms but in daily life. How, for example, should one relate to such worldly necessities as food and clothing? One should recognize them as a vehicle, a means of transportation, necessary but to be abandoned in due course. How can one eliminate feelings of enmity and hatred? One must come to regard them for what they really are, realizing that “to see another do evil and give rise to enmity and hatred in one’s own mind is just like seeing someone kill himself and promptly sticking one’s own neck out to accept the other’s blade and get killed oneself.” What if I am deeply distressed by the state of extreme poverty that I am in? Echoing the Zhuāngzǐ, Sīmǎ Chéngzhēn says one should try to find out who made you poor. Heaven and Earth?—Why should they? Your parents?—Certainly they wanted you to be happy! Spirits and other men?—They are far too busy with their own troubles to make you poor. The conclusion must be reached that all one experiences is due to the karma produced by oneself and the destiny one has been given by Heaven. One has to accept whatever cannot be avoided, one cannot run away from oneself. As the text notes, the situation of the adept at this point of his development is comparable to that of a knight fighting with a band of brigands. He can fight the various vexations and illusions with the strong sword of observation and insight and thereby establish the lifelong merit of happiness for himself. Or, he can flee the battlefield and abandon his weapons, thus succumbing to the enemy and ending up in disgrace and defeat. Insight practice here, therefore, is a way of seeing the world from the perspective of Dào, accepting life and learning to flow with it yet also removing oneself from the vicissitudes of ordinary thinking.

Stability-cum-observation The classical description of stability-cum-observation (dìngguān) is the Dìngguān jīng 定觀經 (Scripture on Stability and Observation, DZ 400; trl. Kohn 2010: 163–73), also found in the Song collection Yúnjí qīqiān 雲笈七籤 (Seven Tablets in a Cloudy Satchel, DZ 1032; 17.6b–13a) and as appendix to the Zuòwàng lùn. Translated also as “Scripture of Intent Contemplation” (Schipper in Schipper and Verellen 2004: 332), it is a short but powerful document consisting of forty-nine stanzas of two or more lines, each with four or occasionally six characters. It presents a survey of the

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mental transition from an ordinary perspective, characterized by impurity, cravings, vexations, emotions, and desires, to a state of mental stability, peace, and quietude. Once stability (dìng) is reached, an interior radiance will shine forth and the mind as spirit will observe (guān) all phenomena dispassionately and gain insight or wisdom (huì 慧) that opens the path to immortality. The text is particularly noteworthy for its practical details concerning the various mental states the adept undergoes when passing through the process of attainment. Throughout, purity and total abstention from intentional thinking and acting are emphasized. Dìng, the term used for “stability,” like guān, is of Buddhist background and marks the adaptation of insight meditation. In Buddhism it is used to translate samādhi (zhèngdìng 正定), a state of deep absorption that allows buddha-nature to shine forth and is the beginning of enlightenment. It also renders dhyāna in the compound chándìng 禪定 and thus indicates a concentration so deep that one is pervaded by feelings of happiness and bliss. Buddhist dhyāna is “a mode of meditative concentration, not a content” (King 1980: 41). It can be described as a state in which attention is locked in on one specific datum to the total exclusion of all others; for practical purposes and with respect to ordinary awareness, the subject is in full trance and operatively unconscious; the lucidity is actually a description of the immediately ensuing moments, when the mind reawakes to the world around it, but sees that world in the mood of the just ended higher state of consciousness. The calm, undistracted post-dhyanic mind now sees clearly. (King 1980, 48)

In classical Buddhist literature, dhyāna is explained as the state reached when the five hindrances (tiredness, agitation, craving, aversion, and doubt) are completely overcome and only a sense of deep joy and harmony remains. It consists of eight progressive levels of absorption which, like Daoist oblivion, are characterized by a significant slowing of respiration, the absence of thought, an expansion of mental openness, a feeling of the disappearance of the bodily self, the closing off of sight and sound, and an overall deep and blissful serenity (Austin 1998: 475). The Daoist system matches this in that through the gradual attainment of stability, the agitated, thinking, and dwelling mind is eliminated, and the radiating, tranquil, and empty mind—the manifestation of pure spirit within the person—comes to the fore: “Radiant and constantly serene, it is always dwelling in itself ” (Kohn 2010: 165). The state is also described in terms of “clarity and purity,” “no-mind,” “freedom from affairs,” and “perfect stability” (2010: 166–67). It allows the person to remain inwardly at peace no matter how confused and exciting the outside world may present itself, to be “in upheaval without negativity, in excitement without afflictions.” The Zuòwàng lùn describes it as the attainment of the “stability of cosmic peace,” when the adept has left all worldly involvements and deliberations behind and has reached “the first foothold of Dào” (Kohn 2010: 153). Explaining it in more concrete terms, the text notes that at this stage one has to “make sure to always note the disadvantages whenever one recognizes an advantage, and to calm the mind whenever one feels anxiety about misfortune.” On the other hand, one should continue to “diminish, forsake, purify, and cleanse the mind.” This will lead to a perfect stability

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of mind, one will be unperturbed even by “sudden clashes of thunder.” As a result, “unmoving in the stillness, one will imperceptibly enter enlightenment” (Kohn 2010: 154). “Stability and observation” thus represents a meditative state characterized by a twofold structure: perfect serenity on the inside and a “heavenly light” radiating on the outside. This pair is described as tranquility and wisdom in accordance with Zhuāngzǐ terminology and as absorption and insight adapting the Buddhist system. It is yet entirely Daoist in that its realization eventually leads to the internal transformation of qì which leads to the attainment not only of long life but also of immortality, systematized in “seven stages of the body.” They begin with a recovery of one’s full energetic powers in vigorous health—“the body growing light and the mind translucent”—to a mind full of joy and peace and free from emotions. Next one reaches extended longevity and youthful vigor, then finds a state of being ageless and light, “flying or walking, spontaneously present everywhere” as well as guarded by a host of divinities. From here adepts transform to become “perfected” (zhēnrén 真人), beings of pure qì, able to appear and disappear at will and move through the grottoes and heavens of the divine. Next, they refine qì to spirit and become “spirit people” (shénrén 神人), powerful enough to move heaven and earth. From here, they purify “spirit to unify with the world of form” and are called “utmost beings” (zhìrén 至人). Their appearance and bodily form no longer definite, they “change according to occasion and go along with things to appear in different forms” (Kohn 2010: 171–72).

Inner observation Unlike perfect observation and stability-cum-observation, inner observation or “inner vision” (nèiguān 內觀) is more a form of visualization and indicates the active, conscious, and transformative introspection of one’s body and mind. Practitioners come to see themselves not only in terms of the subtler energies of life, but also as inhabited by the gods and spirits. They transform their identity to see their body and self as part of heaven and earth, raised through yang and nourished by yin. The body here is not just an assembly of energy centers and qì channels as in Chinese medicine, but a microcosmic replica of the starry heavens above: it contains a large variety of palaces and chambers. The deities who reside in the paradises of the otherworld are as much at home in the body. Although all people are endowed naturally in this way, they usually do not see themselves as cosmic habitats, because the senses produce delusion and cause the rise of emotional disturbances and discriminating consciousness. Spirit, the primordial, formless, and ever-changing force, which in connection with the physical body causes human beings to be alive, is then no longer at rest in the mind, where it occurs in most concentrated form. Ideally, spirit working through the human mind would govern life perfectly, but instead it is wasted on sensual amusements and exertions of eyes, ears, mouth, nose, body, and mind. Confused and defiled, human beings need to be taught how to recover the primordial state. They do so by envisioning their body and self as a manifestation and residence of the divine. The most explicit Tang text on this practice is the late-seventh-century Nèiguān jīng 內觀經 (Scripture on Inner Observation, DZ 641; trl. Kohn 1989c, 2010, 179–87), which describes the different aspects of body in cosmic terms: the five phases, the three

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spirit souls, the seven material souls, the eight phosphor stars, and the various chambers and palaces of the gods. The key deities it tells adepts to maintain are those residing in the three elixir fields: the Great One in the head, the Ruler of Destiny (Sīmìng 司命) in the heart, and Báiyuán 白元 and Táohái 桃孩 in the abdomen. “Radiating through the hundred joints, they give life to the hundred spirits” (2a).6 The text encourages practitioners to give up all delusions and fantasies, limit sensory input and attachments to things, get rid of emotions and entanglements, and “observe that the body-self has arisen from emptiness and nonbeing,” and in essence is nothing but a randomly individualized manifestation of heaven and earth (Kohn 2010: 181). The body deities are forms of cosmic spirit while the mind as apparent in dayto-day consciousness is a deviation that keeps people separate from Dào. By becoming aware of one’s connection to the greater universe and overall dependence on Dào one can make the mind empty and stable, attain clarity and stillness, and allow spirit to shine forth in stillness. The body is then seen as the “storehouse of inner nature,” as the “habitation of the spirit,” as the “vehicle” or the “host” of the spirit or the Dào. This resides in the body like a ruler in his country. It is the vessel of the Dào, and one need only look inside to find the Dào right there. The Dào, spirit, inner nature, and sometimes even virtue are described as the rulers and inhabitants of the physical body. It is only due to their activity that the body is alive at all. The Nèiguān jīng compares the presence of spirit in the body-form to the oil in a lamp, which in turn needs the wick to create fire. It explains: “Brightness karmically depends on spirit radiance; spirit relies on the mind being fully present; the mind exists only within the body-form; and body-form is only complete through Dào” (2010: 185). To realize the Dào within one has to look inside and see body, mind, and self as an integrated replica of the universe. By identifying with Dào as the factor that governs and inhabits body and self one loosens attachments to one’s physical being, develops a detached witness consciousness, and begins to open to a new and wider identity as part of the universe at large. One comes to see oneself as a being of spirit that is merely housed in this fragile physical framework that will be subject to all the transformations the spirit transcends.

Buddhist-inspired concepts The meditative vision found in these texts and their various forms of observation reflects basic Buddhist notions and adapts its practice of insight meditation. In all cases adepts come to see that everything is changing without interruption (impermanence), are led to give up any personal identity or well-defined self (no-self), and achieve freedom from suffering, which is caused by desires and rules ordinary human existence (suffering). The way to attaining Dào, moreover, is described—often in terms that closely reflect Buddhist usage—as a process of mental purification, growing detachment, and increased insight or wisdom. In addition, Daoists also integrate Buddhist concepts of karma and retribution, visions of afterlife, hells, and rebirth, as well as fundamental notions of the functioning and activities of the mind.

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Key truths The key truths of Buddhism are impermanence, no-self, and suffering. They are quite clearly present in Daoist texts, however, they are also reinterpreted in a Daoist way. Thus impermanence, the idea of eternal change and ongoing transformation of all things, already forms part of early Chinese speculation about the world. Even the Zhuāngzǐ insists that being and nonbeing are alternate states of the same cycle of existence, that existence means continuous change, which is neither deplorable nor delightful. Thus attaining immortality, unlike nirvana, does not mean cessation of change but a heightened awareness of it and the power to ride it in ecstatic freedom. Similarly, no-self in Daoism does not suggest the denial of any personal entity whatsoever. Rather, it refers to the transformation of a self defined through social norms and values to a self going along and at one with Dào as the core agent of eternal change. This transformation of self at the same time annihilates all suffering, which, though part of all human existence as we know it, is not originally necessary in the world. The world in harmony with the Dào is free from all affliction. Unlike Buddhists who see suffering or unsatisfactoriness as a fundamental and inescapable characteristic of the human condition, for Daoists it is a secondary feature of an originally perfect world. A form of disharmony with Dào or spirit, it develops due to the arousal of desire and engagement in sensory pleasures, which squanders vital qì. To keep the spirit focused and at peace, to maintain the divinities in the body is a thus prerequisite for attaining higher stages.

Karma and rebirth In addition to the three basic Buddhist truths, Daoists also adopt the doctrine of karma, which states that all actions have inevitable consequences and, after a period of maturation, revert to their perpetrator. As the individual’s consciousness is the carrier of this load, it must continue to be embodied in a physical form to receive the rewards and punishments necessitated by its former actions. Thus the notion of rebirth revolving in the five realms—of gods, humans, animals, hungry ghosts, and hell dwellers—became a close correlate to the idea of personally created and sufferedthrough karma (Mahony 1987: 262). In the Daoist system, the lowest levels are described as the “three bad rebirths,” the “five realms of suffering,” the “eight difficult conditions,” and the “ten situations of intense suffering.” As described in the fifth-century Jièyè běnxíng shàngpǐn miàojīng 戒業本行上品妙經 (Highest Wondrous Scripture of Controlling Karma and Rooting [Good] Conduct, DZ 345), the three bad rebirths are in the hells, as hungry ghosts, or among animals, while the five realms of suffering include all areas of rebirth. The eight difficult conditions are life among barbarians, as a slave, as a lowly, indigent or retarded person, in situations of trouble or distress, lacking filial piety or compassion, and in an environment devoid of Dào. The ten situations of intense suffering, moreover, are specific punishments in the hells, envisioned as supernatural courts of inquisition and torture, such as the mountain of knives, the tree of swords, and the cauldron of boiling water (see Lagerwey in Schipper and Verellen 2004: 242–43).

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The human mind The entire complex of understanding the mind and its workings, finally, presents an intricate mixture of ancient Daoist and Buddhist concepts. The mind, both traditions agree, is the personalized functioning of cosmic root consciousness (spirit; buddhanature), determined in its content by concrete manifestations of reality (fǎ 法, dharmas; xiàng 相, phenomena; Soothill and Hudous 1937: 259, 267). These reach it through the six senses, also known as the “six robbers,” the creators of the six emotions (qíng  情) or sensory impurities (liùchén 六塵, guņas; 1937: 406). Classifying and evaluating sensory data, the mind sways between craving and aversion (àiwù 愛惡; rāgadveşa), never resting, always agitated (dòng 動), unsteady, and impermanent (wúcháng 無常). This agitation is more specifically described in terms of defilements and impurities (rǎn 染), as well as irritations and afflictions (fánnǎo 煩惱, kleşa; 1937: 304, 406). In terms of thinking, a very similar structure holds true. On the basis of sensory input, the conscious mind, the thinking, reflecting, critical, and divisive factor of perception (shí 識, vijñāna; 1937: 473) creates mental projections which it then regards as objective reality (jìng 境, vişaya; 1937: 421). In fact, it is subject to the so-called six taints (liùrǎn 六染; 1937: 135), aspects of the wrong perception of apparent reality (jiǎ 假), which is ultimately empty (kōng 空). They include being attached to apparent reality and failing to eliminate it, giving rise to discriminating consciousness and accepting sensory data as real as well as mentally seeing apparent reality and continuing a. primal karmic relationship to it. Each thought (niàn 念, smŗti, 1937: 258) is yet another manifestation of this fundamentally deluded (wàng 妄) way of being in the world, perpetuating mental tension and agitation and thus karmic involvement. Daoist observation, as much as Buddhist insight meditation, accordingly begins by anchoring the mind in stillness, then moves on to releasing built-up intellectual and emotional fallacies, yet it moves on to levels of energetic physical transformation and immortality that have no counterpart in Buddhist systems.

Conclusion Insight meditation is the establishment of a witness consciousness or observer in the conscious mind which allows the practitioner to be detached from physical experiences, emotional engagements, and mental activities in all situations of daily life, thus releasing tension and allowing the emergence of inner peace and compassion. It is a form of meditation unique to the Buddhist tradition that developed first in ancient India under the name of vipaśyanā as a practice rooted in the establishment of mental stillness, known as cessation (śamatha) or concentration (samādhi), and leading to a state of mind known as mindfulness (smṛti), which in turn forms the foundation of enlightenment (bodhi) and the attainment of nirvāṇa. In the Chinese context translated as guan, “observation,” the practice was integrated with Daoist forms of body cultivation and visualization in the Tiāntāi school, whose techniques in turn influenced Daoists of the Tang dynasty to develop their particular forms of “observation.”

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Daoist practices include most prominently perfect observation, stability-cumobservation, and inner observation, each focusing on one particular form of Daoist practice and enhancing it with the help of insight meditation: the attainment of complete oblivion, the guiding of qì through the body, and the visualization of internal organs and starry deities. In the process of integration, moreover, Daoists also adopted a number of Buddhist concepts, reaching from the three basic truths of suffering, impermanence, and no-self through a new understanding of the self in terms of karma and rebirth to a subtle understanding of the human mind and its relation to reality in terms of thoughts, delusions, and projections. Throughout this adaptation, however, the fundamental approach of Daoists to reality as universal Dào and their ultimate goal of immortality remain unchanged, so that insight meditation and the various concepts of body, mind, and world it brought along came to enrich but not essentially alter the Daoist tradition. Continuing along these lines to the present day, Daoist practices—be it the seated meditation of oblivion or the more physical work of qì-guiding (qìgong)—are still often described in terms that are originally Buddhist. However, today—and quite probably already in the Tang dynasty (see Sharf 2002a)—these terms and the concepts they express are entirely Chinese and are appreciated as part of the indigenous tradition. Insight meditation, in its Buddhist and Daoist adaptations, has thus become an essential part of Chinese spiritual culture.

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Ignatian Visual Meditation in Seventeenth-Century China Nicolas Standaert

Introduction By the name of Spiritual Exercises is meant every way of examining one’s conscience, of meditating, of contemplating, of praying vocally and mentally, and of performing other spiritual actions, as will be said later. For as strolling, walking and running are bodily exercises, so every way of preparing and disposing the soul to rid itself of all the disordered tendencies, and, after it is rid, to seek and find the Divine Will as to the management of one’s life for the salvation of the soul, is called a Spiritual Exercise. (Exx. 1)1

With this description the Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius of Loyola (1491–1556) start. They were written down in a booklet that was first published in Rome in 1548.2 Since then the work has been reprinted many times and also translated in many languages, including Chinese. In the strict sense of the word, “Spiritual exercises” refer to a retreat of thirty days divided into “four weeks,” each day containing four hours of “meditations,” and in addition some other “exercises.” In the broad sense of the word, it refers to the ways of prayer, meditation, discernment, etc., described in the same booklet but put into practice in ordinary life, outside the context of a thirty-day retreat. Since its publication, the booklet served as a guide to many retreatants, and also today many thousands of people practice the exercises in the strict or broad sense every year. The methods or techniques presented in the booklet were not new at the moment of its compilation. Ignatius of Loyola borrowed from various spiritual masters in the past and as such entered into a long tradition of Christian meditation techniques. Also the language he used (e.g., meditatio in Latin, meditación in Spanish) is very traditional. And though these meditation techniques underwent a significant evolution in the Christian tradition, some elements remained constant. For instance, the word meditari is used to translate the corresponding Hebrew and Greek words meaning “to murmur in a low voice” in the Old Testament. That is why the memory and rumination (ruminatio) of the word of God so as to make it food for the soul is

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often considered the primary characteristic of Christian meditation. This can also be observed in the Spiritual Exercises.3 Yet, due to the interest in a wide variety of “new” meditation techniques coming from the East, especially since the 1960s and 1970s, the word “meditation” has acquired additional meanings. The result is, as could be observed at the “Cultural Histories of Meditation” conference, that some practices in line with the more traditional meaning are hardly considered “meditation” any more. This is an interesting case of the history of concepts (Begriffsgeschichte) in which intercultural contacts play an important role. As argued at the conference by Jens Braarvig, the word “meditation” was used for (or even “imposed on”) certain techniques of “concentration” or “mindfulness” in classical Yoga and early Buddhism in India. These techniques, which are usually nonintellectual, were subsequently introduced in Europe and the United States, nowadays often without their religious connotation. At the conference, this appeared most clearly in the fascinating contributions by the medical specialists and neuroscientists. In their contribution to this volume, for instance, Øyvind Ellingsen and Are Holen suggest that “perhaps the most generic and overarching characteristic of meditation is its non-intellectual and nonintentional nature,” implying that “the practitioner refrains from actively engaging in intellectual, verbal and semantic activities, thereby opening up for spontaneous, nonverbal, non-intellectual and non-semantic processes and experiences.” As a result, they consider “logic relaxation” a “central generic element of meditation.” This definition is linked, among others, to research on brain activities, which are situated in brain areas different than for instance, speech, visualization, or imagination. What is striking in this definition from a historical perspective is that a word such as meditation, which in origin is intimately linked to a verbal activity, (“murmuring words in a low voice”), acquires a meaning that becomes in essence nonverbal. Seen from an analytic perspective, it seems that this contrast points to a tension that is essential to meditation and that was described by Harold Roth during the discussion as the distinction that can be made between the “apophatic” or negative approaches, insisting on emptying oneself through concentrative or receptive methods, and the “cataphatic” or positive approaches that include for instance chanting or active visualization.4 It can be underscored that these approaches are not to be labeled merely “Eastern” and “Western,” since, as pointed out by Mary Frohlich, also in the West there have been meditative traditions, such as the method of “recollection” (recogimiento), which involved a stripping away of all sensations, images, and thoughts so as to rest in God alone.5 In this contribution, I shall focus on one of these (traditional) techniques, which can be called “visual meditation.” I will show that this is one “attention-based mental technique for inner transformation” as Halvor Eifring has defined “meditation,”6 for sure not the only one. I will approach this topic from an intercultural point of view and investigate how a European meditation technique, such as expressed in the Spiritual Exercises, was introduced in China in the early seventeenth century. As will become clear this method was translated into a context of local traditions of visual meditation, such as it existed in Buddhism and Daoism, which made the acceptance possible.

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Spiritual Exercises by way of illustrations Though practice of the spiritual exercises was introduced from the very first beginnings of the Jesuit mission in China, especially through the person of Matteo Ricci (1552– 1610), it is from the missionary activities of his fellow Jesuit Giulio Aleni (1582–1649) in the Fujian province that one gets a better glimpse of the practice of visual meditation. This is linked to Chinese publications that have been preserved from his circle. These publications were possible due to the circulation of books between Europe and China that went rather fast at that time. This can be observed from the presence in China of some books closely linked to the Spiritual Exercises. This was the case with Jerome Nadal’s (1507–80) major work entitled Annotations and Meditations on the Gospels, first published in Antwerp in 1595. Juan Polanco (1517–76), the secretary of Ignatius of Loyola, believed that, as is well known, Nadal had been blessed with a true understanding of what Ignatius intended with his new Order. For that reason Nadal was sent out to publicize the Constitutions. One may assume that his Annotations and Meditations on the Gospels are similarly an appropriate elucidation to accompany the Spiritual Exercises. They serve to open out the vision that Ignatius had of liturgical and meditative prayer. Nadal put them together at the instigation of Ignatius and their main purpose was to assist student members of  the Society in the apprenticeship of prayer. The link with the way of meditation in the Spiritual Exercises is very close. The same pattern or structure is found throughout the work. Each section consists of four parts, and the person meditating is expected to make use of all four: (1) in the first place comes the Gospel text, arranged in the order of the liturgical year; (2) next come the annotations that serve to clarify exegetical or historical elements in the text, the different points being marked by letters; (3)  the meditation proper follows, often taking dialogue form; (4) finally there is an engraving to illustrate the chosen Gospel excerpt. It is these engravings that are the most recognizable aspect of the book. A history of their planning, and the vicissitudes of their conception, would take us too far from our purpose; it is enough to say here that originally Nadal had foreseen a series and then rejected them. Finally a complete set was printed, drawn by the best etchers of Antwerp. The illustrations had been made by the Wierix brothers of Antwerp, Jan Wierix (1549–c. 1618), Antoon Wierix  II (c. 1555–59–1604), and Hieronymus Wierix (c. 1553–1619), Karel van Mallery (1571–1635), Jan Collaert (1566–1628), and Adrian Collaert (1560–1618), mostly after the designs of Giovanni Battista Fiammeri S. J.  (1530–1609) and Bernardino Passeri (1540–96). They were first printed separately as Evangelicae historiae imagines, Antwerp, Martinus Nutius, 1593, and next enclosed in the entire work Adnotationes et meditationes in evangelia quae in sacrosancto missae sacrificio toto anno leguntur, Antwerp, Martinus Nutius, 1595.7 The work was well received and soon reached as far as South America and the Far East. As early as 1599, the Jesuits in China had asked for a copy of the work and it is certain that by 1605 they had one in their residence in the south of the country. In one of his letters Ricci wrote that Nadal’s book “is of even greater use than the Bible, in the sense that while we are in the middle of talking we can also place right in front of their eyes things that with words alone we would not been able to make clear.”8

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The popularity of the illustrations in Nadal’s book appears from its Chinese reproductions. They first appeared in the illustrated version of the Rosary entitled Sòng niànzhū guīchéng 誦念珠規程, translated by the Portuguese Jesuit João da Rocha 羅儒望(1583–1623) and published in Nanjing c. 1619. The illustrations of Sòng niànzhū guīchéng are well known because, more than others, they have been transformed according to Chinese pictorial conventions. Most renowned, however, is a series of circa fifty-six engravings of the illustrated life of Christ entitled Tiānzhǔ jiàngshēng chūxiàng jīngjiě 天主降生出像經解, first published by Giulio Aleni in Jìnjiāng 晉江 (Quánzhōu 泉州) in 1637. Most of these Chinese woodcuts were reproduced after Nadal.9 They adopt fewer Chinese pictorial conventions than Sòng niànzhū guīchéng, but contain all the characteristics that provide the opportunity to pray by using of a visual representation, according to the “composition of the place” as proposed in the Spiritual Exercises 47.10 This “composition of place” is a meditation technique that is essential in the Ignatian meditation. At the start of the first meditation in the Spiritual Exercises, Ignatius advises that one should “see the place” and he calls this the “prelude” or the preliminary “composition.” He describes the process as follows: Here it is to be noted that, in a visible contemplation or meditation—as, for instance, when one contemplates Christ our Lord, who is visible—the composition will be to see with the sight of the imagination the corporeal place where the thing is found which I want to contemplate. I say the corporeal place, as for instance, a temple or mountain where Jesus Christ or Our Lady is found, according to what I want to contemplate. In an invisible contemplation or meditation—as here on the sins—the composition will be to see with the sight of the imagination and consider that my soul is imprisoned in this corruptible body, and all the compound in this valley, as exiled among brute beasts: I say all the compound of soul and body. (Exx. 47)

In their analysis of this passage most commentators have focused their attention on the imaginative gaze (con la vista de la imaginación) in order to warn that one is not involved here in pure imagining or fantasizing but that the aim is to contemplate within oneself something real.11 Few commentators concentrate on the meaning of the actual “composition” and the “place,” and on the how and the wherefore. After all, would it not be much easier when one is praying with Scripture to go straight to the text, without following the roundabout route of composition of place? The problem gets even more complicated when illustrations were added to the meditations, as was the case with Nadal’s work and its Chinese counterpart. Nadal was well aware of the problem that such prints would raise; when making the composition of place it is important to be “present” to what is happening, and for this the person meditating has to picture himself in the scene. In this process, a visual aid, like a painting or a sketch, can be of help. But it can also be an obstacle; it can hinder the imagination that one is present at the scene. This can happen because the picture is simply a (historical) representation of the Gospel scene and lacks all relation to what the person meditating is feeling. Again, the picture may only serve to provoke aesthetic appreciation.

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The engravings that appear in the Annotations and Meditations on the Gospels provide both the opportunity to pray with the use of a visual representation, and the answer to possible problems linked to such contemplation. The solution was found in the composition of the illustration itself. The overall composition of each engraving is so arranged that one is required to make a series of mental moves, and these can lead to “changes of place” that affect one as a person. This is brought about through a distinctive feature of these engravings: the combination of lettering on the print and the text below. Beneath each print there are always a number of “points” that refer to elements in the Gospel narrative. Each point is marked by a letter (and in the Chinese version the traditional jiǎ 甲, yǐ 乙, bǐng 丙, etc.), and these letters can be found in areas of the picture itself. By following the order of these letters in the engraving the person meditating performs a sort of pilgrimage following the route marked in the picture. The person praying always begins by identifying the different elements in the Gospel passage, then takes up a “place” in the middle of the scene, and traverses the different stages in meditation or contemplation. As the person is constantly moving from picture to text, from annotation to meditation, he or she assimilates interiorly the picture and makes it personal ex libera meditatione (through free meditation). This process is not so much “bible-drama,” where one is using a bible scene to allow one’s own psychological and subjective drama to come to the surface. Rather the aim of the composition is to promote a dialogue between two partners: on the one hand the persons involved in the Gospel text, and on the other hand the person contemplating. In this way one can create a space for another, for somebody different from oneself, with whom an encounter becomes possible.12 Though at first sight this method seems to be quite directive, in fact is only directive with regard to the frame: the purpose is to become free so as to enter into an encounter, the result of which is nondirective, nonintentional, and cannot and must not be set in advance. Experience learns that this specific method leads to “inner transformations” or “displacements.” Since such religious pictures as included in Sòng niànzhū guīchéng and Tiānzhǔ jiàngshēng chūxiàng jīngjiě were expected to fix the details of dramatic scenes from the Gospels in Chinese minds, they can be considered as another type of translation of the methods of the Spiritual Exercises. Moreover a detailed analysis of the Chinese versions of the prints, in comparison with contemporary Chinese prints, may well show that in the new composition similar “displacements” as in the European prints take place. As regards the general structure of Tiānzhǔ jiàngshēng chūxiàng jīngjiě, the arrangement of the pictures belongs to the genre of the “harmony of the Gospel” (harmonia evangelica), which is an attempt to organize the material of the four distinct Gospels into a chronological sequence and a consistent narrative text. This was a popular genre in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in Europe. The instructions on the meditations of the “Life of Christ” in the Spiritual Exercises (Exx. 261–312) also follow the same structure. Tiānzhǔ jiàngshēng chūxiàng jīngjiě has often been treated together with Tiānzhǔ jiàngshēng yánxíng jìlüè 天主降生言行紀略 published for the first time in 1635. It, however, is not a translation of Nadal’s commentary, but a similar chronological life of Jesus (“harmony of the Gospel”) based on Vita Jesu Christi e quatuor Evangeliis et scriptoribus orthodoxis concinnata of Ludolphus de Saxonia (+1300–1378).

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First published in 1474, Ludolphus de Saxonia’s Vita Jesu Christi was a very popular text in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. It was published and translated in the main European cities at that time. The work had also a special influence on the Society of Jesus since Ignatius of Loyola was converted to a new lifestyle by reading Vita Christi and his Spiritual Exercises bear its influence, especially with regard to the use of active imagination. That Aleni took Ludolphus de Saxonia’s Vita Jesu Christi as the first work to be translated instead of the Gospels themselves shows how the didactic and spiritual dimension of the Life of Christ was preferred to the historical or liturgical dimension. Tiānzhǔ jiàngshēng yánxíng jìlüè and Tiānzhǔ jiàngshēng chūxiàng jīngjiě thus complement each other. Knowing the mnemonic effect of vivid illustrations, the Jesuit missionaries considered “pictures” an important complement to “words” and therefore used paintings and drawings not only to transmit the story of the life of Christ but also to pray with it in accordance to the instructions of the Spiritual Exercises. The visually oriented contemplation as exemplified by the Ignatian methodology entered in a Chinese context in which such meditation practices were not strange. Junhyoung Michael Shin, for instance, explored the receptive potential of these works in the context of the indigenous Buddhist tradition in China. He argues that Tiānzhǔ jiàngshēng chūxiàng jīngjiě could be eagerly received and fully functional among the Chinese audience since it was already familiar with a similar tradition drawn from the Guān wúliàngshòu jīng 觀無量壽經 (Sutra of the Contemplation of the InfiniteAge Buddha) of so-called Pure Land Buddhism. According to the sutra, the practice of visualizing the Pure Land will absolve one of accumulated sins and enable one to achieve salvation, that is, rebirth in the Pure Land. The method of visualization, also expressed in various paintings, proceeds through sixteen stages. This meditative methodology is very similar to that of Tiānzhǔ jiàngshēng chūxiàng jīngjiě. Just like its European counterpart, the sutra’s detailed descriptions of colorful lakes and streams, jewel trees, beautiful pavilions, with grandiose deities inhabiting them lead the Buddhist practitioner to create in mind a holy space. As with Nadal’s images, the practitioner not only visualizes the holy topography, but enters the visualized Pure Land to be reborn, travel, meet with, and hear from the Buddhas. Shin concludes that the Pure Land meditative methodology predisposed the Chinese audience to be susceptible to Chinese version of the Ignatian visual meditation.13

The Diary of Oral Exhortations《口鐸日抄》 of the Fújiàn community in the 1630s: Practical methods for meditation It is not clear how the pictures were used in practice. Yet, one can get a glimpse from some practices in the Fújiàn 福建 community of the 1630s. The most important source for information about the Fújiàn community is the Kǒuduó rìchāo 口鐸日抄, an extensive record of missionaries’ conversations with converts and interested literati in Fujian selected from the ten-year period of March 13, 1630 to July 4, 1640. More than twenty-five Christians participated in the recording and editing of this work.14 Besides

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theological or moral questions, it also contains exchanges about practical matters such as meditation. On Sunday October 1, 1634 (in Fúzhōu), for instance, the following conversation took place between the Jesuit Bento de Matos 林本篤(1600–51?) and a Chinese convert: [Li] Qixiang said: “I have heard that in [our] Doctrine there is the exercise (gōngfū 工夫) of meditation (mòxiǎng 默想). Please tell me about it in outline.” The master said: “If one does not meditate in the morning the soul lacks its nourishment, for meditation is food for the soul. But during meditation all the Three Faculties—Memory, Understanding and Volition—must be used.” Qixiang asked: “How?” The master said: “First: purifying the faculty of Memory. If Memory is not pure, a chaotic mass of mixed [impressions] enter the brain, and as a result one’s thought will be confused and unsettled. Therefore you must search and select a specially beautiful passage from the Scriptures and store it in your brain [by memorizing it], so that at any time you can take it out and use it to activate the mechanism of Understanding. Second: provisioning the faculty of Understanding. After the mechanism of Understanding has been activated it analyses [that scriptural passage] by analogy and fathoms its hidden meaning. That enables you to assess its intention and to use it as a model for action; thus the emotional [faculty of] Volition is set in motion. Third: deploying the faculty of Volition. Once the true principle has been understood, you enthusiastically move toward it; you may get a feeling of bitter remorse, or give rise to the thought of self-improvement, or take the firm decision [to mend your ways]. You beg the Lord to give you spiritual force, and you practice it with untiring effort. This is just a general outline of meditation. But note that meditation must be aimed at action; without action meditation serves no real purpose.” [李]其香曰：聞教中有默想工夫。請問其畧。 先生曰： 人晨不默想， 則靈性失其養矣。 默想者， 養靈性之糧也。 但默 想工夫，湏用記含，明悟，愛欲，三者為之。 其香曰云：何？ 先生曰： 一， 清記含。 記含不清， 則雜物亂入腦囊。 默想時。 逐有紛思 憶擾之弊。 故必蒐羅經典， 取其精美者， 括諸囊中， 隨所抽而用之， 以啓 明悟之機。 二， 充明悟。 悟機既啓， 則觸類引伸， 洞徹其隠。 因揣其行爲 意義，取為法則，而愛慕之情動矣。三，發愛欲。既悟斯理，逐熱心嚮慕， 或發痛悔之情。 或生遷改之念， 堅定已志。 祈天主賜我神力， 毅然行之。 斯則默想之大畧也。雖然，默想期于行，默而不行，是為無實。15

The method explained in this passage is in accordance with the techniques of the Spiritual Exercises. Gōngfū 工夫 is a more common word referring to the time and effort spent at work or study, and the sustained application to it and therefore it can also signify exercise. The idea of the three faculties of the soul, which are memory, intellect, and will, was in the Christian spiritual literature first exposed by Augustin. In the course of history, it acquired various accents. Ignatius of Loyola got to know it as a method for meditation through the work of Lodolphus de Saxonia. The first

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“meditation” in the first week of the Exercises (Exx. 45 ff.) is entitled “Meditation using the three powers of the soul about the first, second and third sin.” Memory enables a person to bring to awareness the theme of the prayer that is proposed and the images and impressions that one has about the theme. With the intellect one enters into the details of the theme in order to understand it and to discover its message. This entails that one starts to see the connection between what is meditated and one’s own life. This link stimulates the will, which in the Spiritual Exercises is an affective faculty by which one allows oneself to be moved. This method of prayer is a discursive mental prayer especially suited for “beginners” (incipientes) in the purgative way or stage of growth.16 The explicit reference to the method in the Fujian community shows how it was applied to beginners in China as well. Interesting is that Kǒuduó rìchāo also contains information about the way books should be read. The missionaries explain that Christian books, because of their deep meaning, cannot be read cursorily like other books. It is better to select one passage, even one sentence, and to ponder it over and again until one understands it interiorly. The master said: “The meaning of books about the Heavenly Studies is profound and far-reaching. You cannot understand it by glancing and browsing, as you do with other books. Take only a few fascicles a day; appreciate their taste time and again, and do not stop until you have clearly understood them and are able exactly to remember their content.” 先生曰： 天學之書， 義理深長。 非如他書可以涉獵得也。 日取數帙焉， 17 反覆玩味，必使胸中恍然有會，確然能記，而後巳焉。 The master said: “Reading those books is fine, but just glancing through them is useless. Regard them, as a spiritual medicine for the soul: every word, every phrase must be appreciated thoroughly and tasted in every detail.” 先生曰：讀書固佳，但徒涉獵，無益也。惟視爲性命之神薬：將一字一句， 18 必熟玩而詳味之。

It is noteworthy that the words chosen fall within the paradigm of taste (wánwèi 玩味; shúwán ér xiángwèi zhī 熟玩而詳味之). This description corresponds to the Ignatian pedagogical method as described in Spiritual Exercises 2: “For what fills and satisfies the soul consists, not in knowing much, but in our understanding the realities profoundly and in savouring them interiorly.” (Exx. 2) It also corresponds to the “second method of prayer” as defined in Spiritual Exercises 50, a practice that corresponds to the “rumination of words” in the original meaning of “meditation”: The Second Method of Prayer is that the person, kneeling or seated, according to the greater disposition in which he finds himself and as more devotion accompanies him, keeping the eyes closed or fixed on one place, without going wandering with them, says “Father”, and is on the consideration of this word as long as he finds meanings, comparisons, taste and consolation in considerations pertaining to such word. And let him do in the same way on each word of the Our Father, or of any other prayer which he wants to say in this way. (Exx. 50)

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In this way, books become “food for the soul” (língxìng zhī liáng 靈性之糧) or “a spiritual medicine for the soul” (xìngmìng zhī shényào 性命之神藥), two very classical metaphors.19 This way of internalizing a text was also found in China with similar metaphors. Expressions such as “appreciate the taste [of books] (time and again)” ((fǎnfù) wánwèi 反覆玩味), “thoroughly cooked” (shú 熟), “medicine” (yào 藥) applied to reading can literally be found in collections of sayings attributed to famous NeoConfucian scholar Zhū Xī 朱熹 (1130–1200) and other Neo-Confucians scholars.20 The same method is applied to the Scripture readings. In one instance in Kǒuduó rìchāo the missionary explains that reciting prayers and reading books (sòngjīng kànshū 誦經看書) has some benefit as a spiritual exercise, but does not provide the greatest benefit. More important is to contemplate (cúnxiǎng 存想). The method of contemplation is explained in three steps: (1) to memorize the facts (jì qí shì 記其事); (2) to deduce the meaning (yì qí lǐ 繹其理); (3) to disclose the inner feeling (fā qí qíng 發其情). This seems to refer again to the three faculties of memory, intellect, and the will (as affective faculty). Especially the “application of the senses” (to see, hear, smell, taste, and touch) in meditation or contemplation is helpful for stimulating the faculties. (Exx. 65 ff.) The missionary applies this method to the text of Mary’s visit to Elisabeth. He questions seven converts who successively give their interpretation of the text. Here again one can notice the influence of meditation methods as outlined in Ignatius’ Spiritual Exercises. On the fourteenth there was the Rite of Worship [commemorating] the Holy Mother’s visit to Saint Elisabeth. The master told the congregation: “In the exercises of [our] doctrine, some profit is gained by reciting scriptures and reading books, but not very much: the most important is contemplation (cúnxiǎng). However, contemplation comprises three activities: remembering the event, investigating the principles involved, and giving rise to feelings. When these three are present the merit of reflection is complete. Today is the day on which the Holy Mother went to visit Saint Elisabeth. Let me first tell you about the event, and let then each of you investigate its principles and describe his feelings. Saint Elisabeth was a relative of the Holy Mother. When the angel made the annunciation to the Holy Mother, he also reported to her the remarkable news that Saint Elisabeth had become pregnant. (Note: For details see the basic treatise). The Holy Mother’s heart was filled with ardor, and she went hastily to take care of her. It took her three days of traveling in the mountains to reach Elisabeth’s home. She only returned after Saint John had been born. Now as you personally have heard the story, you have not only [as it were] witnessed the event, but also contemplated it. Can you tell me something about it?” 十四日。 為聖母幸聖意撒伯瞻禮。 先生又謂眾曰： 教中工夫， 誦經看書， 固為有益， 然未為大益也。 必也其存想乎。 顧存想有三端： 一記其事， 一 繹其理， 一發其情。 三者備， 而存想之功全矣。 今日聖母往顧聖意撒伯日 也。 請先述其事， 子繹其理， 而發其情可乎。 聖意撒伯者， 聖母之親也。 聖母方領報之時，天神又將聖意撒伯受孕之竒，兼報聖母。（詳見本論。） 聖母因發熱心， 速往顧之， 山行三日， 方至其家， 比聖若翰生， 始返。 子 等親聞斯語，不啻親覩其事，亦有存想。可為余告者否。

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問魯可。 魯可對曰： 聖母貞德可嘉。 故天主選之為母。 天神之報， 以其 貞也。 先生曰： 然。 世之榮福， 孰有大子為天主母者乎。 乃聖母當領報之 時， 尚未敢遽許懼失其貞也。 比天神以天主全能告， 始致成命於主， 斯其 堅貞一念，又非尋常可擬者矣。 問其香。 其香對曰： 聖母諸德咸備， 即今日之事， 標取四德焉， 先生曰 云：何？曰：領報而必矢童貞，貞也。聞意撒伯之孕，而熱心頓發，愛也。 山行跋涉，艱辛不避，勤也。以天主之母而為人服役者三閱月，謙也。是之 謂四德。先生曰：然。之四德者，法其一焉。將終身行而不盡，矧四德之咸 備者乎。（。。。）21

These passages from Kǒuduó rìchāo bring us to the vocabulary used for “meditation.” One term that is often used in Christian texts is mòxiǎng 默想, a term that is until today the most commonly used term in the Chinese Catholic tradition. It is composed of mò 默, meaning silent (also without speaking) or quiet, and xiǎng  想 meaning to reflect or think, with a connotation of desire or imagination. The compound existed before arrival of the missionaries in China, but was not very often used. The term used in the last quotation is cúnxiǎng 存想, here translated as “contemplation” (but it could also be translated as “meditation” or “reflection”). The passage and description is too short to ascertain whether a strict difference is made with mòxiǎng, but it may pinpoint to the difference between “meditation” and “contemplation” in the Spiritual Exercises. Contemplation is the prayer method that is used in the second week of the Exercises, to which Mary’s visit to Elisabeth belongs. In it the visual aspect plays an important role as exemplified by the abovementioned images in Nadal’s work. Contemplation consists in attending to persons, their words, and their actions, largely by use of imagination. In general, contemplation is viewing or gazing and it stimulates reflections and emotions. Since this method leads to reflections it can and often is discursive mental prayer. Ordinarily, however, it is an easier and more affective kind of prayer, especially suitable for the contemplation of the scenes from the Gospels.22 Though “meditation” and “contemplation” are distinguished in the Spiritual Exercises, they sometimes are used as synonyms. This can also be observed in the first translation of the Spiritual Exercises where one finds the terms mòxiǎng 默想 and mòcún 默存,23 which is also a compound that already existed. Electronic databases allow us nowadays to check the frequency of specific compounds. In order to check the Chinese words that were used for the translation of the Catholic meditation, I used the Zhōngguó jīběn gǔjí kù 中國基本古籍庫 (database). In its corpus (which is of course not complete), cúnxiǎng 存想 is the most common compound of the three (ca. twenty-four Internet pages of ca. thirtyfive references each), followed by mòcún 默存 (ca. thirteen pages) and mòxiǎng 默想 (ca. five pages; in each case one should still deduce the case in which it is not used as a compound). One of the earlier references for cúnxiǎng can be found in Wáng Chōng  王充 Lùnhéng 論衡, juàn 22 (Dìngguǐ 訂鬼), where it is stated that guǐ 鬼 “ghosts” do not exist but are “imagined.” The term can frequently be found in Daoist writings, especially in the Dàoshū 道樞 (Pivot of the Way), a large compendium of texts dealing with nèidān 内丹 (inner alchemy) and yǎngshēng 養生 (Nourishing Life) theory and techniques, compiled by the scholar official Zēng Zào 曾慥 (?–1155). The

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work quotes, among others, the passage from eighth-century Tiānyǐnzǐ 天隱子 (Book of the Master of Heavenly Simplicity) (see below). In Lí Jìngdé’s 黎靖德 (Song) Zhūzǐ yǔlèi 朱子語類 (1270), which is a systematic compilation of sayings and comments by Zhū Xī, cúnxiǎng is also associated with the Daoist tradition. In the same work, mòcún and mòxiǎng occur in contexts that are not related to religious meditative practices (e.g., in the case of Yánzǐ who in the age of distress did not allow his joy to be affected by it [Yánzǐ bù gǎi qí lè 顏子不改其樂; Mencius 4, B, 29], but “kept it silently in his heart” mòcún yú xīn 默存於心),24 while in Dàoshū these terms again refer to Daoist techniques. One of the earliest references to mòcún appears in the Lièzǐ 列子, Chapter 3 (Zhōu Mùwáng 周穆王- King Mù of Zhōu) in the context of an imaginary travel in the cosmos. One may also point that other terms for silent visualization (such as mòguān 默觀 and mòzhào 默照), sometimes associated with Buddhism, seem rarely to be used in the Christian texts. It appears that the early Chinese translators of the “visual meditation” as practiced in the spiritual exercises used a vocabulary that is identical or close to the Daoist vocabulary of “visual meditation.” As pointed out by Livia Kohn, visualization is the dominant mode of meditation in the Daoist tradition.25 The practice came to the forefront in the fourth-century school of Highest Clarity (Shàngqīng 上清), whose followers added the ingestion of cosmic potencies, envisioned personal—even sexual— interaction with deities, and engaged in ecstatic travels to the stars and paradises of the immortals. The term for visualization in Daoism is cún 存, a verb that basically means “to be,” “to be present,” or “to exist,” and is here used in its causative mode: “to cause to exist” or “to make present.” It thus means that the meditator by an act of focused intention causes certain energies to be present in the body or makes specific deities or scriptures appear before his mental eye. For this reason, some translators prefer to use “actualize” or “actualization” to render the term. Kohn further points out that aside from its single usage, the word cún also occurs in the combination cúnxiǎng 存想, “visualization and imagination.” The eighth-century Tiānyǐnzǐ 天隱子 (Book of the Master of Heavenly Simplicity) defines it as follows: Visualization (cún) means producing a vision of one’s spirit; imagination (xiǎng) is to create an image of one’s body. How is this accomplished? By closing one’s eyes one can see one’s own eyes. By gathering in one’s mind one can realize one’s own mind. Mind and eyes should never be separate from one’s body and should never harm one’s spirit(s): this is done by visualization and imagination.26 存謂： 存我之神； 想謂： 想我之深。 閉目即見自己之目； 收心即見自己之 心。心與目皆不離我身，不傷我神，則存想之漸也。

This method appears to be different from those seeking at “emptying the mind” or “absorption” (chánnà 禪那, Sanskrit dhyāna),27 as in Buddhist meditation, or of “purifying the mind” and “returning to one’s basic nature,” as in Confucian “quiet-sitting” (jìngzuò 靜坐).28 In the Daoist tradition, cún means “the creation of an intentional inner vision of the spirit energy in the body, combined with that of xiǎng which allows one to also see one’s bodily presence and thus attain longevity both physically and spiritually.”29 The Daoist tradition also incorporates concentrative meditation,

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which involves focusing the mind on a single object with the goal of attaining onepointedness. In the course of history (from Tang to Song) there seems to have been a shift in emphasis from visualization to concentration methods. Unfortunately little has been published on the predominant techniques in the late Ming. Despite the differences, several of these, mainly Daoist, practices are similar to the ones proposed in the Spiritual Exercises: the practitioner uses visualization and imagination to create a space in which an encounter can take place. The meditator concentrates on a particular scriptural phrase or passage, and uses it as a theme for transformation through self-examination and moral action.30

Conclusion This contribution focused on one European practice of visual meditation that was introduced into China. Although there are differences between the Buddhist, Daoist, and Ignatian visualization and imagination methods, the reproduction of images and the choice of words made by the Chinese Christians and missionaries to translate the Ignatian method shows that it entered into a context in which similar visual meditation practices already existed. This may partly explain why the Ignatian method was also appropriated in China. This early example of transfer of one meditation practice into another culture may also throw a new light on the present-day intercultural exchanges of meditation practices. This is not an “Eastern” tradition entering a “Western” context, but a “Western” tradition being accepted in an “Eastern” context. It shows that despite the respective differences, there are many similarities which put into question the sharp demarcation that sometimes exist between “East” and “West” in the present-day definitions of “meditation.”

4

Modern Meditation in the Context of Science Øyvind Ellingsen and Are Holen

Traditionally, meditation techniques were mainly a way to explore “the inner world.” Their effects were often described through subjective reports of specific “meditation states” that were distinctive from “usual” mental functioning, and the experiences during practice were often interpreted in the context of religious or philosophical ideas of the ultimate subjective nature of existence.1 When the physiological effects of meditation were identified in the 1970s and 1980s, the perspective changed completely. Herbert Benson described meditation as a particularly effective way of inducing an adaptive physiological response pattern that protects the organism from the negative consequences of stress, and coined it the Relaxation Response.2 Thereafter, the prevailing concept of meditation practices in biology and medicine has been a family of mental techniques that reduce physiological and psychological stress. Consequently, the biomedical description of meditation has mainly focused on the volitional and technical aspects of the meditation process and not so much on its experiential aspects and its spontaneously occurring mental activities.3

Exploring “the inner world” In recent decades, functional imaging of the brain has provided novel insights into the processes that underpin mental functions, thus clarifying how the mind and the body interact in health and disease. Yet our understanding of how meditation induces relaxation and alleviates symptoms of stress, anxiety, and depression has large gaps. Many investigators believe that insufficient research methods represent a major limitation. It has recently been suggested that further progress in the use of meditation in medicine and psychiatry requires more detailed description of the mental activities during practice and their experiential aspects.4 Even though the meditation object may have a sensory origin—an auditory stimulus, a physical image, an aspect of breathing, or some other body sensation—it is primarily a vehicle to focus internal processes of the mind in a specific way, which can be described either as a state of silent observation, focused attention, heightened awareness of the shifting thoughts and emotions, or a free mental attitude.5 An extensive review of traditional and contemporary meditation

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practices describes the typical features of a wide range of techniques by investigating the dimensions of focus and mode of attention.6 In the present chapter we will discuss some modes of attention and their inherent attitude toward self-referential processes like mind wandering and other spontaneously occurring meditation experiences. As examples will be used two main types of meditative practices that have been investigated and described in some detail in biomedical scientific studies: mindfulness and nondirective meditation.

Describing meditation “from the outside” Like many other psychological phenomena, meditation may be described “from the outside,” in terms of a biomedical perspective. Some results of meditation practice, such as relaxation, stress reduction, and better health, involve physiological changes that can be detected by objective measurements. Characteristic responses in heart rate, breathing, electric brain waves, and skin conductance indicate the level of physiological relaxation during the practice.7 Blood pressure measurements, stress hormone assays, and standardized questionnaires indicate the degree of stress reduction in everyday life. These methods can be used to evaluate potential clinical effects of meditation over time, linking results to what is known about the underlying mechanisms leading to health and wellness in general.8

Functional brain imaging Measuring the electrical and metabolic activity of the brain provides a fascinating tool to understand the physiological underpinnings of mental behavior. Identifying which parts of the brain are activated during meditation provides insight into the neural networks involved in mental processing of episodic and emotional memories. The objective measurements of neuroimaging of a specific practice may never capture the phenomenological richness, content, and personal significance of “the inner world,” but they may substantially improve our understanding of the mental processes underlying the subjective experiences during meditation.9

The role of context Most meditation techniques applied in medicine do not require any special system of belief in order to work. However, the specific context in which they are taught, practiced, and interpreted may significantly affect the meditation experiences and their effects. For some, meditating within a spiritual, religious, or philosophical context can provide inspiration and a deeper personal meaning of the practice; for others, a more neutral empirical scientific context can be a strong source of trust and motivation.

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Confidence in biomedical science The results of modern medicine are powerful. Despite its shortcomings, the success of rigorous methods comprises a context that induces hope and motivation. Detailed insight into how the body works has empowered the health professions to cure disease and maintain good health more effectively. Scientific research on meditation reveals interesting features of brain function and helps us understand the similarities and differences of various practices. The strict methodology of carefully controlled experiments sometimes challenges popular beliefs of how meditation works in terms of health and wellness. Functional imaging studies reveal interesting features of brain function and help us understand the similarities and differences between the practices. Randomized controlled clinical trials put stress reduction programs and psychological therapies to rigorous tests. They question whether meditation improves psychological and other health manifestations beyond the general effects of expectation, positive claims, and the motivation provided by a supportive social environment. Systematic reviews and meta-analyses of available studies evaluate whether the quality and extent of the accumulated scientific evidence is strong enough to justify recommendations of meditation for specific clinical conditions.10

Mindfulness and cognitive therapy What are the effects of meditation and what are the results of a context with several auxiliary components?—This question is particularly relevant for some of the mindfulness practices that are used in combination with other active interventions. For example, training programs in Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) and Mindfulness-Based Cognitive Therapy (MBCT) often include one or more activities with the common goal of enhancing the awareness of present moment experiences. Some of the components are formal meditation practices inspired by Buddhist traditions, such as sitting meditations with focused attention on the breath or other body sensations. Others combine awareness with movement in meditative walking and yoga-like stretching exercises. The standard MBSR and MBCT programs also include interventions from cognitive behavior therapy with self-observation and intervention in selected everyday life activities.11 In contrast, some mindfulness programs are interventions with a single technique from Vipassana, Zen, or similar traditions. A meta-analysis of thirty-nine studies on mindfulness meditation treatment indicated significant differences in the outcomes of MBSR programs and “pure” meditation.12 For participants without a specific clinical diagnosis, the MBSR programs seemed to have their largest effect on psychological well-being, whereas pure meditation interventions attained highest on questionnaire-based assessment of mindfulness. According to the authors, “This raises the question if some effect sizes found for MBSR might be partly inflated by effects that are not attributable to its mindfulness meditation component.” Another meta-analysis of 209 studies including patients with various physical and psychological disorders as well as participants

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without any clinical diagnosis found that mindfulness-based therapies were effective for several psychological problems, but not more than traditional cognitive therapy or behavioral therapy.13 A limitation of such meta-analyses is that they are based on individual studies with substantial variation in size, design, and quality. Nevertheless, their results support the notion that some of the mindfulness-based practices are complex interventions where context and auxiliary activities may play significant roles for the outcomes. In general, these considerations emphasize the importance of detailed description of meditation programs, including the background of the participants, the context of the practice, and the meditation technique.

Operational definition of meditation techniques What are the core characteristics of meditation?—In biomedical science, the challenge of answering this question is twofold. First, the definition should include a diverse family of practices and distinguish them from similar activities, that is, techniques that primarily involve muscular relaxation, breathing exercises, self-hypnosis, visual imagery, and mental reflection.14 There would certainly be gray zones, since psychological and behavioral concepts often accentuate dimensions that partly overlap and that are not always mutually exclusive. The second issue derives from the intrinsic nature of meditation. Some meditative experiences are frequently considered beyond words and are defined in terms of negation: non-intentional, nonintellectual, nonverbal, non-semantic, etc. In order to address the topic, a group from São Paulo, Brazil, developed an operational definition of meditation, to be used across a broad range of practices that are in use within health-related contexts.15 They proposed: In order to be characterized as meditation, the procedure should encompass the following requirements: (1) the use of a specific technique (clearly defined), (2) muscle relaxation in some moment of the process and (3) “logic relaxation”, (4)  it must necessarily be a self-induced state, and (5) use a “self-focus” skill (coined anchor).

These criteria have been extended and evaluated by a cross-disciplinary NorthAmerican expert panel affiliated with the University of Alberta Evidence-based Practice Center in Edmonton. The panel was commissioned by the Agency for Healthcare Research and Quality, U.S. Department of Health and Human Services and performed one of the most extensive in-depth endeavors of definition, classification, and evaluation of meditation techniques to date.16 After a five-round Delphi-type consensus study, the Edmonton panel agreed: A meditation practice (1) uses a defined technique, (2) involves logic relaxation, and (3) involves a self-induced state/mode. These criteria were considered essential. Participants (of the expert panel) also agreed that a meditation practice may (1) involve a state of psychophysiological relaxation somewhere in the process; (2) use a self-focus skill or anchor; (3) involve an altered state/mode of consciousness, mystic experience, enlightenment or suspension of thought

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Meditation and Culture processes; (4) be embedded in a religious/spiritual/philosophical context; or (5) involve an experience of mental silence. After round four, participants did not reach consensus on whether bringing about mental calmness and physical relaxation by suspending the stream of thoughts would be essential or important to define an intervention as meditation.17

Using these criteria, the expert panel excluded nine out of forty-one current practices (e.g., progressive muscle relaxation, autogenic training, Silva method, imagery, and visualization), whereas thirty-two were considered to be within the definition. Since meditation is generally a broader concept, and not only a technical term to define practices within the context of health care, some of the advantages and limitations of the definitions are discussed below.

Logic relaxation—a non-intellectual, non-intentional activity Perhaps the most generic and overarching characteristic of meditation is its nonintellectual and non-intentional nature. The term logic relaxation was coined by Craven (1989)18 and according to Cardoso et al. (2004) involves: (a) Not “to intend” to analyze (not trying to explain) the possible psychophysical effects; (b) Not “to intend” to judge (good, bad, right, wrong) the possible results; (c) Not “to intend” to create any type of expectation regarding the process.19

In many forms of meditation, logic relaxation implies that the practitioner refrains from actively engaging in intellectual, verbal, and semantic activities, thereby opening up for spontaneous, nonverbal, nonintellectual, and non-semantic processes and experiences. For most practices, this also implies not being goal oriented, that is not trying to create specific states or feelings—not even relaxation or calm. Meditation is rather about being with the present experiences as they emerge from moment to moment, here and now. Thus, the term logic relaxation describes a central generic element of meditation in general, including naturalistic meditation and other spontaneous “meditative” experiences. It is not limited to the use of a specific technique or a special context.

A self-administered technique—specific mental behavior In contrast to the concept of logic relaxation, which also applies to spontaneous and naturalistic experiences, the term meditation technique refers to a self-administered, specific mental behavior. This criterion emphasizes that meditation is often more correctly described as a process where the attention shifts between the meditation object and spontaneously occurring thought, or as a state of calm which is induced by performing the technique, and which is intermittently interrupted by mind

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wandering. The instructions of the meditation technique describe in some detail how the practitioner is supposed to focus his attention on the meditation object, and how he is going to handle the challenge of spontaneously occurring thoughts, images, bodily sensations, and emotions.20

Recorded instructions Recorded meditation instructions are frequently used to establish an effective meditation practice, and may in fact comprise a major part of the practice for some beginners. In guided meditations, the technique is performed in response to a sequence of oral instructions, either given “live” in class by the teacher, or by listening to a recording. A plethora of guided meditation instructions are available as digital audio files. These are sometimes used for self-study and frequently as supporting material to live courses. Recorded instructions comprise an essential part of mindfulness-based stress reduction and cognitive therapy programs, constituting the basis for beginners’ home practice. Guided meditations can help the beginner to focus on the meditation object by reminding him to redirect the attention whenever the mind is wandering. This may support effective practice during epochs of drowsiness or restlessness. Recorded instructions can also be handy when introducing new elements in a sequence, for example, extending the awareness from focused attention to open monitoring, or exploring body sensations associated with recurring thoughts or emotional experiences. In class, the experienced instructor can respond to subtle body movements, changes in posture and breathing pattern. At home, the reassuring voice of a teacher can sustain correct performance of the method by embodying awareness and acceptance. Thus, guided meditations can be a bridge from dependence on the instructor to selfadministered, independent practice.

Spontaneous mental activity in meditation Spontaneous mental activity is a naturally occurring, but often neglected element of any type of meditation practice.21 It comprises an important and perhaps undervalued part of the meditation experience. Occupying a significant part of time and awareness, it is definitely part of the “inner environment” that the meditation behavior explicitly or implicitly relates to, even though it is not necessarily embedded in the mental technique. As detailed later in this chapter, the relationship between volitional behavior and spontaneous experiences is a core characteristic of several meditation techniques. It can be used to operationally define different modes of attention (e.g., focused attention, open monitoring, and nondirective meditation). As described by Eifring and Holen, the mode of attention is an important dimension that can distinguish between otherwise apparently similar practices.22 Recent evidence suggests that differences in mode of attention, including attitude toward mind wandering, may explain diverging patterns of brain activation during meditation. It

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is therefore necessary to briefly review some aspects of the spontaneously occurring inner experiences.

Mind wandering and self-referential processes In everyday life, the “stream of thoughts”—also known as mind wandering, daydreaming or stimulus-independent thought—comprises 30–50 percent of mental content.23 When the brain is not occupied with processing of sensory input or executing other specific tasks, the attention spontaneously shifts between more or less meaningful images, voices, associations, reflections, sensations, and emotions— sometimes arising and passing almost unrecognizably in the background, sometimes competing for attention in the foreground. This activity is often called self-referential processes, since they include self-awareness, self-reflection, future planning, and decision making about one’s current personal life.24 A study of stimulus-independent thought indicates that these functions involve activation of a specific set of executive and associative brain networks. These networks are often collectively called the default mode network because its activity is higher during rest (which is considered to be the default wakeful state).25 It is also called the intrinsic system because it is mainly occupied with introspection and other internal tasks.26 Many researchers speculate that the activity of this network provides a sense of continuity to the self-perception of the individual by connecting the present to past experiences and expectations about the future. In general, the self-referential activity could serve adaptive functions, using previous experiences as building blocks for mental simulations to better envision and understand personal relationships and to plan for the future.27 Some of the self-referential components of the spontaneous mental activity include self-critical, negative voices, and unhappiness has been associated with a slightly more marked presence wandering.28 It is not clear whether unhappy moods are associated with mind wandering per se, or if unhappy spontaneous thoughts are more easily recognized and reported. Ruminative thinking associated with major depression is often portrayed as a spiral of excessively negative spontaneous thoughts sustained by the same neural networks as the mind wandering.29

Different perspectives on mind wandering In meditation, perspectives on mind wandering and other spontaneous mental processes vary. As already noted, the participants of the Edmonton panel “did not reach consensus on whether bringing about mental calmness and physical relaxation by suspending the stream of thoughts would be essential or important to define an intervention as meditation.”30 This stance probably reflects the fact that perceptions regarding the role of mind wandering vary between different types of meditation, and perhaps also between apparently similar practices. Many mindfulness practices and other Buddhist-inspired techniques consider mind wandering a distraction that

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may lead away from here and now and into pathological rumination, anxiety, and depression.31 In contrast, the tradition of non-dual awareness explicitly accepts mind wandering as an integral part of meditation. It considers the self-referential activity an important part of our authentic being and a source of self-discovery, “as our minds wander from unconscious and preconscious, to fully conscious”32: When the mind is allowed to be free, its spontaneous activity reveals two aspects: the arising and passing thoughts and other mental contents, and the background non-dual awareness—an open, awake cognizance that precedes conceptualization and intention . . .33

This tradition questions whether an ongoing suppression of self-related aspects of experience and the intentional attenuation of activity of the intrinsic network (that sustains the self-referential activity) is always a healthy long-term strategy.34

A core element Accepting mind wandering while practicing is a core element in some of the most prevalent nondirective meditation practices, including the Relaxation Response, Transcendental Meditation, Clinically Standardized Meditation, and Acem Meditation.35 It has been proposed that types of meditation that allow spontaneous thoughts, images, and sensations to emerge and pass freely without actively controlling or pursuing them over time may reduce stress by increasing awareness and acceptance of emotionally charged experiences.36 This notion concurs with recent articles suggesting that the neural networks that sustain self-referential activity may serve introspective and adaptive functions beyond rumination and daydreaming.37 It is therefore important to describe how current types of meditation techniques relate to spontaneously occurring mental activity in order to detect whether techniques with different modes of attention have distinctive patterns of brain activation.

Mode of attention The mode of attention is probably one of the most characteristic generic elements of a meditation technique. It defines how the attention is directed toward the meditation object; whether it is narrowly focused on a single stimulus or open to the entire field of experiences, and how it relates to mind wandering, thoughts, memories, sensations, emotions, and other spontaneous mental activities.38 For example, there are significant differences from one technique to another regarding the attitude toward spontaneous thought and how it is integrated with focusing on the meditation object. As already mentioned, such diversities can be used in operational definitions of distinctive modes of attention.

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Concentrative meditation In concentrative meditation, the practitioner attempts to maintain a narrow focus of attention on the meditation object and tries to exclude spontaneously occurring thoughts, which are perceived as distractions and disturbances that should be avoided. A common goal of many traditional methods is to empty the mind of thoughts or to enter a specific state of stillness or serenity. A characteristic example is “thoughtless awareness,” a practice based on Sahaja yoga that describes itself as a noncommercial “classical” understanding of meditation39: The mental silence experience is attainable in several different ways, all of which converge on the central principle that when the attention is focused on the experience of the absolute present moment, rather than events of the past or future (even the most recent past or imminent future), thinking activity ceases despite remaining fully alert and in control of one’s faculties. At first, this cessation of mental activity is short lived but with practice it can be drawn out into a continuous, enjoyable, experience which meditators consistently describe as peaceful and stress-free.

In this and many other traditional concentrative meditation techniques, the practitioners are taught to stop mind wandering, or at least to minimize or avoid it as much as possible by focusing on the breath or another body sensation, a mantra, a visual stimulus, or another suitable meditation object. These techniques may also involve special body postures and controlled breathing patterns in order to avoid mind wandering and drowsiness. The concentrative mode of attention cultivates acuity and maintenance of awareness by focusing exclusively on the meditation object. Other experiences are seen as unwanted distractions that should be avoided. Concentrative techniques often involve some effort, particularly in the early phases of the practice. Over time, experience and training reportedly reduces the effort.

Nondirective meditation In contrast to concentrative techniques, nondirective meditation accepts spontaneously occurring thought as an intrinsic part of meditation. The practitioner cultivates a relaxed, wide-angle field of attention, which permits any spontaneous experience to emerge, stay, and pass, without actively engaging in its content. The meditation object is typically a short sequence of syllables, which may either be a traditional mantra or a non-semantic meditation sound. As previously mentioned, accepting mind wandering is a core element in the Relaxation Response, Transcendental Meditation, Clinically Standardized Meditation, and Acem Meditation.40 Attention is effortless, shifting between the meditation sound and the spontaneously occurring thoughts. Since Acem Meditation has recently been described in the scientific literature,41 its basic instruction can serve as an example of nondirective meditation. Silently repeat your meditation sound, and let your attention rest with it, without any effort or concentration. Whenever you become aware that your

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attention has wandered to something else, gently return to the sound and its silent repetition.

The common feature of the aforementioned techniques is a nondirective mode of attention that involves gentle, effortless focusing on the meditation object, explicitly allowing spontaneously occurring thoughts, images, sensations, memories, and emotions to arise and pass freely—without any expectation that mind wandering should abate, and without actively trying to create a specific state or feeling.42 Some aspects of nondirective meditation resemble the main modes of attention in mindfulness techniques, but as described below, the relationship with mind wandering and other spontaneous experiences is distinctly different.

Mindfulness meditation Mindfulness meditation techniques and many contemporary methods originating from Buddhism, including those of Vipassana, have explicit instructions on how to relate to mind wandering, including two modes of attention: focused attention and open monitoring.43 The main purpose of these practices is to increase the awareness of the experiences of the present, and to avoid meandering into memories of the past and fantasies about the future.

Focused attention In focused attention, awareness is directed toward the breath in a mode much similar to concentration, as described in recent scientific publications44: Gently engage in sustaining the focus of your attention on breath sensations, such as at the nostrils, noticing with acceptance and tolerance any arising distraction, as toward stimuli or thoughts, and return gently to focus attention on the breath sensations after having noticed the distraction source.45 Please pay attention to the physical sensation of the breath wherever you feel it most strongly in the body. Follow the natural and spontaneous movement of the breath, not trying to change it in any way. Just pay attention to it. If you find that your attention has wandered to something else, gently but firmly bring it back to the physical sensation of the breath.46

Similar cognitive cycle At face value, these descriptions have significant resemblance with nondirective meditation, except that the meditation sound (or mantra) has been exchanged with the breath as meditation object. Besides, the meditation process comprises a similar repeating sequence of at least four easily recognizable volitional and spontaneous mental activities that follow a similar sequential pattern: (1) volitional attention on the

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meditation object (breath or meditation sound), (2) mind wandering (spontaneous), (3) awareness of mind wandering (spontaneous), and (4) volitional shifting back to the meditation object.47

Mind wandering as distraction In mindfulness meditation, the attitude toward mind wandering is opposite that of nondirective meditation. Focused attention considers mind wandering as an inevitable distraction, whose presence should be detected and neutralized. In nondirective meditation techniques, the self-referential activity is recognized as part of releasing tension and emotional processing of stressful events. These perceptions comprise an important part of the context in which the different meditation techniques are learned and practiced. Basic instruction, discussion of the meditation, and other guidance of the practices are likely to form the expectations of how the “normal” experience and “correct” performance should be. Such expectations will probably influence the way the methods are practiced beyond the explicit description of the technique when spontaneously occurring thought emerge in meditation. Focused attention relates more or less directly to mind wandering as an object by becoming aware of its content and potentially identifying its source in order to actively let go of it, whereas nondirective meditation accepts the presence of self-referential material without actively pursuing it or turning away from it.

Open monitoring Open monitoring is often described as a more advanced state of being in the present than focused attention. It builds on the ability to maintain a monitoring awareness without actively choosing a particular focus of attention. In open monitoring, the “effortful” selection or “grasping” of the meditation object or avoidance of mind wandering is replaced by “effortless” awareness without explicit selection.48 This is sometimes called choiceless awareness.49 Scientific literature has two reasonably recent verbatim descriptions of how experienced meditators are reminded to perform in this mode of attention.50 Observe and recognize any experiential or mental content as it arises from moment to moment, without restrictions and judgment, including breath and body sensations, percepts of external stimuli, arising thoughts and feelings.51 Please pay attention to whatever comes into your awareness, whether it is a thought, emotion or a body sensation. Just follow it until something else comes into your awareness, not trying to hold onto it or change it in any way. When something else comes into your awareness, just pay attention to it until the next thing comes along.52

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If these instructions are reasonably accurate regarding the mental behavior of experienced meditators and inexperienced control participants, then the mode of attention defined as open monitoring could be described as a partly detached wide-angle awareness of the stream of spontaneously occurring mental experiences including the self-referential activity. One of the intriguing questions regarding open monitoring is how this mode of attention affects the extent of mind wandering and the activation of the default mode network, and whether it is more similar to focused attention or nondirective meditation. Some studies suggest that both modes of attention involved in mindfulness (focused attention and open monitoring) reduce self-referential activity and activation of the intrinsic (default mode) network, whereas the opposite occurs with nondirective meditation.53

Biomedical classification Why and how should we classify meditation techniques?—The underlying notion is that similar techniques exert their effects by the same behavioral and biomedical mechanisms and yield the same clinical results in everyday life, whereas different methods might have only partly overlapping or even mutually exclusive profiles. If this is true, then appropriate classification should be a helpful tool to assess how far experiences and results with one technique can be generalized to another. It would also perhaps explain some of the large variation and the discrepancies in outcomes and results of meditation reported in scientific studies.54 Previous parts of this chapter have discussed how meditation techniques can be characterized according to the mode of attention applied in the practice. The final sections briefly summarize some of the original and recent endeavors to characterize and classify the meditation practices and to evaluate some of the basic psychological and clinical outcomes by current biomedical scientific methodology.

Classification by mode of attention Since meditation involves specific modes of attention, Davidson and Goleman originally proposed that practices could be classified as either mindfulness or concentrative.55 By definition, mindfulness meditation would allow any thoughts, feeling, or sensations to emerge in an accepting, nonjudgmental awareness. Examples of mindfulness meditation would be Zen, Vipassana, and some of the formal exercises in MBSR and MBCT. In contrast, concentrative techniques would focus on a specific mental or sensory activity: a repeated sound, a physical or mental visual image, breathing or another bodily sensation. Examples of concentrative meditation would be some forms of mantra meditation and various Yoga breathing exercises. In 2008, Lutz and colleagues56 introduced the terms focused attention and open monitoring in order to describe two main groups of practices related to mindfulness and Buddhist

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traditions, and this terminology has been widely adopted in current scientific meditation research. Although these concepts may be useful within their own context, the terms have some limitations when used as a universal system. Several researchers have maintained that the mode of attention in several forms of mantra meditation (including Transcendental Meditation, Relaxation Response, Clinically Standardized Meditation, and Acem Meditation) differ distinctly from focused attention and open monitoring, and that they therefore should be classified differently.57 In 2010, Travis and colleagues proposed that Transcendental Meditation should be characterized as an “automatic self-transcending” practice according to its characteristic pattern of alpha EEG electrical brain waves, but this terminology is not much used by other researchers.58 The main reasons are probably the inherent problems with labels that allude to transcendental and automatic states of mind, the uncertainty regarding the accuracy of EEG as the only reference method, and the peculiarity that the category apparently only applies to Transcendental Meditation.59 We have therefore proposed that the mantra techniques mentioned above could be classified as nondirective meditation, since they are practiced with a nondirective mode of attention.60 As already mentioned, these techniques have in common that they increase the activation of the default mode network, which is often used as a biomedical marker of spontaneous selfreferential mental activity.61

Dimensions for describing meditation practices A practical problem with many research reports on meditation is that the descriptions of the practices in generic, behavioral terms are rarely sufficiently detailed.62 It is therefore important to identify dimensions or characteristics that describe and distinguish between methods. As part of their extensive review of meditation practices applied for health, the Edmonton panel conducted a systematic search of biomedical research databases.63 They identified meditation practices that were described in sufficient detail to review specific features that characterize meditation techniques. These components included:

1. Specific body postures (e.g., sitting, kneeling, lying, or moving like in Yoga, Tai Chi, and Qi Gong)

2. Breathing pattern (either “active,” i.e., volitional, conscious control of the sequence of inhalation and exhalation, or “passive,” i.e., spontaneous, “natural” breathing with no volitional attempt to control the process) 3. Mantra (i.e., repetition of a sound, word, or phrase) 4. Relaxation (reduced arousal or psychophysical relaxation would be an expected result, whereas intentional attempts to relax muscles would distinguish between meditation and relaxation techniques) 5. Attention and its object, including different types of meditation objects (e.g., an auditory stimulus, a physical image, an aspect of breathing, some other body

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sensation, body movements, etc.) and the mode of attention (concentrative, mindfulness) 6. Spirituality and belief (concepts and other environmental factors that may influence the motivation and interpretation of the practice) 7. Training 8. Criteria of successful practice

Pragmatic classification The researchers found the variety of meditation practices too diverse to select components that were universal for all techniques and described them in five broad categories: (1) Mantra Meditation (comprising Transcendental Meditation, Relaxation Response, Clinically Standardized Meditation, and Acem Meditation) which is a relatively uniform group of practices that all have silent repetition of an auditory stimulus as the meditation object, and that emphasize a nondirective mode of attention which includes spontaneous thought as an integral part of the process, (2) Mindfulness meditation (comprising Vipassana, Zen Buddhist Meditation, MBSR, and MBCT) which includes a variety of practices with the common goal of cultivating an objective openness to whatever comes into awareness, and which seems to include both nondirective and concentrative modes of attention, or maybe something in between, (3) Yoga (comprising a diversity of body postures, breathing exercises, and meditation techniques, for attaining certain psychological states) which includes mostly concentrative practices, (4) Tai Chi (comprising body postures and slow movements) which emphasizes flexibility, relaxation, and awareness of the moment, (5) Qi Gong (comprising movement, breathing, and exercises aimed to direct energy flow in the body) which includes visualization and concentration.64

Clinical effects Do differences in mode of attention and brain activation translate into differences in clinical outcomes?—In a biomedical, scientific perspective the correct answer is: “We do not know.” According to two recent meta-analyses, Transcendental Meditation modestly lowers blood pressure and mindfulness meditation programs have a moderate effect on anxiety, depression, and chronic pain.65 This does not necessarily mean that these are the only outcomes, or that similar or other methods are ineffective. But it means that this is the status of evidence according to the strict standards of clinical research.66 Although there are several “pilot” studies showing promising results, the main shortcoming of many clinical studies of meditation is that they are too small and too few to ascertain or disprove positive effects to a degree that mandates a strong recommendation of meditation as a standard treatment for patients with certain clinical diagnoses. Detecting differences between two or more

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interventions is an even more demanding task. If both interventions have some effect, it would require much higher numbers of study participants to detect modest differences between them than just establishing a positive clinical outcome compared to a neutral control group.

Future directions At present, no further consensus has been reached regarding the classification of meditation techniques in biomedical or psychological sciences. However, there has been a general agreement for several years that more detailed descriptions of the participants, the meditation techniques, and the context in which they are practiced are needed for the field to progress. A recent review of the methodology of meditation research concluded that future studies should more carefully describe the content and context of the practices including the following characteristics: Place—cultural setting, theory, beliefs, expectations, experimental setting, and instructions in laboratory; Person—demography, antropomorphy (height, weight, age, sex, etc.), lifestyle habits, training, age at start of practice, general health measures; Practice—origin, tradition, details of performance; Phenomenology—expectation and evaluation of experiences, systematic subjective measures; Psychophysiology—heart rate characteristics, EEG, functional brain imaging.67 The article specifically emphasized that the instructions of the technique should be explained in common psychological terms, rather than in traditional concepts, and proposed elements for a standardized reporting format. Another recent hypothesis and theory article proposed a detailed list of nine descriptors for classification and sub-classification of meditation techniques that included many of the same items and proposed three main categories of practices: cognitive, affective, and neutral.68 These approaches are likely to improve the quality of biomedical and psychological meditation, especially if a shift to more detailed generic descriptions of the various practices is achieved.

Summary and conclusion There is currently no generally agreed consensus on how to classify meditation techniques used for health purposes based on standard biomedical criteria. A prevailing working hypothesis over many years has been that the mode of attention embedded in the technique is a useful dimension to distinguish between otherwise apparently similar practices. The present chapter details how self-referential processes like mind wandering comprise a significant part of meditation. It also describes how the attitude toward thoughts, images, sensations, memories, emotions, and other spontaneously occurring experiences during practice can be utilized to operationally define some of the main modes of attention in meditation: (1) focused attention with varying degrees of concentration on the breath or another meditation object; (2) open monitoring with an enhanced awareness of the shifting flow of experiences; (3) nondirective meditation with a wider and more relaxed field of awareness, usually by effortless awareness of

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a meditation sound (mantra) and at the same time explicitly accepting the stream of experiences as part of the process. Interestingly, this classification is associated with differences in brain activities. Recent evidence from functional brain imaging studies during meditation supports the notion that nondirective meditation facilitates self-referential mental processes and increases activation of the default mode brain network, whereas mindfulness meditation techniques (focused attention and open monitoring) have opposite effects.

Section Two

Competing Practices While one and the same meditative culture may encompass several different meditation techniques in peaceful coexistence, competition between different practices is just as common. This often reflects doctrinal disagreements, as in early Chán mindfulness vs. mindlessness and Neo-Confucian reverence vs. quietude. In a later development within Chán, what on the surface looks like the simultaneous espousal of various methods turns out to include attempts to remodel several practices according to a single mold, in effect virtually eliminating the differences between them.

5

Mindfulness and Mindlessness in Early Chán Robert H. Sharf

The Chán tradition is renowned as the “meditation” school of East Asia.1 Indeed, the Chinese term chán 禪 (Japanese: zen) is an abbreviated transliteration of dhyāna, the Sanskrit term arguably closest to the modern English word “meditation.” Scholars typically date the emergence of this tradition to the early Tang dynasty (618–907), although Chán did not reach institutional maturity until the Song period (960–1279). In time, Chinese Chán spread throughout East Asia, giving birth to the various Zen, Sŏn, and Thiền lineages of Japan, Korea, and Vietnam, respectively. Today these traditions continue to promote, at least in theory, meditation practices, and these have been the subject of considerable scholarly interest.2 It may then come as a surprise to learn just how little is known about the meditation techniques associated with the “founders” of this tradition—the masters associated with the nascent (or proto-) Chán lineages of the seventh and eighth centuries. It was during this fertile period—which, following scholarly convention, I will call “early Chán”—that the lineage myths, doctrinal innovations, and distinctive rhetorical voice of the Chán, Zen, Sŏn, and Thiền schools first emerged. Although hundreds of books and articles have appeared on the textual and doctrinal developments associated with early Chán, relatively little has been written on the distinctive meditation practices, if any, of this movement. This chapter emerged from an attempt to answer a seemingly straightforward question: what kinds of meditation techniques were promulgated in early Chán circles? The answer, it turned out, involved historical and philosophical forays into the notion of “mindfulness”—a style of meditation practice that has become popular among Buddhists (and non-Buddhists) around the globe. Accordingly, I will digress briefly to consider the roots of the modern mindfulness movement, and will suggest possible sociological parallels between the rise of the Buddhist mindfulness movement in the twentieth century, and the emergence of Chán in the medieval period.

The nature of the sources I would note at the outset that the Chán, Zen, Sŏn, and Thiền traditions that survive today are of little help in reconstructing early Chán meditative practices. Take, for

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example, the two largest and best-known schools of modern Japanese Zen: Sōtō and Rinzai. The former is most closely associated with the practice of shikantaza 只管打坐 or “simply sitting,” while Rinzai is renowned for its kōan 公案 practice—meditation on cryptic utterances of past masters. Both of these practices are relatively late. The Sōtō school holds that shikantaza originated in China and was transmitted to the founder of Japanese Sōtō, Dōgen Kigen 道元希玄 (1200–53), by his Chinese teacher Tiāntóng Rújìng 天童如淨 (1163–1228). However, the term shikantaza does not appear in surviving Chinese documents, and most nonsectarian scholars now approach “simply sitting” as a Japanese innovation, based on Dōgen’s idiosyncratic understanding of the “silent illumination” (mòzhào chán 默照禪) teachings he encountered in Song dynasty China. As for Rinzai, the notion that kōans, which developed as a literary genre, could serve as objects of seated contemplation dates no earlier than the Song, and even then it may originally have been intended as a simplified exercise for laypersons rather than a practice befitting elite monks who aspired to become abbots. Moreover, the approach to kōans altered over time in both China and Japan as the literary and scholastic skills necessary to engage the kōan literature qua literature were lost (Sharf 2007). In short, contemporary Asian practices cannot be used, in any simple way, as a window onto early Chán.3 What practices, if any, were propagated within the communities that gave rise to the early Chán lineage texts—texts that appeared centuries before the advent of kōan collections or talk of “simply sitting”?4 As mentioned above, this question has received little sustained attention, and for good reason: the sources for the study of early Chán—primarily the Dunhuang Chán manuscripts and the writings of medieval “witnesses” such as Dàoxuān 道宣 (596–667) and Guīfēng Zōngmì 圭峰宗密 (780–841)—have much to say about competing Chán schools and ideologies but little to offer in the way of concrete descriptions of practice.5 Z ōngmì acknowledges the difficulty he himself had in finding materials on the subject. At the beginning of his Introduction to a Collection of Materials on the Sources of Chán (Chányuán zhūjuánjí dūxù 禪源諸卷集都序) he notes that the materials at his disposal “speak a lot about the principles of Chán but say little of Chán practice” 多談禪理小談禪行.6 One common scholarly response to this lacuna in the early Chán corpus has been to argue that early Chán was not, at least initially, an independent school or tradition. Rather, early Chán was a “meta-discourse” or “meta-critique” that remained parasitic on traditional forms of monastic life. This Chán was, in short, an attempt to “Mahāyānize” the understanding of practices that had their roots in the pre-Mahāyāna tradition. Early Chán communities did not tinker with existing practices or institutional forms so much as they tinkered with the doctrines underwriting these practices.7 The early corpus should be read, therefore, as a witness to ongoing tensions between normative practices of considerable antiquity on the one hand, and Mahāyāna philosophical critiques of said practices on the other. If this theory is correct, then the Chán assault on seated meditation was not intended to be taken literally, just as the Chán critiques of image worship, scriptural study, and adherence to precepts were not meant to be taken literally. This position finds support in the writings of Zōngmì, who addresses the issue repeatedly in, among other places,

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his Introduction to a Collection of Materials on the Sources of Chán. Near the beginning of this text, Zōngmì’s imaginary interlocutor challenges him: Vimalakīrti ridiculed quiet sitting. Hézé [Shénhuì] rejected “freezing the mind.” When Cáoqī [Huìnéng] saw someone sitting cross-legged he would take his staff and beat him until he got up. Now I ask you why you still rely on teachings that encourage seated meditation, [resulting in] a proliferation of meditation huts filling the cliffs and valleys? This runs contrary to the principles and opposes the patriarchs. 淨名已呵宴坐。 荷澤每斥凝心。 曹溪見人結跏曾自將杖打起。 今問。 汝每 因教誡即勸坐禪。禪菴羅列遍於巖壑。乖宗違祖.8

In his response, Zōngmì distinguishes between methods that are intended as antidotes to specific afflictions, and a more exalted practice that Zōngmì calls the “singlepractice samādhi” (yīxíng sānmèi 一行三昧). The antidotes include traditional seated meditation practices; while these are mere “expedients” appropriate for those of lesser spiritual faculties, Zōngmì insists they still have their place. Zōngmì writes: “Vimalakīrti says that it is not necessary to sit, but not that it is necessary not to sit. Whether one sits or not depends on how best to respond to circumstances” 淨名云。不必坐不必不坐。坐與不坐任逐機宜.9 In contrast to such expedients, the single-practice samādhi is for those of superior faculties who understand that mind itself is buddha-nature, that the afflictions are bodhi, and thus that there is ultimately no need for antidotes. In short, Zōngmì avails himself of the venerable doctrine of the two truths. Writing in the early ninth century, Zōngmì was seeking to recover and make sense of the origins of a movement from which he was already several generations removed, and his reconstruction of early Chán lay in service of his own declared lineal affiliations and exegetical agenda. As such, he is an invaluable but not entirely reliable source on the Chán teachings of the previous century. Nevertheless, the Dunhuang materials do provide support for Zōngmì’s position: despite their antinomian rhetoric, some early Chán patriarchs are on record as endorsing seated meditation. In the Record of the Transmission of the Dharma Treasure (Chuán fǎbǎo jì 傳法寶紀), for example, the fourth patriarch Dàoxìn 道信 (580–651) exhorts his students as follows: Make effort and be diligent in your sitting [meditation], for sitting is fundamental. If you can do this for three or five years, getting a mouthful of food to stave off starvation and illness, then just close your doors and sit. Do not read the scriptures or talk with anyone. One who is able to do this will, after some time, find it effective. 努力勤坐。 坐為根本。 能作三五年得一口食塞饑瘡即閉門坐。 莫讀經。 莫 與人語。能如此者久久堪用.10

Dàoxìn’s support for seated meditation is reaffirmed in his work Fundamental Expedient Teachings for Calming the Mind to Enter the Way (Rùdào ānxīn yào fāngbiàn fǎmén 入道安心要方便法門), if the traditional attribution to Dàoxìn is to be believed. As this text, known from various Dunhuang documents, is one of the few early Chán texts containing detailed instructions for seated dhyāna, we will return to it below.

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Dàoxìn is associated, albeit anachronistically, with the so-called East Mountain (Dōng shān 東山) tradition, a line later associated with (or subsumed under) Northern Chán. It might then be argued that he was more conservative in his approach to meditation than were the later Southern or “subitist” teachers. But even the quintessential text of the Southern School, the Platform Scripture of the Sixth Patriarch (Liùzǔ tánjīng 六祖壇經), seems to countenance, if only in passing, seated practice. Near the end of this work, the patriarch Huìnéng 惠能 (638–713), approaching his death, instructs his disciples to persevere in communal seated meditation: “Be the same as you would if I were here, and sit all together [in meditation]. If you are only peacefully calm and quiet, without motion, without stillness, without birth, without destruction, without coming, without going, without judgments of right and wrong, without staying and without going—this then is the Great Way. After I have gone just practice according to the Dharma in the same way that you did on the days that I was with you. Even were I still to be in this world, if you went against the teachings, there would be no use in my having stayed here.” After finishing speaking these words, the Master, at midnight, quietly passed away. He was seventy-six years of age. 如吾在日一種一時端坐。但無動無淨無生無滅無 去無來無是無非無住[無往]。 但然寂淨即是大道。 吾去已後但衣法修行共 吾在日一種。吾若在世。汝違教法。吾住無益。大師云此語已。夜至三更。 奄然遷花。大師春秋七十有六.11

Given the negative valuation of meditation found throughout this text, this passage is striking. Huìnéng is famously depicted as gaining awakening without any prior study or meditative training: he had no exposure to Buddhist practice before he heard the Diamond Scripture chanted in a marketplace, yet he immediately grasped its meaning. When he proceeded to enter the monastery of the Fifth Patriarch, he was placed not in the monks’ hall but in the threshing room where he spent his time treading the pestle. Yet despite his lack of experience in meditation, he quickly succeeded to the patriarchy. The implied critique of traditional seated practices in Huìnéng’s autobiography is accompanied by an explicit critique in his sermons. The critique is tied to the Southern School notion of “sudden enlightenment,” which affirms the identity of means and ends—meditation and wisdom. Accordingly Huìnéng repeatedly and rigorously castigates instrumental approaches to religious practice. The following passage is typical. If sitting without moving is good, why did Vimalakīrti scold Śāriputra for sitting quietly in the forest? Good friends, some people teach men to sit viewing the mind and viewing clarity, not moving and not activating [the mind], and to this they devote their efforts. Deluded people do not realize that this is wrong, cling to this doctrine, and become confused. There are many such people. Those who instruct in this way are, from the outset, greatly mistaken. Good friends, how then are meditation and wisdom alike? They are like the lamp and the light it gives forth. If there is a lamp there is light; if there is no lamp there is no light. The lamp is the substance of light; the light is the function of the lamp. Thus, although they have two names, in substance they are not two. Meditation and wisdom are also like this.

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若座不動是。 維摩詰不合呵舍利弗宴座林中。 善知識。 又見有人教人座看 心看淨不動不起。 從此置功。 迷人不悟。 便執成顛。 即有數百盤。 如此教 道者。 故之大錯。 善知識。 定惠猶如何等。 如燈光。 有燈即有光。 無燈即 無光。燈是光知體。光是燈之用。即有二體無兩般。此定惠法亦復如是.12

A similar rejection of quiet-sitting is found in the writings of Huìnéng’s disciple and publicist, Hézé Shénhuì 荷澤神會 (670–762). In his disquisition on seated meditation, Chán master Chéng 澄禪師 asserts: “Now for one who cultivates meditation, inner and outer are naturally illuminated, and this is to attain the perception of clarity. It is by means of this clarity that one is able to perceive one’s [original] nature” 今修定者自有內外照即得見淨以淨故即得見性. To which Shénhuì responds: [Original] nature has no inside or outside, so any talk of illuminating inner or outer is deluded from the outset. What is seeing one’s original nature? The scripture says: “The practice of all the samādhis is movement, not seated chán. As for the mind [simply] following the flow of objects—how could you call this meditation?” If that is what was meant by meditation, then Vimalakīrti ought not to have scolded Śāriputra for quiet sitting. 性無內外， 若言內外照， 元是妄心。 若為見性。 經云： 若 學諸三昧， 是動非坐禪。 心隨境界流， 云何名為定。 若指 此定為是者。維摩詰即不應訶舍利弗宴坐.13

Yet despite these pointed attacks on seated practice, the Platform Scripture, a text closely associated with Huìnéng and Shénhuì, depicts Huìnéng encouraging his followers to continue in their seated practice after he is gone. This seeming disparity would appear to support the view that early Chán critiques of seated meditation were not intended to be taken at face value. There is another related explanation for the reticence to promote meditation practices in early Chán texts. The sudden-enlightenment polemic, as illustrated by the Platform Scripture passage above, was directed against dualistic distinctions between means and ends, path and goal, meditation (dhyāna) and wisdom (prajñā). The doctrine of inherent buddha-nature and the rhetoric of sudden enlightenment rendered it difficult if not impossible to champion dhyāna, since to countenance any technique was to betray an instrumental and hence misguided understanding of the path. This had the effect of instituting a rhetorical taboo against prescribing, or even discussing, specific techniques. Hence the silence with regard to meditative practices in early Chán materials is not, in and of itself, evidence that the monks did not engage in such practices.14 Zōngmì would appear to have it right: seated meditation is not sufficient and perhaps not even necessary, but it still has its place. In discussing the rise of early Chán, I am making a distinction between what might be called “small-c” chán and “large-C” Chán. The former refers to Chinese Buddhist dhyāna techniques writ large, and encompasses a wide array of practices that made their way from India to China beginning in the first and second centuries CE. These practices include meditations on impurity (bújìngguān 不淨觀, Sk. aśubha-bhāvanā, often referring to meditations on a corpse or meditations on the parts of the body), breathing meditations (ānbān 安般, Sk. ānāpāna, including counting or “following”

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the breath), cultivation of the four immeasurable states (sì wúliàng xīn 四無量心, Sk. catvāri-apramāṇāni, namely kindness, compassion, joy, and equanimity), recollection of the buddha (niànfó 念佛), recitation of the buddhas’ names (fómíng 佛名), and so on. Such practices were widespread throughout the medieval Chinese Buddhist world, irrespective of one’s ordination lineage or monastic affiliation.15 In contrast, large-C Chán refers to a specific lineage or school (chánzōng 禪宗) that was based on the mythology of an unbroken, independent lineage of enlightened masters stretching from Śākyamuni Buddha through Bodhidharma down through six generations to Huìnéng and beyond.16 So in answer to the question as to why the earliest documents associated with large-C Chán say so little about the practices associated with small-c chán, the response has been to disaggregate rhetoric from practice. Early Chán is not distinguished by forms of monastic practice and meditation technique so much as by its mythology, doctrine, and literary style. In time, the full-blown Chán institutions of the Song dynasty felt the need, despite the rhetorical taboo, to create their own instruction manuals for seated meditation. That these later Chán meditation primers are closely modeled upon nonChán prototypes is further evidence that early Chán was more about innovations in doctrine and rhetorical style than about innovations in technique.17 As elegant as this explanation may be, it may not tell the whole story. That Zōngmì is repeatedly drawn back to this issue, and that he references a number of Mahāyāna scriptures (some of them now known to be apocryphal) to buttress his apologia for seated practice, bespeaks a degree of defensiveness and unease. Zōngmì was acutely aware of the apparent contradiction between what famous Chán monks and missives say on the one hand, and what Chán monks were actually doing on the other.18 Like many modern scholars of Chán and Zen, Zōngmì’s approach is to brook a distinction between theory and praxis—a distinction between how one understands meditation and what one actually does. There is evidence, however, that at least some early masters, particularly those associated with the rhetoric of subitism, found the theory/ praxis distinction objectionable, and this led to a spirited eighth-century controversy concerning the value of traditional meditation practices, as well as to attempts to devise alternatives. But it is not easy to recover precisely what the alternatives looked like, both because of the philological and hermeneutical problems that attend the surviving texts, and because the topic matter itself—the nature of meditative practice and experience—is so elusive.

Chán mindfulness As mentioned above, small-c chán referred to a vast array of practices, from corpse meditations and breathing exercises to repentance rituals and the recitation of the names of the buddhas. Large-C Chán masters tended to deprecate or even reject such techniques.19 In their place they championed a distinctive practice, or cluster of similar practices, that went by a number of related names, including “maintaining mind” (shǒuxīn 守心), “maintaining unity” (shǒuyī 守一), “pacifying the mind” (ānxīn 安心), “discerning the mind” (guānxīn 觀心), “viewing the mind” (kànxīn 看心),

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“focusing the mind” (shèxīn 攝心), and so on.20 All these terms appear repeatedly in the early Chán corpus, particularly in texts associated with the East Mountain tradition of the fourth and fifth patriarchs. The usage of these phrases differs somewhat from text to text, yet they seem to refer to a more-or-less similar approach to practice— an approach predicated on two seminal doctrines. The first is that all beings possess inherent “buddha nature” (fóxìng 佛性), and thus buddhahood is not something to be gained or acquired from outside but rather something to be discovered or disclosed within. The second is that buddha-nature refers to mind itself. Thus whether one talks of “maintaining mind,” “discerning mind,” or “viewing mind,” the object is the same: to attend to the apperceiving subject—conscious awareness—rather than to the transient objects of experience. Early Chán documents employ a variety of related analogies to illustrate the nature and inherent purity of mind: the mind is like a mirror covered by dust; one must focus on the innate luminosity of the mirror rather than the fleeting images that appear within it. Or the mind is like the sun covered by clouds; the sun is always shining irrespective of the clouds that conceal it. In meditation, one attends to the abiding luminosity of mind or consciousness, which is to realize one’s inherent buddha-nature. As mentioned above, one of the few detailed descriptions of meditation practice in the literature of early Chán is found in the Fundamental Expedient Teachings for Calming the Mind to Enter the Way attributed to Dàoxìn. Here “maintaining unity” is presented as a kind of mindfulness practice (Sk. smṛti, Pali sati, C. niàn 念, sometimes rendered “reflection” or “recollection”), coupled with a contemplation of the emptiness of phenomena. I present here a few key sections from the text: Why is it called “reflecting without an object”?21 The very mind that is reflecting on buddha is called “reflecting without an object.” Apart from mind there is no buddha. Apart from buddha there is no mind. Reflecting on buddha is identical to reflecting on mind. To seek the mind is to seek the buddha. Why is this so? Consciousness is without form. Buddha too is without form and without manifest attributes. To understand this principle is to pacify the mind. 何等名無所念。 即念佛心名無所念。 離心無別有佛。 離佛 無別有心。 念佛即是念心。 求心即是求佛。 所以者何。 識 無形。佛無形。佛無相貌。若也知此道理。即是安心 . . . The Scripture on the Discernment of the Buddha of Immeasurable Life says, “The dharma bodies of all buddhas penetrate the minds of all beings. This very mind is buddha. This mind creates buddha.”22 You should know that buddha is identical to mind, and that outside of mind there is no other buddha. 無量壽經云。 諸佛法身。 入一切眾生心想。 是心是佛。 是心作佛。 當知佛 即是心。心外更無別佛也 . . . There are many varieties of contemplation methods specified in the various scriptures, but according to the teachings of Layman Fù [497–569], one need only maintain unity without moving. First you cultivate the body, taking the body as the basis for attentive contemplation. Note that this body is an amalgam of the four elements [earth, water, fire, and air] and the five aggregates [form, sensation,

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Meditation and Culture perception, impulses, and consciousness]. In the end [this body] returns to impermanence without achieving freedom. Although it has not yet decayed and disappeared, ultimately it is empty. 諸經觀法備有多種。 傅大師所說。 獨舉守一不移。 先修身審觀以身為本。 又此身是四大五蔭之所合。終歸無常不得自在。雖未壞滅畢竟是空 . . . Also, constantly contemplate your own body as clear empty space, like a reflection that can be seen but not grasped. Wisdom arises from the midst of the reflection and ultimately is without location, unmoving and yet responsive to things, transforming without end. The six sense organs are born in the midst of empty space. As the six sense organs are empty and still, the six corresponding sense fields are to be understood as like a dream. It is like the eye seeing something: there is nothing in the eye itself. Or like the image of a face reflected in a mirror: we clearly understand that the various reflections of forms appear in empty space, and that there is not a single thing in the mirror itself. You should know that a person’s face does not come and enter into the mirror, nor does the mirror go and enter the person’s face. From this analysis we know that at no point in time does the face in the mirror emerge or enter, come or go. This is the meaning of “thus come” (tathāgata). According to this detailed analysis, what is in the eye and in the mirror is inherently and permanently empty and still; what is reflected in the mirror and reflected in the eye is the same. 又常觀自身空淨。 如影可見不得。 智從影中生。 畢竟無處所。 不動而 應物。 變化無窮。 空中生六根。 六根亦空寂。 所對六塵境。 了知是夢 幻。 如眼見物時。 眼中無有物。 如鏡照面像。 了極分明。 空中現形影。 鏡中無一物。 當知人面不來入鏡中。 鏡亦不往入人面。 如此委曲。 知 鏡之與面。 從本已來。 不出不入。 不來不去。 即是如來之義。 如此 細分判。眼中與鏡中。本本常空寂。鏡照眼照同.23

The objects of our perception, in other words, are like the reflections in a mirror: the mirror or mind is real; all else is mere appearance. Doctrinally, there is nothing distinctively Chánnish about this, as such fundamental Mahāyāna notions as emptiness and the identity of mind and buddha are found throughout Chinese exegetical writings of the period. What may be more specific to early Chán is the attempt to link such Mahāyāna notions with a specific technique. Note also that, despite the unusual level of detail for an early Chán text, the description of the technique remains sketchy. However, that the account begins with a contemplation of the body, that the body is the basis for reflecting on impermanence, and that the goal is to reflect on the nature of mind, is reminiscent of approaches to “mindfulness” as taught by modern Theravāda teachers. There are, of course, daunting hermeneutic problems involved in what might be called the comparative phenomenology of meditation (Sharf 1998). But consider the following: in Dàoxìn’s text, as in some modern Buddhist “mindfulness” traditions, the focus of attention is not an artificial or constructed object (be it a physical image or icon, kasiṇa, mantra, corpse, or some other structured visualization), but rather the moment-to-moment flow of sensation, beginning with the sensation of touch and eventually extending to the other senses. This culminates in a meditation on the nature

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of conscious awareness itself. The goal is a kind of figure/ground shift wherein the yogi’s attention is directed toward mind or awareness or “witness consciousness” itself, rather than to the fleeting phenomena that transpire within the mind. In the language of Dàoxìn’s text, one meditates on the chimeric nature of the reflections so as to know (inductively?) the mirror. Sustained attention to the mind-mirror is believed, among other things, to thwart attachment to the ephemeral phenomena of unenlightened experience, and to reveal the intrinsic purity (or buddha-nature) of mind.

Mindfulness, bare attention, and pure mind It is necessary to pause for a moment and consider the vexed term “mindfulness.” The popular understanding of Buddhist mindfulness can be traced to the Theravāda meditation revival of the twentieth century, a revival that drew its authority from the two scriptures on “Establishing Mindfulness,”24 as well as Buddhaghosa’s Path of Purification (Visuddhimagga), and a handful of other Pali sources. The techniques that came to dominate the satipaṭṭhāna or vipassanā (“insight”) movement, as it came to be known, were developed by a few Burmese teachers in the lineages of Ledi Sayādaw (U Nyanadhaza, 1846–1923) and Mingun Jetavana Sayādaw (U Nārada, 1870–1955).25 Mingun Sayādaw’s disciple, Mahāsī Sayādaw (1904–82), developed an approach to satipaṭṭhāna that was particularly suited to laypersons, including persons with little or no prior exposure to Buddhist doctrine or liturgical practice.26 The “Mahāsī method” de-emphasized the acquisition of concentration exercises (samatha) leading to states of absorption (jhāna) as a necessary prerequisite for insight practice. Instead, Mahāsī placed singular emphasis on sati even for beginning students. Mahāsī interpreted sati as the moment-to-moment lucid awareness of whatever arises in the mind. One of Mahāsī’s most influential students, the German-born Theravāda monk Nyanaponika Thera (Siegmund Feniger 1901–94), coined the term “bare attention” for this mental faculty, and this rubric took hold through his popular 1954 book The Heart of Buddhist Meditation: Bare Attention is the clear and single-minded awareness of what actually happens to us and in us, at the successive moments of perception. It is called “bare,” because it attends just to the bare facts of a perception as presented either through the five physical senses or through the mind which, for Buddhist thought, constitutes the sixth sense. When attending to that six-fold sense impression, attention or mindfulness is kept to a bare registering of the facts observed, without reacting to them by deed, speech or by mental comment which may be one of self reference (like, dislike, etc.), judgement or reflection. If during the time, short or long, given to the practice of Bare Attention, any such comments arise in one’s mind, they themselves are made objects of Bare Attention, and are neither repudiated nor pursued, but are dismissed, after a brief mental note has been made of them. . . . (Nyanaponika 1973: 30) Bare Attention is concerned only with the present. It teaches what so many have forgotten: to live with full awareness in the Here and Now. It teaches us to face the

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Meditation and Culture present without trying to escape into thoughts about the past or the future. Past and future are, for average consciousness, not objects of observation, but of reflection. And, in ordinary life, the past and the future are taken but rarely as objects of truly wise reflection, but are mostly just objects of day-dreaming and vain imaginings which are the main foes of Right Mindfulness, Right Understanding and Right Action as well. Bare Attention, keeping faithfully to its post of observation, watches calmly and without attachment the unceasing march of time; it waits quietly for the things of the future to appear before its eyes, thus to turn into present objects and to vanish again into the past. (Nyanaponika 1973: 40)

As Mahāsī’s method did not require familiarity with Buddhist literature and was designed to be taught in a delimited period of time in a retreat format, it proved easy to export beyond the realm of Burmese Theravāda. The method has been influential not only in Southeast Asian Theravāda but also among modern Tibetan, Chinese, Korean, Japanese, and Vietnamese religious reformers. By the end of the twentieth century, Mahāsī’s approach to sati or mindfulness, interpreted as “bare attention” and “full awareness of the here and now,” had emerged as one of the foundations of Buddhist modernism—an approach to Buddhism that cut across geographical, cultural, and sectarian boundaries.27 Modern mindfulness practices spread well beyond the confines of Buddhism as well. Catholic monastics, Jewish rabbis, Episcopal priests, yoga instructors, martial arts teachers, and countless others can be found touting mindfulness as the essence of their own spiritual traditions. The very notion that “spirituality” can be disaggregated from “religion” has been aided and abetted by the seemingly valueneutral and culture-free notion of bare attention. Mindfulness techniques are used therapeutically for the treatment of pain, depression, posttraumatic stress disorder, and various addictions, and they have found their way into prison programs as well. Of late they are being used in grade-school classrooms to help with behavioral problems and attention-deficit disorders. Proponents of mindfulness often have little interest in, or understanding of, the Theravāda roots of their practice—they treat it as a nonsectarian, empirical, and therapeutic exercise in self-awareness. And of those who are familiar with its Southeast Asian Buddhist origins, few seem to appreciate the historical, doctrinal, and philosophical problems that attend the reduction of sati to “bare awareness.” The interpretation of the term sati/smṛti has been the source of considerable research, discussion, and debate that can only be touched upon here.28 Smṛti originally meant “to remember,” “to recollect,” “to bear in mind”; its religious significance can be traced to the Vedic emphasis on setting to memory the authoritative teachings of the tradition. Sati appears to retain this sense of “remembering” in the Buddhist Nikāyas: “And what, bhikkhus, is the faculty of sati? Here, bhikkhus, the noble disciple has sati, he is endowed with perfect sati and intellect, he is one who remembers, who recollects what was done and said long before.”29 Moreover, the faculties of recollection and reflection are unarguably central to a variety of classical Buddhist practices associated with smṛti, including buddhānusmṛti or “recollection on the Buddha,” which typically involves some combination of recalling the characteristics of the buddha, visualizing him, and chanting his name.

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Even in the Satipaṭṭhāna-sutta, the term sati retains a sense of “recollecting” or “bearing in mind.” Specifically, sati involves bearing in mind the virtuous dharmas so as to properly apprehend, from moment to moment, the true nature of phenomena. At least this is the explanation found in early Pali exegetical works such as the Milindapañha, in which Nāgasena explains sati as follows: Just as, Your Majesty, the treasurer of a king who is a cakka-vattin causes the cakkavattin king to remember his glory evening and morning [saying], “So many, lord, are your elephants, so many your horses, so many your chariots, so many your foot soldiers, so much your gold, so much your wealth, so much your property; may my lord remember.” Thus he calls to mind the king’s property. Even so, your Majesty, sati, when it arises, calls to mind dhammas that are skillful and unskillful, with faults and faultless, inferior and refined, dark and pure, together with their counterparts: these are the four establishings of mindfulness, these are the four right endeavors, these are the four bases of success, these are the five faculties, these are the five powers, these are the seven awakening-factors, this is the noble eightfactored path, this is calm, this is insight, this is knowledge, this is freedom. Thus the one who practices yoga resorts to dhammas that should be resorted to and does not resort to dhammas that should not be resorted to; he embraces dhammas that should be embraced and does not embrace dhammas that should not be embraced. Just so, Your Majesty, does sati have the characteristic of calling to mind . . . Just as, Your Majesty, the adviser-treasure of the king who is a cakka-vattin knows those things that are beneficial and unbeneficial to the king [and thinks], “ These things are beneficial, these unbeneficial; these things are helpful, these unhelpful.” He thus removes the unbeneficial things and takes hold of the beneficial. Even so, Your Majesty, sati, when it arises, follows the courses of beneficial and unbeneficial dhammas: these dhammas are beneficial, these unbeneficial; these dhammas are helpful, these unhelpful. Thus the one who practices yoga removes unbeneficial dhammas and takes hold of beneficial dhammas; he removes unhelpful dhammas and takes hold of helpful dhammas. Just so, Your Majesty, does sati have the characteristic of taking hold.30

Buddhaghosa provides a similar gloss in his Path of Purification: By means of it they [i.e., other dhammas] remember, or it itself remembers, or it is simply just remembering, thus it is sati. Its characteristic is not floating; its property is not losing; its manifestation is guarding or the state of being face to face with an object; its basis is strong noting or the satipaṭṭhānas of the body and so on. It should be seen as like a post due to its state of being firmly set in the object, and as like a gatekeeper because it guards the gate of the eye and so on.31

Rupert Gethin has undertaken a careful analysis of such passages, and notes that sati cannot refer to “remembering” in any simple sense, since memories are, as Buddhists are quick to acknowledge, subject to distortion. Rather, sati should be understood as what allows awareness of the full range and extent of dhammas; sati is an awareness of things in relation to things, and hence an

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Meditation and Culture awareness of their relative value. Applied to the satipaṭṭhānas, presumably what this means is that sati is what causes the practitioner of yoga to ‘remember’ that any feeling he may experience exists in relation to a whole variety or world of feelings that may be skillful or unskillful, with faults or faultless, relatively inferior or refined, dark or pure. (Gethin 1992: 39)

In short, there is little “bare” about the faculty of sati, since it entails, among other things, the proper discrimination of the moral valence of phenomena as they arise.32 There are philosophical objections to construing sati as “bare attention” as well. Nyanaponika’s notion of bare attention presumes, it would seem, that it is possible to disaggregate pre-reflective sensations (what contemporary philosophers refer to as “raw feels” or qualia) from perceptual experience writ large. In other words, there is an assumption that our recognition of and response to an object is logically and/ or temporally preceded by an unconstructed or “pure” impression of said object that can be rendered, at least with training, available to conscious experience. Mindfulness practice is then a means to quiet the chatter of the mind and keep to this “bare registering of the facts observed.” Superficially, this notion of bare attention would seem predicated on an epistemological model that Daniel Dennett calls the “Cartesian theater” and Richard Rorty dubs the “mirror of nature,” wherein mind is understood as a tabula rasa that passively registers sensations prior to any recognition, judgment, or response. The notion of a conscious state devoid of conceptualization or discrimination is not unknown to Buddhist exegetes; indeed, various Mahāyāna (more specifically, Yogācāra) texts posit a “non-conceptual cognition” (nirvikalpajñāna, wú fēnbié zhì 無分別智) that operates by means of “direct perception” (pratyakṣajñāna). This state is sometimes understood as preceding (or undergirding) the arising of conceptualization, or as an advanced stage of attainment tantamount to awakening.33 But while the notion of nonconceptual cognition is foregrounded in certain Yogācāra systems (not to mention Tibetan Dzogchen), it remains somewhat at odds with the Theravāda analysis of mind and perception.34 In Theravāda abhidharma (as in Sarvāstivāda), cognition is “intentional” (in the Husserlian sense) in so far as consciousness and its object emerge codependently and are hence phenomenologically inextricable. That is to say, the objects of experience emerge not upon a preexistent tabula rasa, but rather within a cognitive matrix that includes affective and discursive dispositions occasioned by one’s past activity (karma).35 The elimination of these attendant dispositions does not yield “non-conceptual awareness” so much as the cessation of consciousness itself.36 Arguing along similar lines, Paul Griffiths suggests that the closest thing to a state of unconstructed or pure experience in early Indian Buddhist scholasticism is nirodhasamāpatti—a state in which both objects and conscious experience cease altogether (Griffiths 1986, 1990). In such a framework, it seems misleading to construe any mode of attention or perception as “bare.” In short, the understanding of sati as “bare attention” may owe more to internalist and empiricist epistemologies than it owes to canonical Theravāda formulations (Sharf 1998).37 Given the conceptual ambiguities surrounding sati, it is not surprising that the Mahāsī method has come under fire from a number of quarters, including both Theravāda traditionalists in Southeast Asia and practitioners and scholars in the West.

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Critics object to (1) Mahāsī’s devaluation of samatha techniques leading to jhāna; (2) claims that followers of the Mahāsī method are able to attain advanced stages of the path (ārya-mārga) in remarkably short periods of time; and (3) the amoral implications of rendering sati “bare attention,” which devalues or neglects the importance of ethical judgment.38 It may not be coincidence that the objections to Mahāsī’s interpretation of sati seem of a kind with the objections raised in regard to practices associated with early Chán. “Viewing mind,” “discerning mind,” “reflecting without an object,” and so on were, like “bare attention,” touted as direct approaches that circumvented the need for traditional dhyāna attainments, for mastery of scripture and doctrine, and for proficiency in monastic ritual. The East Mountain teachers were popularizers: they touted a meditation method that was simple, promised fast results, and could be cultivated by laypersons as well as monastics. Indeed, Dàoxìn himself acknowledged that he adopted his technique from a layman, namely, Layman Fù.39 The technique revolved around a seemingly simple figure/ground shift wherein attention is shifted away from objects of any kind toward the abiding luminosity of mind or awareness itself. I do not mean to imply a common subjective experience or cognitive state behind terms like “viewing mind” and “bare attention.”40 Rather, I would draw attention to certain sociological and institutional parallels. Some of the early Chán patriarchs, like their counterparts in the modern Theravāda vipassanā movement, were interested in developing a method that was simple enough to be accessible to those unschooled in Buddhist doctrine and scripture, who were not necessarily wedded to classical Indian cosmology, who may not have had the time or inclination for extended monastic practice, and who were interested in immediate results as opposed to incremental advancement over countless lifetimes. Note that Layman Fù, credited with innovations in early Chán meditation technique, is also credited with the invention of the rotating sūtra repository, another “technical” advancement that mitigated the need to literally read Buddhist scriptures.41 It is thus not surprising that the East Mountain teachers found themselves in the same position as Mahāsī: castigated by their “subitist” rivals for dumbing down the tradition, for misconstruing or devaluing the role of wisdom, and for their crassly “instrumental” approach to practice.

Chán mindlessness There are a number of eighth-century Chán manuscripts that are relentless in their critiques of “maintaining mind,” “viewing mind,” and indeed of “mindfulness” (niàn) itself. In direct opposition to the injunction to “maintain mind” (shǒuxīn), these texts speak of “no mind” (wúxīn 無心); instead of “to discern mind” (guānxīn), we find “cut off discernment” (juéguān 絕觀); rather than “mindfulness,” we find “no mindfulness” (wúniàn 無念).42 It is no easy task, however, to determine if this was mere rhetoric aimed at mitigating the reification of mind that attends notions of “mindfulness,” or alternatively, if these texts were advocating an alternative method. Take, for example, the Treatise on No Mind (Wúxīn lùn 無心論),43 a text believed to have been authored by someone associated with the so-called Ox-head lineage

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(Niútóu zōng 牛頭宗).44 In contrast to the Buddhist writings of the period that place an unremitting emphasis on “mind”—on observing mind, on the mind as the locus of purity, on mind as buddha, and so on—the Treatise on No Mind insists that “mind” is a mere fiction that must be abandoned. The student asks the teacher, “Is there mind or not?” The teacher answers, “There is no mind.” Question: “Since you say that there is no mind: who then is able to see, hear, feel, and know? Who knows that there is no mind?” Answer: “It is the absence of mind that sees, hears, feels, and knows. It is the absence of mind that is able to know the absence of mind.” Question: “If there is no mind, it must follow that there is no seeing, hearing, feeling, and knowing. So how can you claim that there is seeing, hearing, feeling, and knowing?” Answer: “Although I have no mind, I am able to see, able to hear, able to feel, and able to know.” Question: “That you are able to see, hear, feel, and know proves that there is mind! How can you deny this?” Answer: “This very seeing, hearing, feeling, and knowing is the absence of mind! In what location apart from seeing, hearing, feeling, and knowing could there be the absence of mind? . . .” Question: “But how could one ever be able to know this absence of mind?” Answer: “You must simply observe intently and carefully: Does the mind have any manifest features? And the mind that can be apprehended: is this in fact the mind or not? Is it inside or outside, or somewhere in between? As long as one looks for the mind in any of these three locations, one’s search will end in failure. Indeed, searching for it anywhere will end in failure. That’s exactly why it is known as ‘no mind.’ ” 弟子問和尚曰。有心無心。答曰。無心。問曰。既云無心。誰能見聞覺知。 誰知無心。答曰。還是無心既見聞覺知。還是無心能知無心。問曰。既若無 心。即合無有見聞覺知。云何得有見聞覺知。答曰。我雖無心能見能聞能覺 能知。問曰。既能見聞覺知。即是有心。那得稱無。答曰。只是見聞覺知。 即是無心。何處更離見聞覺知別有無心。。。。問曰。若為能得知是無心。 答曰。汝但子細推求看。心作何相貌。其心復可得。是心不是心。為復在內 為復在外為復在中間。如是三處推求覓心了不可得。乃至於一切處求覓亦不 可得。當知即是無心.45

The Treatise on No Mind, it would seem, is uninterested in techniques for quieting or discerning the mind; such energy is misplaced since there is no mind to discern. But does such Mādhyamaka style dialectical inquiry rule out seated practice? The few references to seated meditation practice in this text seem to suggest otherwise: If such people encounter a great teacher who instructs them in seated meditation, they will awaken to the absence of mind, all karmic hindrances will be completely eliminated, and the cycle of life and death will be cut off. It is like a single ray of light shining into a dark place—the darkness is completely gone. Should you

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understand no mind, all sin is eliminated in precisely the same way. 如是眾生若 遇大善知識教令坐禪覺悟無心。 一切業障盡皆銷滅生死即斷。 譬如暗中日 光一照而暗皆盡。若悟無心。一切罪滅亦復如是.46

Here the text seems to countenance seated meditation, but the specific content of such practice is nowhere specified. The closest we come to a discussion of technique proper is the following laconic exchange: Question: “Now, there is activity within my own mind. How should I practice?” Answer: “Simply be wakeful with respect to all phenomena. ‘No mind’ itself is practice. There is no other practice. Thus know that no mind is everything, and quiescent extinction is itself no mind.” 問曰。 今於心中作若為修行。 答曰。 但於一切事上覺了。 無心即是修行。 更不別有修行。故知無心即一切。寂滅即無心也.47

The object, then, is not to eliminate mental activity—in quiet-sitting, for example. Instead, the emphasis is on understanding or gnosis. A similar approach is found in the Treatise on Cutting off Discernment (Juéguān lùn 絕觀論), another short work associated with the Ox-head lineage and dating to the eighth century.48 Question: “What is mind? How do I put my mind to rest?” Answer: “You must neither posit a mind nor endeavor to put it to rest. This can be called putting [mind] to rest.” Question: “If there is no mind, how does one study the Way?” Answer: “The Way is not something the mind can contemplate; how could it reside in the mind?” Question: “If it is not something the mind can contemplate, what is the point of contemplation?” Answer: “If there is contemplation, there is mind. If there is mind, it runs contrary to the way. If there is no contemplation there is no mind, and no mind is the true Way.” Question: “Do all living beings in fact have mind or not?” Answer: “That all living beings in fact have minds is a perverted view. Deluded thought is simply the result of positing a mind where there is no mind.” Question: “What sort of thing is this no mind?” Answer: “No mind is no thing, and no thing is reality itself. This reality is the great Way.” Question: “Sentient beings have deluded thoughts. How do they eliminate them?” Answer: “One who perceives either deluded thoughts or the elimination of them has not escaped deluded thought.” Question: “Is it possible to be in accord with the Way if one has not eliminated [deluded thought]?” Answer: “If you speak of being in accord or not in accord, you still have not escaped deluded thought.”

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Meditation and Culture Question: “Then what should I do?” Answer: “Don’t do anything.” 問曰。 云何名心。 云何安心。 答曰。 汝不須立心亦不須強安。 可謂安矣。 問曰。 若無有心云何學道。 答曰。 道非心念。 何在於 心也。 問曰。 若非心念。 當何以念。 答曰。 有念即有心。 有心 即乖道。 無念即無心。 無心即真道。 問曰。 一切眾生實有心不。 答曰。 若眾生實有心即顛倒。 只為於無心中而立心乃生妄想。 問曰。 無心有何物。 答曰。 無心即無物無物即天真。 天真即大道。 問曰。 眾生妄想。 云何得滅。 答曰。 若見妄想。 及見滅 者不離妄想。 問曰。 不遣滅者得合道理否。 答曰。 若言 合與不合亦不離妄想。問曰。若為時是。答曰。不為時是.49

Much of the text continues in the same vein. Again, seated meditation is mentioned only in passing: Question: “If one does not have a view of a self, how does one go or stop, sit or lie down?” Answer: “Simply go and stop, sit and lie down; what need is there to posit a view of self?” Question: “For one who [achieves this] non abiding, does such a one come to comprehend the principles or not?” Answer: “If you reckon there is a mind, then you posit the existence of noncomprehension. If you fully understand no mind, there is no positing of comprehension. Why so? It is like a Chán master who sits in clarity allowing thoughts to arise. No matter the howling winds and raging tempests, he remains without mind.” 問曰。 若不存身見。 云何行住坐臥也。 答曰。 但行住坐臥。 何須立身見。 問曰。 既不存者。 得思惟義理不。 答曰。 若計有心。 不思惟亦有。 若了無 心。設思惟亦無。何以故。譬如禪師淨坐而興慮。猛風亂動而無心也.50

Here the Treatise on Cutting off Discernment makes explicit allusion to a Chán master “sitting in clarity.” The rhetoric of no mind need not entail a rejection of sitting practice, but rather a rejection of the notion that wisdom lies in inner stillness. These Ox-head works are preoccupied with the desultory effects—both philosophical and soteriological—of the reification of mind, and they offer, by way of an alternative to “mindfulness,” a critique of mind. Sitting or not sitting would seem beside the point: in the words of the Treatise on No Mind, “no mind itself is practice.” This seems to be the thrust of the few passages in the Platform Scripture that deal directly with sitting meditation as well. Good friends, in this teaching from the outset sitting chán does not concern the mind nor does it concern clarity; we do not talk of steadfastness. Should you speak of “viewing the mind,” [I would reply that] from the outset such a “mind” is delusion, and as delusion is a mere phantasm there is nothing to be seen. If you speak of “viewing clarity,” [I would reply that] man’s nature is fundamentally clear, but because of deluded thought True Reality is obscured. If you are free from

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deluded thought then original nature reveals its clarity. If you activate your mind to view clarity without realizing that your own nature is originally clear, then you will give rise to delusions of clarity. 善諸識。此法門中。座禪元不著心。亦不著淨。亦不言[不]動。若言看心。 心元是妄。 妄如[幻]故無所看也。 若言看淨。 人姓本淨。 爲妄念故蓋覆眞 如。離妄念本姓淨。不見自姓本淨。心起看淨。却生淨妄 . . . Now that we know that this is so, what is it in this teaching that we call “sitting chán”? In this teaching “sitting” means without any obstruction anywhere, outwardly and under all circumstances, not to activate thoughts. Chán is internally to see the original nature and not become confused. And what do we call chán meditation? Outwardly to exclude form is chán; inwardly to be unconfused is meditation. Even though there is form on the outside, when internally the nature is not confused, then, from the outset, you are of yourself clear and of yourself in meditation. The very contact with circumstances itself causes confusion. Separation from form on the outside is chán; being untouched on the inside is meditation. Being chán externally and meditation internally, it is known as chán meditation. 今記汝是此法門中。 何名座禪。 此法門中一切無礙。 外於一切境界上念不 去爲坐。 [內]見本姓不亂爲禪。 何名爲禪定。 外[離]相曰禪。 内不亂曰定。 外若有相。内姓不亂。本自淨自定。只縁境觸。觸即亂。(離相不亂即定)。 外離相即禪。内(外)不亂即定。外禪内定故名禪定.51

Again, one might conclude, for the reasons given above, that the critique was directed at the objectification of mind rather than at seated meditation. It is difficult to determine the precise impact of this critique on the practice of meditation per se. What, exactly, would the subitists recommend? While evidence is scanty, there is one curious bit of indirect testimony that at least some of the subitists who championed “no mind” were associated with a distinct approach to practice in which the object of contemplation was the absence of mind itself. The testimony comes from the Treatise on the Essentials of Cultivating the Mind (Xiūxīn yàolùn 修心要論)—a text associated with the East Mountain teachings of Dàoxìn and Hóngrěn 弘忍 (601–74) but likely compiled somewhat later, in the early eighth century. This makes the text roughly contemporary with Huìnéng and Shénhuì. Question: There are advanced practitioners who seek perfect and eternal stillness and cessation, yet who end up delighting in a virtue that is transient and coarse; they do not delight in ultimate truth. Before they have manifest true, permanent, and marvelous virtue, they merely aspire to cultivate a mind in accordance with [their grasp] of the meaning. Accordingly, they give rise to a mind that thinks about awakening, but this is a defiled mind. They are merely intent on fixing the mind on no object, but this is to abide in the darkness of ignorance and does not accord with the [true] principle. Or they are merely intent on not fixing their mind and not according with meanings, which is to grasp mistakenly at emptiness. Although they have received a human body, their practice is that of animals. At that very moment they lack the expedient means of meditation and wisdom and are unable to see clearly their buddha

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Meditation and Culture nature. This is a deep pitfall for practitioners. We beseech you to explain the true path so that we might progress toward and achieve nirvāṇa without remainder. Answer: When you are endowed with a mind of faith, your ultimate wish will be fulfilled. Gently quiet your mind, and I will teach you once again. Make your body and mind pure and relaxed, utterly devoid of external objects. Sit properly with the body erect. Regulate the breath and concentrate the mind so it is not within you, not outside of you, and not in any intermediate place. Do this carefully and naturally, observing tranquilly but attentively; see how consciousness is always in motion, like flowing water, a glittering mirage, or [rustling] leaves that never cease. When you come to perceive this consciousness there is no inside or outside, and things are relaxed and natural. Observe tranquilly and attentively, until the veils melt away and you abide in a vast, empty clarity. The flow of consciousness will cease of itself like a puff of wind. The cessation of this consciousness is accompanied by the cessation [of all hindrances], including even the hindrances of the bodhisattvas of the tenth stage. With the cessation of this consciousness, the body and everything else cease as well, and the mind becomes peacefully stable, simple, and pure. I cannot describe it any further. If you want to know more about it, you should examine throughly the “Adamantine Body” chapter of the Nirvāṇasūtra, or the “Akṣobhya” chapter of the Vimalakīrti-sūtra. 問曰： 諸至行人求真常寂滅者。 但樂無常麁善。 不樂於第一義諦。 真常妙 善未現。 只欲發心緣義。 遂思覺心起。 即是漏心。 只欲正心無所。 即無明 昏住。 又不當理。 只欲不正心不緣義。 即妄取空。 雖受人身。 行畜生行。 爾時無有定慧方便。 而不能得了了明見佛性。 只是行人沈沒之處。 若為進 起得到無餘涅槃。願示真趣。答曰：會是信心具足。至願成就。緩緩靜心。 更重教汝。 自閑淨身心。 一切無所攀緣。 端坐正身。 令氣息調。 徵其心不 在內不在外不在中間。 好好如如。 穩熟看。 即及見此心識流動。 猶如水流 陽炎。 葉葉不住。 既見此識時。 唯是不內不外。 緩緩如如。 穩看熟。 即返 覆融消。 虛凝湛住。 其此流動之識。 颯然自滅。 滅此識者。 乃是滅十地菩 薩眾中障或。 此識滅身等滅已。 其心即虛凝惔怕。 皎潔然。 吾更不能說其 形狀。汝若欲得知者。取涅槃經金剛身品。及維摩經見阿閦佛品.52

This is a fascinating document in so far as it refers to a group of practitioners who, despite their accomplishment, err in mistaking the contemplation of “no mind” or “no object” as an advanced state of meditation. In other words, these misguided souls confuse thinking about awakening or thinking about nothing with awakening or nirvāṇa itself. In proffering the dialectic of “no mind” as an alternative to the reification of mind and gainful practice, they end up reifying “no mind.” Nāgārjuna would call this grasping a snake by the wrong end. To mitigate such self-delusion, the Treatise on the Essentials of Cultivating the Mind offers a practice similar to Dàoxìn’s method discussed above: posture, breathing, and attentive mindfulness are used to bring the yogi to a state of stillness and clarity. Only the cultivation and experience of calmness and clarity will ensure that the yogi does not mistake contemplating awakening with awakening proper.

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Of course, there were a lot of masters peddling Chán wares in the eighth century, as Zōngmì documents in his Introduction to a Collection of Materials on the Sources of Chán, so it is impossible to determine precisely to whom this critique was directed. Moreover, if teachers associated with the Treatise on No Mind, the Treatise on Cutting off Discernment, and the Platform Scripture were the intended target, then the Treatise on the Essentials of Cultivating the Mind is an unreliable witness: the teachers who came to be associated with the Ox-head and Southern lineages appear to have rejected the goal of “perfect and eternal stillness and cessation.” Nonetheless, the Treatise on the Essentials of Cultivating the Mind may be evidence, however biased, of the controversies surrounding attempts to ameliorate the gap between theory and technique, and more specifically, the controversy over the place of mindfulness and its polemical counterpoint: “mindlessness.”

Conclusion How is it possible that any “conditioned” (saṃskṛta) religious discipline—whether ritual practice, meditation, asceticism, ethical action, textual study, or what have you— could bring about an “unconditioned” (asaṃskṛta) state such as nirvāṇa? This was a seminal problem for Buddhist scholiasts of all stripes, and Mahāyāna doctrines such as śūnyatā (emptiness), ālayavijñāna (store consciousness), and tathāgatagarbha (womb of buddhahood) can all be viewed as attempts at a solution: each, in its own way, elides the ontological gap between the world of defilement and the world of awakening, thus mitigating the soteriological quandary. The buddha-nature approach that came to be favored in China, drawing (sometimes simultaneously and incoherently) on śūnyatā, ālayavijñāna, and tathāgatagarbha ideas, argues that awakening is intrinsic, and thus religious practice is not intended to produce awakening so much as to discover what has always been present. Drawing on the authority of both canonical and extracanonical sources, early Chán identified this inborn buddha-nature with the nature of mind itself. The mirror analogy, sanctioned by works such as the Awakening of Faith in the Mahāyāna (Dàshèng qǐxìn lùn 大乘起信論) and the apocryphal Scripture on Perfect Awakening (Yuánjué jīng 圓覺經), provided an easily grasped analogy for the relationship between the essential and unchanging nature of mind on the one hand, and the transient, ephemeral, and ultimately unreal nature of what appears in the mind on the other.53 The reflections that appear on the surface of the mirror, whether beautiful or ugly, defiled or pure, leave the mirror’s true nature unsullied. Of course, the mirror analogy can be, and was, utilized in diverse ways, as Demiéville noted years ago, and in some of these uses the mirror was not strictly passive (Demiéville 1987). Be that as it may, in the examples explored above, the mind-mirror is reminiscent of Dennett’s “Cartesian theater,” representing the world on its surface. The aim of Chán practice is not to transform what appears on the mirror, but rather to transform our understanding and response. If we can appreciate that the reflection is a mere phantasm, the images will no longer hold us captive.

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The East Mountain and Northern Chán masters availed themselves of the mirror analogy in their explications of practice. Rather than engaging the transitory images that appear, one must, from moment to moment, focus on the innate purity of mind— the seeming transparence of conscious awareness itself. Such practice is intended, among other things, to undermine the givenness of the external domain, along the lines of “representation-only” (vijñaptimātra) or mind-only (cittamātra) teachings. The subitists reject this approach, since it simply substitutes one givenness (that of the mind) for another (the world). In something akin to the deconstruction of the metaphysics of presence, the subitists insist that mind too cannot be attained (bù kě dé 不可得), and thus even notions such as “mindfulness” and “maintaining unity” must be abandoned. In their place, one should focus on absence (wúsuǒ 無所) so as to let go of everything. The Northern School’s response to the attacks of the subitists is to accuse them of false consciousness—of mistaking conceptual understanding and critique for authentic attainment. In the West, Nietzsche, Heidegger, Wittgenstein, Sellars, Derrida, and others have contributed, each in their own way, to the deconstruction of the metaphysics of presence. Drawing from and building on such predecessors, Richard Rorty, in his Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature (1979), invokes the mirror metaphor in an extended critique of representational models of mind and associated correspondence theories of truth. Rorty’s attack on foundationalism—his rejection of epistemological theories that appraise the truth value of propositions according to their supposed fidelity to the external world—is reminiscent of Huìnéng’s famous “Bodhi has no tree; The bright mirror has no stand.” The subitists reject any articulation of the path and any form of practice that takes the terms “mind” and “mindfulness” as referencing discrete and determinable states or objects or meditative experiences. For the Chán subitists, like the modern antifoundationalists, the image of the mind as mirror epitomizes a widespread but ultimately wrongheaded understanding of mind, cognition, and our relationship to the world. The Dunhuang materials, coupled with Zōngmì’s account of the early Chán lineages, suggest that the diversity of views that characterize early Chán may have been accompanied by a diversity of practices, including attempts to redefine the parameters of practice itself. The institutional culture of early Chán was characterized by strident polemics and animated debate, as competing lineages grappled with doctrinal conundrums and confusions that sit at the heart of Buddhism. The evidence above suggests that some early Chán patriarchs were experimenting with alternatives to orthodox forms of seated meditation, although they themselves struggled to articulate precisely what they were after. It is not clear what became of these alternatives. Luis Gómez notes how radical subitist positions (Prajñāpāramitā, Tantra, southern Chán) often start out as antinomian movements, but end up being appropriated by the very institutional hierarchies they once opposed (Gómez 1987: 70). Even the early Chán subitists, as suggested by Huìnéng’s parting injunction to continue, after his death, to “sit all together [in meditation],” may have quietly come home to roost. But the later Chán, Zen, and Sŏn traditions never entirely shook off the confusions and controversies that proved central to their early creativity. Even today, Japanese Sōtō teachers struggle

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to articulate precisely how to practice shikantaza, and Rinzai teachers do not have it any easier with kōan practice. In both cases, advanced practitioners candidly confess to the confusion and bewilderment that often surround the topic of meditation in contemporary Japanese sōdō 僧堂 (monastic training halls). And the same is arguably true of the traditions in Korea, China, and Taiwan. Of course, apologists for Chán, Zen, and Sŏn see this as a mark of spiritual depth, and are quick to take refuge in the ineffability of mystical experience. But it is equally possible that this is, in part, the legacy of the early controversies surrounding mindfulness and mindlessness outlined above. There is thus reason to question the claim that early large-C Chán was merely a meta-discourse that had little effect on practice and technique per se. After all, the claim is at odds with some of the fundamental teachings of Chán, notably the subitist position associated with Huìnéng and Shénhuì that adamantly rejects the technique/ theory distinction. These teachers may have tendered a simplified practice accessible to laypersons that would circumvent the need for extended monastic training, for attainment of trance states, and for scriptural study. Their method conflated meditation and wisdom (dhyāna and prajñā)—two domains that were traditionally considered distinct if interrelated. It is here that we see remarkable parallels with contemporary Theravāda meditation movements. Note that the success of the modern vipassanā movements lies precisely in the way they operationalize vipassanā or “liberating insight.” Vipassanā was traditionally understood as a kind of analytic discernment cultivated though memorizing, internalizing, and “bearing in mind” (sati) key abhidharmic categories. This required, among other things, a serious grasp of Buddhist epistemology. Reformers like Mahāsī could jettison this by approaching sati as “mindfulness” and treating vipassanā as the meditative experience of “bare awareness.” Path and goal become one, and advanced stages of insight are available to anyone willing to follow a simple technique. In conflating meditation and wisdom, the early Chán patriarchs similarly may have taken recourse in something akin to the modern notion of mindfulness. While scholars have seen the equation of meditation and wisdom as a rhetorical ploy intended to foreground Mahāyāna insight while still conceding a place for “Hīnayāna” practice, the evidence above suggests that it may have been otherwise. Like the twentieth-century Burmese, the Chán reformers may have sought to democratize enlightenment by touting a new approach to practice that operationalized wisdom. The heated controversy that ensued came to structure Chán and Zen discourse down to the present day.

6

Reverence and Quietude in Neo-Confucianism Rur-bin Yang

Introduction This chapter will discuss the “practice of reverence” (zhǔ jìng 主敬),1 a specific form of self-cultivation within the broader Neo-Confucian culture of meditation, or “quietsitting” (jìng-zuò 靜坐).2 The practice of reverence was most vigorously promoted by the Chéng-Zhū 程朱 school of Neo-Confucianism. Both the “practice of reverence” and “quiet-sitting” are core concepts within Neo-Confucian culture. These concepts have a complex relationship: they are intimately connected and yet, in certain ways, contradict each other. Still, their relationship can be made clear. Put simply, it is my view that the practice of reverence is a type of meditation or quiet-sitting in the broadest sense. It can be seen as a kind of spiritual practice that includes quiet-sitting, but the term “quiet-sitting” alone is completely inadequate to encompass the full meaning of the “practice of reverence.” “Reverence” is an ancient Confucian term that appears frequently in the pre-Qin classics where it clearly carries a moral meaning.3 But the use of “reverence” in the yogic sense, as an actual form of spiritual praxis, appears quite late. It is difficult to say which Song dynasty (960–1279) Confucian began to use the term in this way but there is no doubt that the two Chéng brothers [Chéng Yí (程頤 1033–1107) and Chéng Hào (程顥 1032–85)] were key and that Chéng Yí’s role was especially important. After the Chéng brothers, the practice of reverence was passed down within their school by their disciples. It reached its completion and full elaboration in the hands of Master Zhū (Zhū Xī 朱熹 1130–1200). In the section on the practice of “holding on to it” (chí shǒu 持守) in the Classified Sayings of Master Zhū (Zhūzǐ yǔlèi 朱子語類), Zhū Xī repeatedly emphasizes the importance of reverence: “The practice of reverence is the highest single priority in the School of the Sage [Confucius]; one cannot interrupt it even for a moment.” And, “The single word ‘reverence’ is truly the foundation of the school of the Sage and the essential method for preserving the mind and nourishing the nature.”4 Zhū’s discussions of learning are always meticulous, emphasizing gradual and deliberate progress, and never set forth grandiose or bizarre methods. But he had no reservations about strongly championing the wondrous effects of reverence. In later

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generations the practice of reverence became practically synonymous with Chéng-Zhū Neo-Confucianism. The Chéng brothers were also responsible for making quiet-sitting an important practice in the Confucian school, and we hear nothing about it prior to them. Here too, it was Zhū Xī who discussed quiet-sitting in the greatest detail. Zhū’s discussions of quiet-sitting are numerous and contain many inconsistencies. But taken as a whole his views on the topic can be synthesized. In general, Zhū affirmed the practice of quiet-sitting and thought it particularly appropriate as “a practice for the beginning stages of learning.” Quiet-sitting and Neo-Confucianism are thus intimately linked. Practices like quiet-sitting and reverence may both be seen as methods of spiritual selfcultivation and while these terms can be found in the pre-Qin Confucian canon, they clearly are products of Neo-Confucian culture and a prominent feature of the spirit of that period. This chapter discusses the relation between “reverence” and “quiet-sitting” but I purposely use “the practice of quietude” instead of the term “quiet-sitting.” The phrase “the practice of quietude,” or even more accurately “taking quietude as fundamental,” comes from Zhōu Dūnyí’s (周敦頤 1017–73) Explanation of the Diagram of the Great Ultimate (Tài jí tú shuō 太極圖說). This text contains the famous phrase “ Taking quietude as fundamental [the sage] establishes himself as the ultimate standard for man.” But there is no mention of the term “quiet-sitting” in Zhōu Dūnyí’s works, consequently, when people discuss the origins of quietsitting they primarily attribute it to the Chéng brothers. Most likely the Chéngs were the first scholars to introduce the practice of quiet-sitting into Confucian teachings. Originally, Neo-Confucian quiet-sitting did not emphasize a special physical posture. It required only that the practitioner achieve a deep experience of quiescence through the cultivation of the body-mind and such a practice was deemed quiet-sitting. In this sense, it is difficult to determine whether Zhōu Dūnyí himself had a particular method of quiet-sitting. While this is significant from a historical perspective, it may not be so important in terms of a more phenomenological discussion of individual praxis because the goals of the “practice of quietude” and quiet-sitting can be understood as different means to the same end. I will therefore use “quiet-sitting” and the “practice of quietude” interchangeably except when examining any marked linguistic contrast between the two terms. It is more important to note that the two are functionally very similar. Nor am I the first to use them interchangeably. Neo-Confucians themselves commonly did so and at the very least saw the two terms as referring to the same general idea. Ming dynasty (1368– 1644) Neo-Confucians, ever since Chén Báishā (陳白沙 1428–1500),5 discussed the issue often and philosophers of the Neo-Confucian School of Mind from Hú Jūrén 胡居仁 (1434–84), Wáng Yángmíng (王陽明 1472–1529) to Liú Zōngzhōu (劉宗周 1578–1645) all made similar points.6 As to whether or not “the practice of quietude” influenced the quiet-sitting theories of the two Chéngs, this is a historical issue that is difficult to verify and will not be pursued here. It is commonly thought that “quiet-sitting” is the concrete expression of “the practice of quietude,” which favors stillness, as opposed to reverence, which is said to “integrate movement and stillness.” I agree that the practice of quietude and reverence

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can be differentiated in this manner and I discuss this further below. However, I think that their greatest difference is not an issue of movement and stillness. While both practices may be said to belong to the Learning of Mind (xīnxué 心學), broadly speaking, the “practice of quietude” does so more clearly. The practice of reverence, however, transcends the limits of a philosophy of consciousness. Though its focus does, indeed, lie in the state of “singleness” or “unity” (yī 一), this state of singleness is not merely an aspect of consciousness. Rather, it encompasses all the activities of the bodymind at the behavioral level where it is guided by “[moral] principles” (lǐ 理).7 In what follows, I will discuss how the Chéng-Zhū school, the so-called Learning of Principle (lǐxué 理學), replaced “the practice of quietude” with “the practice of reverence” in order to distinguish itself from the method of quiet-sitting in the other main NeoConfucian school, the Learning of Mind, and so developed a mode of spiritual praxis that was firmly grounded in the activities of daily life. For its practitioners, reverence is not merely a technique of self-cultivation like quiet-sitting, it represents a different paradigm that entails “a direct and immediate breakthrough in consciousness.” In this context, the scope of the term “practice of quietude” is relatively broad while “quietsitting” can be seen as belonging to a subcategory of quietude practice. Given these differences it is relatively easy to distinguish between the practices of “reverence” and “quietude.”

Bidding farewell to the “Theory of Quiet-Sitting in the Learning of Mind” As stated above, the core of Chéng-Zhū self-cultivation is the practice of reverence. And yet, it is well known that Neo-Confucian ties with quiet-sitting go deep. “Quietude” is a traditional Confucian term seen often in pre-Qin Confucian works like the Great Learning (Dà xué 大學) with its sequence leading from “calm” (dìng 定), to “quietude” (jìng 靜), “repose” (ān 安), “deliberation” (lǜ 慮), and finally “attainment” (dé 得). Confucians of the Song and Ming attached great importance to this text. But the joining of the concept of “quietude” with quiet-sitting as a method of self-cultivation begins with the Northern Song (960–1126) Confucians. Of these, the two Chéngs played the most important role and should be credited as the first to bring quiet-sitting into the domain of Confucian self-cultivation practice. Not only were the Chéngs the first scholars to promote quiet-sitting but they were also the first to advocate the method of “observing the inner state of the mind before the emotions [literally, happiness, anger, sadness, and joy] arise.”8 With the introduction of this method of introspection, Confucian quiet-sitting practice had begun to establish itself within the broader Asian culture of meditation. However, the Chéng brothers, who were responsible for this major new direction in Confucian practice, never actually discussed quiet-sitting in detail. True, they did praise their disciples who practiced quiet-sitting as “good at learning,” but what exactly was good about it? What were the disciples learning? How did one practice it? Was there a sequence of stages in the transformation of consciousness in this

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quiet-sitting practice? These are fundamental issues that one would expect to find addressed in any theory of meditation but there is little related to such issues in the recorded saying of the Chéngs. It is possible that quiet-sitting did not occupy a high theoretical priority in the Chéngs’ thought and so they felt it unnecessary to discuss it much. Another possibility is that quiet-sitting was seen as simple and straightforward and there was no reason to discuss it at length. Because the details are unclear, the historical function of the Chéng brothers’ ideas on quiet-sitting is far greater than their significance for the internal development of quiet-sitting theory within the Confucian school. Nevertheless, because of their historical status as the revered founders of the Neo-Confucian tradition and their decisive role in formulating the practice of “observing the state before the emotions arise” along with the closely related concept of “investigating equilibrium and harmony,” after them, quiet-sitting came to occupy an important place in Neo-Confucianism. It therefore makes sense that despite the great simplicity of their discussions of quiet-sitting their views were venerated by later generations of Confucian scholars. It is Zhū Xī who played the key role in making quiet-sitting inextricably intertwined with the image of Neo-Confucianism. Later generations of scholars within the “Zhū Xī school” in fact expressed doubts about what role quiet-sitting should occupy in the tradition. Hú Jūrén, Lù Lǒng (陸隴 1630–93), and other Confucian scholars not only harbored concerns about Zhū’s own views on the legitimacy of quiet-sitting, they doubted whether quiet-sitting itself ought to play an important role in Confucian praxis. Later scholars of the Zhū Xī school had good reason to mistrust the practice of quiet-sitting because it is not difficult to find places where Zhū expresses doubts about it. Nevertheless, it is precisely within Zhū’s own writings that we find the most sustained discussions of quiet-sitting within the Neo-Confucian tradition. There we see his famous method for regulating the breath: A white spot is on the tip of the nose, And I concentrate myself upon it. Whenever and wherever I move around, My countenance gracefully matches with it. In extreme serenity, I breathe like a swamp fish in the Spring. In quick movement, I shut my breath like hundreds of insects in dormancy. The mist expands and contracts, Its subtlety is inscrutable [From “Admonition on Regulating the Breath” (Tiáo xí zhēn 調息箴)]9

And we see his method for treating illness: “Seated cross-legged in quiet-sitting, eyes focused at the tip of the nose, attention directed below the abdomen, after a time, a warm healing sensation is developed.”10 We also see Zhū’s important commentary on the Daoist alchemical text Zhōuyì cāntóngqì 周易參同契 by Wèi Bóyáng (魏伯陽 fl.  142 CE). He also has a series of discussions that provided later scholars with material for compilations dedicated to the topic of quiet-sitting. Zhū Xī was indeed a great authority on quiet-sitting.11 If we lacked Zhū’s discussions of quiet-sitting, such topics as the “Neo-Confucian theory of quiet-sitting” or the “Neo-Confucian theory of practice” would surely lose much of their significance.

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Because of the richness of Zhū’s discussions on quiet-sitting they can be considered as representative of this teaching within the tradition of Chéng-Zhū NeoConfucianism. This chapter will first sum up the distinguishing features of this tradition and Zhū’s own reformulation of it. I will then go on to discuss the significance of his reformulation. In sum, we may say that Zhū’s quiet-sitting method has the following characteristics: First, the Indian tradition of meditation included various types of sitting postures and mudras. However, as seen in the following quote, Zhū did not particularly emphasize physical posture or any particular method for regulating the mind or the psychophysical energy (qì 氣): “Just allow yourself to sit quietly without being bothered by affairs or thoughts. There is no method to speak of.”12 If one wants to get a clearer idea about his method one may say that he emphasized sitting with back erect usually on a chair or a bed. Sitting in the cross-legged posture was reserved primarily for curing oneself of an illness.13 Second, some meditation methods, Daoist for instance, greatly emphasized the importance of time of day. The hours between 11pm and 1am were thought to be a particularly beneficial time to sit. The ChéngZhū school did not emphasize a particular time of day. When the practitioner was illdisposed it was appropriate to engage in quiet-sitting to recuperate. On ordinary days one could sit at any time in order to collect the body-mind. Third, one of the goals of quiet-sitting was certainly to remain unperturbed by thought, but if thoughts did arise there was nothing wrong in temporarily allowing them free rein, one need not forcibly suppress them: “If one cannot cut off thoughts, there is no harm in just letting them be.”14 In his discussions of study and learning Zhū called for fierce and unrelenting effort, but in the area of quiet-sitting he was quite tolerant; this shift in attitude is worth noting. Fourth, Chéng-Zhū quiet-sitting can be divided into two types: a type with thought and a type without thought. Both phases [thought and no-thought] will occur naturally in the meditative process. In quiet-sitting the practitioner certainly wanted to cut off “idle thoughts” but if thoughts did intrude, Zhū also supported a form of quiet-sitting in which one had proper thoughts. He went so far as to say: “If one cannot be completely without thoughts, just be without improper thought.” The method of sitting without thought is similar to the teachings of Buddhism and Daoism, in the Chéng-Zhū school it was sitting with thought that was favored. Fifth, meditation was commonly practiced to attain an “enlightenment” (wù 悟) experience and achieve a higher level of consciousness. However, while the Chéng-Zhū school recognized the value of the epistemological breakthrough known as “the wide and far reaching penetration” (huòrán guàntōng 豁然貫通), the school did not promote enlightenment experience per se. Enlightenment experiences, typically couched in phrases like “directly embodying the Way” or “illuminating the mind and seeing into one’s true nature,” were replaced with the Chéng-Zhū practices of “reverence” and the “investigation of things and the full comprehension of their principles” (gé wù qióng lǐ 格物窮理). Compared to the formality of meditation in Buddhism and Daoism, Zhū’s quietsitting method was clearly quite relaxed. When we consider how the Zhū Xī school has always been renowned for the severity of its moral discipline it is surprising that Zhū’s approach to quiet-sitting had such a laissez-faire quality to it. I suspect that the reason for Zhū’s easy approach to self-cultivation may be related to his experiences as

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a youth.15 At the very least, Zhū was familiar with the relationship between meditation and “Chán (Zen) sickness” and this might have led him to promote a relatively relaxed approach.16 Zhū’s relaxed attitude toward sitting was different from the Chán school of Buddhism. For, although the Chán school and other Buddhist sects did possess a style that did not emphasize a formalistic approach, behind this antiformalist appearance was hidden a more precipitous, sudden style of spiritual combat in which the Chán master grasped hold of the dynamic powers of life and death and spontaneously unleashed them at the strategic moment. If one was not an accomplished master of Chán it was extremely difficult to understand this dynamic and the entire style was really quite different from the Zhū Xī school. Thus, Zhū emphasized that there was no need to suppress thoughts during quietsitting, and that one should allow them to take their natural course; furthermore, that quiet-sitting was not necessarily anti-intellectual or trans-intellectual but could be integrated with thought. Moreover, he deliberately rejected the prominent role of enlightenment in quiet-sitting assigning it an instrumental or supplementary function as an aid in the “practice of reverence and exhausting principle.” In the author’s view, these three features of Chéng-Zhū self-cultivation should be understood within the context of intellectual history. That is, Chéng-Zhū theories of self-cultivation were developed as a response to Buddhist practices of contemplating the mind and NeoConfucian theories of “knowing the mind” and the well-known formula of “observing the state before the emotions arise” during quiet-sitting. As scholars have repeatedly pointed out, in his early years Zhū was very attracted to Buddhism and Daoism and became particularly infatuated with Chán. Because of his deeply religious personality and his strong interest in metaphysics, Chán Buddhist theories of practice naturally interested him. Once he had left its influence, Zhū’s sense that Chán was a dangerous form of practice grew stronger. In his Discussion on Observing the Mind (Guān xīn shuō) and other critiques of Buddhism Zhū repeatedly points out the grave errors of Chán praxis from a variety of angles. In some cases he criticizes Chán practice for attempting to artificially manipulate consciousness by deadening the mind and forcing consciousness into a state of immobility, resulting in a loss of the mind’s natural vitality and dynamism. In other cases he criticized Chán for promoting a practice in which the mind observes the mind by using a reified self as subject to observe a reified self as object. This kind of method could easily result in an uncontrolled state of consciousness which was no longer bound by standards and norms: “In their sudden encounters they are hazardous and oppressive, their path is dangerous and blocked-up, their principles are vacuous and their style is perverse.” For Zhū, the flaws in Buddhist practice all led to the same result: an alienation from the true nature of man. Zhū’s criticisms of the Buddhist practice of contemplating the mind were later carried on by his followers and his analysis and critique of Buddhist and Daoist meditation technique left a permanent imprint on the Zhū Xī school.17 Zhū Xī’s style of quiet-sitting in which the practitioner allowed thoughts to arise and follow their own natural course was clearly quite different from what he understood to be the Chán Buddhist method. In his view, it was a great misfortune that elements of Chán practice had infiltrated the Confucian school. Zhū rejected the doctrine of “knowing the mind” (shí xīn 識心) of the Húnán school, one of the leading Southern

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Song branches of Neo-Confucianism, saying: “Now, when they speak of ‘knowing the mind,’ the Húnán school means to restrict itself to [this introspective approach] thereby distancing the practitioner from [objective] principles in the outside world.”18 The Húnán practice of “knowing the mind” basically referred to trying to recognize the “sprouts” or “beginnings [of moral virtue]” in the mind.19 But even if it really were possible to directly realize the “sprouts” lying latent within the mind’s essence, Zhū would still insist that such an experience would remain ineffective in terms of concrete moral praxis because the Húnán approach lacked the guidance of ethical principles. Zhū’s critique of his contemporary Lù Xiàngshān 陸象山 was similar to the way he treated Hú Hóng (胡宏 1105–55), the principal figure of the Húnán school. Zhū always considered Lù’s teaching as Chánnist, because he saw him as pursuing a transcendent, immediate enlightenment and neglecting the cultivation of “principle” that could only come from protracted and gradual moral practice. Zhū’s disciple Chén Chún (陳淳 1159–1223) was even more critical of Lù Xiàngshān’s emphasis on quiet-sitting and saw Lù as Chánnist not merely in his goals of sudden enlightenment but in his mode of practice as well. Zhū’s critique of Chán, Lù Xiàngshān, and Hú Hóng’s Húnán school is well known and there is no need to discuss it in detail here. Moreover, it is likely that Zhū had problems with the form of self-cultivation passed down to him directly by his own teachers. Indeed, Zhū had differences with the key teaching within the so-called “southern transmission”20: to “observe the state prior to the arising of emotions.” This form of practice required the student to engage in quiet-sitting, turn inward, and directly apprehend the original mind in its unstirred condition. This practice presupposed a direct introspective experience and in this sense was similar to Buddhist and Daoist meditation which also followed a course of “introversion” (nì 逆), “return” (fù 復), “vacuity” (kōng 空), and “emptiness” (wú 無). All these forms of selfcultivation required the practitioner to place his mind and body into an extremely intense introspective state that would lead to a sudden breakthrough and allow him a direct experience of the original mind, conceived of as the very foundation of the cosmos itself. This teaching on “observing the state of the mind before the emotions arise” is derived from the first chapter of the Doctrine of the Mean (Zhōng yōng 中庸), and while this Confucian teaching does differ substantively from Chán and Daoism, all three forms of practice can be categorized as a “Learning of Mind” and so all were viewed with suspicion by Zhū. It was only because “observation of the state of the mind before the emotions arise” was a Chéng school practice and carried with it the classical authority of the Doctrine of the Mean that Zhū remained tactful and never attacked it so vociferously as he did Buddhism and Daoism. But if we consider his critique of the Chéng disciples Lǚ Dàlín (呂大臨 1044–91) and Yáng Shí (楊時 1053–1135) we see that Zhū was indeed quite uneasy about this teaching. The exchange between Lǚ Dàlín and Chéng Yí on the topic of equilibrium and harmony (zhōng hé 中和) is a famous document in Neo-Confucian history.21 Although Chéng and Lǚ were teacher and student, respectively, their exchange was adversarial, complex, and extremely difficult to sort out.22 This may well have been because the two had fundamentally different understandings of the theoretical concepts of the “operation of the mind” (xīn tǐ liúxíng 心體流行) and the “full realization of

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equilibrium and harmony” (zhì zhōng hé 致中和) and consequently differed in their approach to the practice. Zhū criticized this practice saying: “Its problem lies in the attempt to seek out and seize upon ‘equilibrium’ before the emotions arise.” Zhū was also critical of the central figure in the southern transmission, Yáng Shí, and regarded Yáng’s understanding of the key formula for quiet-sitting [“observe the mind in its unperturbed state of equilibrium (zhōng) before the emotions arise so that when they issue forth each and all will attain due measure and degree and achieve harmony (hé)”] as incorrect. Yáng Shí taught that the practitioner must experience with his mind the state before emotions arise, seize hold of it and not let it go. Zhū criticized this approach saying: “When [Yáng] says ‘experience it,’ ‘embody it,’ ‘seize it,’ this is the same mistake made by Mr Lǚ.”23 So in Zhū’s view, Yáng Shí, like Lǚ, erred in the attempt to seize control of a transcendent mind essence. If we compare Zhū’s critique of the Chéng schoolmen Lǚ and Yáng with his critique of the Chán practice of “contemplating the mind” (guān xīn 觀心) we will find that they are both based on a rejection of a mode of practice that sought a sudden and direct apprehension of the ground of the mind. With regard to the transmission of the Chéng teachings to Southern China, we find that Zhū’s attitude toward his own teacher Lǐ Tóng (李侗 1093–1163) was a bit different. Zhū once remarked that Lǐ had taught him that: “Moral principle should be understood in the course of daily affairs. In the evening you should go to a quiet place, sit and think; it is then that you will get some benefit. When I followed this advice, it really did make a difference.”24 Here, Lǐ’s teaching was in fact in conformity with Zhū’s later quiet-sitting method of “proper thoughts” and Zhū does appear to have carried on certain aspects of Lǐ’s teachings. Nevertheless, this particular teaching of Lǐ’s appears to have been merely a subsidiary adjunct to his primary practice of “observing the state prior to the emotions.” Zhū’s lifelong sense of gratitude to Lǐ Tóng was probably more emotional than it was intellectual and his final position was, in the end, different.25 After Zhū had distinguished quiet-sitting from any method that aimed at a direct realization of the ground of the mind, we find that he bid farewell not only to the early phase of his life and his involvement with Buddhism and Daoism, but also to the two main branches of the Neo-Confucian School of Mind, that of Hú Hóng and Lù Xiàngshān, and to the tradition of the southern transmission of Yáng Shí. But from who had Yáng received his own teachings? Zhū could not break off his critique of these Neo-Confucian teachings in mid-course; he had to pursue it even further back and extend it to his differences with the elder Chéng brother Chéng Hào, though without being explicit. In his essay “Doubts on Master Hú’s [Hú Hóng] Knowing Words,” Zhū expressed strong misgivings about Hú’s statement “If you wish to practice benevolence (rén 仁), you must first understand the ‘essential nature’ of benevolence,” insisting that in the many discussions of benevolence in the Confucian school “there is never the requirement that one must first understand the ‘essential nature’ of benevolence.”26 Now, the phrases “essential nature of benevolence” and “to know benevolence” were not invented by Hú Hóng but are Chéng Hào’s wording and appear in his acclaimed essay On Understanding the Nature of Humanity which states: “ The student must first of all understand the essential nature of benevolence. The man of benevolence forms one body with all things without any differentiation.”27 In the same chapter of Chéng Hào’s text it also says: “A student should understand the

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essential nature of benevolence (Chan: substance) and make it concretely part of his own self. Then all that is necessary is to nourish it with moral principles.”28 When Zhū encountered such comments by Chéng Hào, he disagreed strongly, but his criticisms are mostly vague and ambiguous. And yet the moment he encountered one of the Chéng school disciples, Zhū attacked them vociferously and without reserve! There was simply no room in Zhū’s system for this “direct realization of the essence of the mind” mode of self-cultivation. Chéng Yí believed that his own thought was the same as his elder brother Hào so, of course, Zhū was quite respectful toward Chéng Hào. But Chéng Hào had a deep affinity with the Confucian School of Mind, and while the Lù-Wáng School—the School of Mind—did not originate with Hào, still Lù Xiàngshān and Wáng Yángmíng both revered him. If even such a revered figure as Chéng Hào received Zhū’s censure (though not by name), one can imagine how he treated other scholars. We can only say that Zhū had decisively cut off all relations with the sudden teachings cultivated in the School of Mind. That he regarded the teachings of Buddhism, Daoism, and Lù Xiàngshān as heterodox goes without saying. But Zhū was critical of many of his own colleagues, from the theory of the “essential nature of benevolence” (réntǐ  仁體) espoused in the Húnán school of Hú Hóng and Zhāng Shì 張栻 (1133–80) to his contemporaries’ interpretations of the doctrine of “refinement and singleness” from the Book of History (Shàngshū 尚書) and the Mencian concepts of “holding and preserving” (cāocún 操存), “plumbing the mind” (jìn xīn 盡心), and “preserving the mind” (cún xīn 存心). Any text that so much as touched upon the direct realization of the mind’s essence was roundly rejected by Zhū. Following his resolution of the equilibrium-harmony problem, Zhū reformulated Neo-Confucian theory and praxis by putting the primal condition of the “universal operation of Heavenly principle” (tiānlǐ liúxíng 天理流行) at a distant remove in the sense that it could not be grasped directly (even if “mind” and “principle” remained intimately related categories in Zhū’s thought). Compared to Chán Buddhism or other Neo-Confucians, the “mind” (xīn  心) and “quiet-sitting” both occupied a lower value in the overall structure of Zhū’s intellectual system; mind was no longer the equivalent of human nature (xìng 性) as it was in Chán and other Neo-Confucian systems but could only act as a conduit to make human nature manifest. Quiet-sitting was no longer intended to illumine the mind and see into the nature but was reconceived as an aspect of the practice of reverence where it played an important but secondary function while the primary focus of praxis was taken over by “reverence” and the “comprehension of principle.”

The “Practice of Reverence” in the conduct of affairs It is generally recognized that the period around Zhū’s thirty-sixth year was crucial for the development of his thought. During this period, Zhū was deeply engaged in the so-called “equilibrium-harmony” problem, that is, the core practice within the southern transmission: “observing the mind before the emotions arise.” After this, Zhū produced several writings relating to his new theory of equilibrium and harmony that testify to a major development in his thought. Much has been written on Zhū’s work

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on the “equilibrium-harmony” issue and there is little the author can add to this. In the context of our primary theme, the relationship between quiet-sitting and the practice of reverence, the most important aspect of this shift in Zhū’s theory of praxis was his abandonment of the subitist mode in which the ground of the mind was realized directly; this was replaced with a gradualist approach focused on reverence and the fathoming of principle. This development meant that the student no longer had access to a direct realization of the nature of the mind in the sphere of moral practice. Other schools might have techniques for directly realizing the mind essence, but from the Chéng-Zhū perspective, these were amoral and so incompatible with Confucian values. In other words, cultivation of consciousness was limited to the development of the mind’s faculties, the unification and concentration of the mind, and its integration and deepening, all as a foundation for moral practice. The “primal state” of the mind could become manifest only at the end point of extended cultivation; this was a process which could not be forced. In this context, quiet-sitting as a concrete form of praxis changed from being a shortcut to the immediate apprehension of the unperturbed ground of the mind to a gradualist teaching intended to expand one’s whole person. In this way quiet-sitting became but one aspect of the practice of reverence. It is not difficult to understand the appeal of closely associating quiet-sitting or meditation to sudden enlightenment as it was in the School of Mind: the practitioner has direct access to the substance of the mind and need only turn inward to find it in himself. But from the perspective of Chéng-Zhū Neo-Confucianism this kind of practice is deeply flawed. First, such an attempt to seize control of the mind’s substance could easily lead to a kind of neurosis. The School of Mind presupposes that “mind is identical to principle” (xīn jí lǐ 心即理), but in actual practice this “principle” which is supposedly identical to the mind may never, in fact, become manifest. To the contrary, such a forced and artificial effort could easily produce an overwrought psychophysical condition often referred to as “the identity of psycho-physical function with the true nature” (zuòyòng shì xìng 作用是性). Although the “identity of psychophysical function and the true nature” approach could lead to a heightened acuity of the body, the student paid a price because, if the body were made to function as the vehicle for his entire value system, the body, lacking proper moral guidance for its actions, merely became the equivalent of consciousness as pure physiological function.29 Further, even if the sudden teaching of the School of Mind could make the mind’s essence manifest, the moment such a mind begins to interact with things and affairs it will become alarmed, lose its bearings, and become utterly ineffective. Once the student steps out into the world from the confines of his glorious self-enclosed mind this so-called enlightened mind is sure to lose its way and become immobilized because it lacks the direction provided by principles and guidelines. The “practice of reverence” in the Chéng-Zhū school was specifically meant to correct the flaws it saw in the self-cultivation practices of the School of Mind. Later generations of scholars used the term “practice of quietude” in place of the term “quiet-sitting.” As already discussed, the term “practice of quietude” derives from Zhōu Dūnyí’s Explanation of the Diagram of the Supreme Ultimate which says: “ Taking quietude as fundamental, [the sage] establishes himself as the ultimate standard for man.” Here “the practice of quietude” is seen as leading to the non-duality of “man

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and the supreme principle of the cosmos.” The two terms “practice of reverence” (zhǔ jìng 主敬) and “practice of quietude” (zhǔ jìng 主靜) are not only homophonous in Chinese but were also closely associated in practice. When certain scholars in later generations promoted Zhōu Dūnyí’s “practice of quietude”30 it was in fact identical to the “practice of reverence.” However, seen from the perspective of the historical development of “the practice of reverence,” it is evident that the Chéng-Zhū school drew a clear line of demarcation between the two forms of practice. The “practice of reverence” is not the same as the “practice of quietude,” but “reverence” could be said to include “quietude” within it. Elsewhere, I have stated that “reverence” is a “dynamic form of quiet-sitting.” Although this phrase is my own and does serve a certain heuristic function, it is not completely satisfactory. Reverence is commonly defined as the interpenetration of movement and stillness and may therefore be given the somewhat forced explanation as an active form of quiet-sitting. But to call the practice of reverence “active quiet-sitting” is still a misnomer because in order to clarify how the practice of quietude in the School of Mind differed from reverence, the latter must be understood to include both the factors of the regulation of one’s entire body as well as the regulation of one’s behavior. The regulation of the body might be called “quiet-sitting in its dynamic form” in the sense that the body itself possesses, a priori, the potential to be regulated. Thus, the body, whether moving or stationary always has this kind of inherent, organic capacity. But “regulation of behavior” clearly includes the element of the “full comprehension of principles,” consequently it encompasses far more than what is commonly meant by quietsitting. Furthermore, the regulation of the body is not, in fact, completely a priori. In addition to being a product of nature, the body is also a product of society; even if the body has its own biological imperatives as a part of its physiological makeup, it still possesses the principles underlying social standards within it.31 Because the element of norms and standards (which is to say [moral] principles) is essential to the “practice of reverence” and because reverence includes the “comprehension of [these] principles” its scope is much broader than “quiet-sitting,” and we should no longer use the latter term to characterize it. The most basic meaning of the Chéng-Zhū “practice of reverence” is “to concentrate on oneness” (zhǔ yī 主一). This “concentration on oneness” is not limited to quietsitting but is also exercised within the activities of daily life. With its focus on quietude, the term “quiet-sitting” may be said to belong to the lexicon of the cultivation of consciousness, but “reverence” belongs to the vocabulary of behavior or conduct. Here, “behavior” covers a broad area from one’s immediate physical condition to all the activities that take place in the course of daily life. Thus, the shift from quiet-sitting to reverence might be said to be a turn from a discourse of consciousness to a discourse of corporality (xíngqì 形氣), from a quiet-sitting discourse to a behavioral discourse. “Concentration on oneness” is the central thread that integrates both aspects of praxis. More specifically, the practice of reverence would encompass: 1. Quiet-sitting. 2. An attitude intensely focused on the bearing of the body. 3. A mind continuously focused amidst activity, and 4. The full comprehension of principles. In this section of the chapter I will explore the first three and in the next section I will return to the relationship between reverence and the plumbing of principles.

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Reverence integrates movement and stillness, and at first the practice of reverence overlaps with quiet-sitting. Quiet-sitting or meditation is a value-neutral practice. Its significance lies outside its formal attributes, which are determined by the beliefs of each religion that practices it. Not only does the practice of reverence not conflict with quiet-sitting, but in terms of body-mind discipline, the practice of reverence is also inseparable from the method of quiet-sitting. So it makes perfect sense that both Chéng Yí and Zhū Xī greatly valued both reverence and quiet-sitting. As stated above, the essential definition of reverence is that it integrates or interpenetrates movement and stillness. But the practice of reverence is fundamentally related to the “accumulation of moral virtue” and the “full comprehension of principle.” It is this in particular that is a characteristic feature of Chéng-Zhū Neo-Confucian praxis. But in terms of the actual sequence of practice it is the cultivation and nourishing of consciousness itself that takes place in quiet-sitting which, in fact, takes priority in the overall program of study. It is no coincidence that both Chéng Yí and Zhū Xī promoted self-cultivation in quietude. One of the most basic designations for Neo-Confucianism is “the Learning of the Way of Heaven and Human Nature” because it taught the interpenetration of the cosmic order (i.e., heaven) and the individual human endowment (i.e., human nature). Moreover, this interpenetration was seen as present at the deepest layer of human consciousness. It was a core tenet of all Neo-Confucians, whether of the School of Principle or the School of Mind (and this would include Chéng Yí, Zhū Xī, Lù Xiàngshān, and Wáng Yángmíng) that a profound transformation of consciousness should form the basis for moral and spiritual growth. When not engaged with affairs, the practitioner should nourish and cultivate his original mind, meaning that he devoted himself to transforming his consciousness at the deepest level so that his mind and psychophysical energies formed a unity and were not allowed to drift and roam about uncontrolled. Cultivating the mind in quietude was one of the central aspects of the practice of reverence and could be said to be both the most introspective and most preliminary basic step in this process. True moral praxis could begin to develop only after the practitioner had cultivated the mind so that he awakened this deeper strata of consciousness, made lucid its functioning and opened-up a channel or conduit between consciousness, his nature, and the body. Although the Chéng-Zhū school opposed the more radical approach of a direct assault on the deepest level of consciousness in search of (sudden) enlightenment, nevertheless, Zhū repeatedly emphasized that the understanding of principles and proper conduct could fully develop only after a comprehensive clarification of the very structure of consciousness, free of all psychological impediment and conflict, and it was for this reason that quiet-sitting could serve as an excellent foundation. When he discussed reverence, Zhū often used terms similar to those used in conjunction with quiet-sitting in the School of Mind: terms like “awaken,” “alert,” “constantly aware and alert,” and “calm and clear.” Such terms are primarily concerned with the spiritual dimension of the mind and students should never treat them merely as objects for intellectual study. I list them briefly below along with some examples of Zhū’s use of them:

1. “Wake up” or “arouse” (huànxǐng 喚醒): “When the original mind is not illumined, it is dark and muddled as if one were asleep and unaware of his body.

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He must arouse himself into consciousness. It is just as if you are beginning to doze off and have to force yourself to stay awake; you must keep at it until you’re finally alert. It seems to me that the most important thing in self-cultivation lies in this effort to wake up and stay alert.” “Dissoluteness and recklessness are caused by darkness and turbidity. If you can wake up then the darkness and turbidity will disappear of itself. Once free of the darkness, you will naturally be free of dissoluteness.”32 2. “Alert” or “recollect” (tí 提): “You just have to constantly keep yourself alert, after a while it will become second nature.” “The student must constantly keep the mind [bright and] alert as when the sun has just arisen, then all kinds of depravity cease of themselves. The true mind is self-illuminating and all-encompassing; if you make an effort to maintain vigilance (tíxǐng 提省) that will be good.”33 3. “Constantly aware and alert” (cháng xīngxīng 常惺惺): “To keep the mind constantly aware and alert, then to regulate it with rules and guidelines as well, is the way to nurture the mind both from within and without.”34 “When the mind is constantly aware and alert it will naturally be without adventitious thoughts.”35 4. “Calm and clear” (zhànrán 湛然): “In singleness lies the key to making one’s mind calm and clear.”36 “The mind should be ‘refined and single.’ In times of quiescence abide in this calmness and clarity and you will not become exhausted or impeded. Like a mirror, anything you encounter will be just fine. The mind should be tightly drawn and collected.”37 The first two examples above refer to initiating awareness in the mind. The latter two refer to the maintenance of the awareness. More terms and phrases like these could be mentioned but this is unnecessary for our present purposes. All of the above language refers to a type of practice centered on the deepest levels of consciousness and this would also include the practice of quiet-sitting. Such language is related to Buddhism and Daoism and is suspiciously similar to Chán. But all forms of meditation (jìngzuò) require the practitioner to avoid falling into a state of turbidity and maintain the vitality and awareness which is the true essence of the mind. It is noteworthy that Zhū rejected a forced approach to the practice of self-alertness instead emphasizing a middle course between neglect and force (wù wàng wù zhù 勿忘勿助 [Mencius]). But this middle-course approach is common in discussions of quiet-sitting “technique” and is also present in Buddhist and Daoist practice. In summary we may say that Zhū indirectly inherited such phraseology from Chán through people like the Chéng disciple Xiè Liángzuǒ (謝良佐 1050–1103), which is not surprising given its common currency in the cultural discourse of the time. Next, besides being concerned with consciousness, the practice of reverence also stressed the unification of the body itself, or what is referred to as “rectitude and solemnity”: “Do not be lax or frivolous, be correct and solemn, this is to maintain singleness.”38 In his talks with his students, Zhū did not feel it necessary to say too much about topics like reverence. Rather, he wanted the student to “taste it for himself.” The particulars of this personal experience included injunctions like: “be

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ordered and solemn,” “be dignified and grave,” “adjust your countenance,” “set your thoughts in order,” “regulate your dress and dignify your gaze,” all phrases he repeated often.39 This kind of attentiveness is clearly a form of “ritualization.” Its purpose is to promote the unification of the body and place it in a condition wherein form, physical temperament, and spirit are in alignment. The words Zhū used to describe this physical state often implied an internalization of outer physical attributes (see below), but their basic purpose was to concentrate and consolidate one’s entire person through a continuously introspective attitude. Zhū often used the word “awe” (wēi 威) to explicate the word “reverence”: for example, “ ‘Reverent’ is just like the word ‘awe.’ ”40 And, “What is reverence but something similar to the word ‘awe.’ ”41 The significance of the word “awe” becomes clear when we regard it as an expression of the inner unity of the body-mind. In modern Chinese, the words “reverence,” “awe,” and “solemnity” (yánsù 嚴肅) all indicate an attitude of seriousness and rigor in one’s conduct and their use in Chéng-Zhū discourse is quite similar. From terms like “constantly aware and alert,” “awaken” or “arouse,” and “nourish and cultivate,” which are concerned with consciousness itself to “rectitude and solemnity” and “reverence and awe,” terms concerned with the proper attitude toward the corporal self, the practice of reverence required that a unified state of the bodymind be extended into the affairs of daily life so that one’s entire person merged with these activities. These “affairs” may be said to constitute the object of focal awareness while the transformation of one’s psychophysical temperament acts as the object of subsidiary awareness. Thus focal awareness and subsidiary awareness make up the entire structure of “affairs.” This is an embodied form of “concentration on oneness,” or a “concentrative unity” amid the execution of affairs. It is one of the most striking features of Chéng-Zhū Neo-Confucianism. Let us examine a few examples of Zhū’s comments in this regard:

1. [In your letter] you say that “concentration on oneness” and “concentration amidst affairs” (zhǔ shì 主事) are different from each other. In my view this is not quite correct. “Concentration on oneness” simply means “to be concentrated and focused”: When one is not engaged with affairs [the mind] is quiet, calm and undisturbed by movement. When engaged with affairs one simply responds to each of them according to their changing circumstances without becoming distracted by anything else. This is why “concentration on affairs” is, in fact, the same as “concentration on oneness.”42 2. It stands to reason that the most difficult time to apply oneself to the practice of reverence is when one is occupied with affairs. But when we regard the sages and see the profound reverence evident in their words, deeds and handling of affairs, it is clear that this term “reverence” was never intended for times of silence and inactivity. It is precisely in such difficult situations that you must hold most firmly to it [reverence] so that movement and stillness become one.43 3. Reverence should never be spoken of in a general, vague, or confused way; it requires close examination in each instance. If we were to speak of its essentials, it is to not be reckless or unmindful.44 4. “Concentration on oneness” is a good gloss for the word “reverence.” It is essential that one not regard some affairs as important and others trivial. Just give yourself

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fully and wholeheartedly to the matter at hand. Do this when engaged with affairs; do this when not engaged with affairs.45 5. If affairs arise but you try to hold to quietude and obstinately fail to respond, then the mind is simply dead. When you are not engaged with affairs, reverence is still present; when so engaged, reverence is present amid the affairs. With or without affairs, one’s reverence is continuous and unbroken. For instance, when you receive guests, reverence is present in the act of receiving. After the guests leave, reverence is still present within.46 Each of the above quotes is concerned with reverence as interpenetrating both engagement and nonengagement with affairs, while stressing that the practitioner always maintain an attitude of continuous attentiveness in all matters without distinguishing between important and trivial affairs. The world of humankind is made up of affairs and events and how numerous they are indeed! It is therefore extremely difficult to pay close attention to each matter, and yet it is precisely within the arena of “events and affairs” that one must exercise reverence. “Affairs” constitute the focal point of awareness; within the field of activity, they integrate the dynamic structure of visible “forms” with the underlying flow of “spiritual energies” (shénqì 神氣), unseen yet sensed. Taken together, form (xíng 形), psychophysical energy (qì 氣), spirit (shén 神), and affairs (shì 事) form a fully integrated organic body. This type of organic whole is itself founded on two kinds of integration. 1. The integration of the physical form of the corporal self with consciousness (or spirit) and 2. The integration of one’s person—made up of form, psychophysical energy, and spirit—with events and affairs. Because each instance of “reverence” unites the internal and external aspects of the actor, in theory, there is no obstruction between spiritual energies and physical form or blockages that might impede the flow between form, psychophysical energy, spirit, and affairs. Rather, there is an organic sense of unity that pervades the entire performance of affairs. In so far as the “practice of reverence” is a phrase connoting activity and the concrete unity of form, psychophysical energy, spirit, and affairs, it might be thought to represent an advance over theories of quiet-sitting. But reverence is, in fact, consistent with the worldview of all three teachings (Confucianism, Daoism, and Buddhism) each of which envisioned such a concrete harmony as an ideal. F. S. C. Northrop, in his discussion of the Chinese worldview, emphasizes, in particular, its organic, aesthetic sense of holism as characteristic of the Sinitic religious tradition. In his view, the Confucian school inclines toward a “differentiated aesthetic continuum” while the Daoist school inclines toward an “undifferentiated aesthetic continuum.”47 Using his language, we would rather say that all three teachings have a tendency toward a “holistic differentiated aesthetic continuum.” This is evident in Daoism in Zhuāngzǐ’s statement: “[The sage’s] being one was one and his not being one was one.”48; in the Chán school’s notion that “Walking is Chán, sitting is Chán”49; and the Confucian practice of reverence which teaches “With or without affairs, reverence remains continuous and unbroken.” Thus, all three schools may be said to take the “differentiated aesthetic continuum” as an ideal. In all cases, this “differentiated aesthetic continuum” presupposes the subject as a body in action in which “the subject” signifies that body and mind have formed a homogeneous corporate body. This is the embodied or concrete holism spoken of above.

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Eastern philosophy in general has a very strong interest in the philosophy of consciousness and Neo-Confucianism is no exception. However, compared to the embodied or concrete holism found in the tradition of the School of Mind, the embodied holism in Chéng-Zhū reverence practice is more obvious. This is because the focus of the latter is on “affairs” and the entire field of action is driven by “affairs,” consequently, the holistic structure of the field of action is clearer and the human spirit develops in perfect conformity within the context of affairs. In the case of the School of Mind, on the other hand, embodied holism commonly took the transformation of one’s psychophysical makeup as the integrative element. Consciousness was considered to be an aspect of this more diffuse process of the transformation of qì 氣 which lacked any definite focal point.50 Even if their emphasis on concreteness fell more fully on the acting subject, the emphasis in Buddhism and Daoism (i.e., the School of Mind) is directed to the immediate physical subject rather than emphasizing the primacy of affairs. It is clear that “affairs” are the focal point in the practice of reverence, but what is meant by “affairs”? When we analyze the term closely it is easy to see that “affairs” have a knowledge structure. This structure could be knowledge of a social nature and, in this context, social knowledge refers to “ritual” (lǐ 裡). That is, there must be a basis for knowing what is appropriate and what inappropriate in one’s conduct. Now, what is this basis? In Chéng-Zhū Neo-Confucianism the answer is clearly “moral principle” or “pattern” (lǐ 理), but the concrete expression of this “principle” in the course of personal conduct is “ritual.” “Principle” and “ritual” are homophones and are also closely related semantically. “Ritual” is glossed by Zhū Xī as “the regulation and adornment of the principle of Heaven, and the ritual order in human affairs.”51 In Chéng-Zhū thought the practice of reverence connotes the unity of form, psychophysical temperament, spirit and affairs, and, more specifically, the unification of these four elements with ritual. The notion of “rectitude and solemnity” introduced in this section is in fact an aspect of ritual practice and I will treat this aspect of physical form as an example of “a ritualized conception of the body.” The relationship between ritual and the body was first dealt with theoretically by Xúnzǐ 荀子 (fl. 298–38).52 Later, this relationship was further clarified by the NeoConfucians. The Chéng-Zhū theory of praxis is filled with the spirit of ritual and we will see how ritual is seen as permeating the functioning and development of the five sense organs and the entire body: In one’s words there should be something to teach others. In one’s activities there should be something to serve as a model to others. In the morning, something should be done. In the evening, something should be realized. At every moment something should be nourished. And in every instant something should be preserved.53

These are Zhāng Zǎi’s (張載 1020–77) famous “six sayings” (liù yoˇ u 六有). In these sayings the grammatical subject is the subject that carries out the actions while the predicate refers to the standards guiding behavior. The “six sayings” are consistent with Zhāng Zǎi’s emphasis on ritual; indeed, they are two aspects of the same thing. In discussion with his students, Zhū Xī stated that even in quiet-sitting one should not

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only devote oneself to preserving the mind and he specifically brought up Zhāng’s six sayings to explain that the true practice of concentration on singleness lies within Zhāng’s basic framework of “words,” “activities,” “the morning,” “the evening,” “each moment,” and “every instant” through which one gives full expression to the various modes of teaching others, serving as a model to others, doing, realizing, nourishing, and preserving. It is not hard to understand why Zhū, who strictly observed the teaching of reverence, could describe himself as “At ease in the field of ritual norms, immersed and imperturbable in the abode of benevolence and righteousness.”54

The practice of reverence and the examination of principles In Chéng-Zhū thought, part of the connotation of the word “principle” includes the idea of “ritual.” “Principle” and “ritual” are closely intertwined and not always easy to distinguish. But the key reason why the Chéng-Zhū school held up “reverence” as a replacement for the “practice of quietude” or quiet-sitting ultimately lies in its expanded notion of “principle.” From the “mind is identical to principle” perspective of the School of Mind, the student need only harness his consciousness, turn inward, and directly experience it within himself resulting in the natural manifestation of the Principle of Heaven. If we were to interpret the “mind is principle” doctrine in the terminology of modern philosophy we might call it the “moral autonomy” of innate knowing.55 Here, the “original mind” (běnxīn 本心) of moral autonomy is not a theoretical proposition. Rather, it freely manifests as an organic, experiential process. But from the Chéng-Zhū perspective, this free mind, or mind of moral autonomy, that the School of Mind believed manifests itself so brilliantly in one’s consciousness simply doesn’t exist. In Chéng-Zhū theory the mind has a natural capacity to fully incorporate moral principle within it but the mind is not identical to principle as it is in the School of Mind. Moreover, this capacity to “incorporate principle” required the practitioner to pass through the complex process of the investigation of things and the exhaustive knowing of principle. Only then would external and internal principles be simultaneously realized so that “mind” and “principle” truly coincided in substance. The idea of reverence as “quiet-sitting in motion” expresses only one aspect of reverence practice and it is a relatively superficial aspect because the reason why Chéng-Zhū promoted reverence instead of quietude was not primarily a matter of movement versus stillness. Rather, it was an issue of “principle,” that is to say, the problem of the origin or foundation of principle within the mind. The strongest doubt practitioners of reverence had about the method of quiet-sitting in the School of Mind was that the latter’s method had no way of providing a legitimate foundation for moral affairs. That is, their quiet-sitting practice could, at best, illuminate and calm consciousness, but this expanded mind of pure consciousness lacked (socio-ethical and rational) standards, so that the moment it had to respond to daily affairs it was not competent to fulfill its responsibilities. The practice of reverence was meant to resolve this difficulty.

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In the second section of this chapter we mentioned that Zhū Xī affirmed a form of quiet-sitting practice “without thought” but also a form of quiet-sitting “with thought.” In this regard, Zhū’s theory of quiet-sitting clearly differed from his predecessors. In his discussions of quiet-sitting, Zhū did not think that the practitioner’s consciousness should be continuously fixated within a state of pure quietude; just the opposite, movement and quietude were in constant flux and consciousness itself was attuned to the natural alternation of yin and yang. Zhū’s views on the mind were strongly influenced by a cosmological metaphor. Or perhaps, for Zhū, the relationship between the natural processes of the “cosmic order” (tiāntǐ 天體) and the processes of the “mind” (xīntǐ 心體) was less metaphorical and more a kind of premodern scientific conception. According to this model wherein Heaven (or Nature) and the mind share the same structure, the natural sequence of Heaven made up of spring, summer, fall and winter; the Way of Heaven made up of yuán 元, hēng 亨, lì 利, and zhēn 貞; and the four cardinal virtues of benevolence (rén 仁), righteousness (yì 義), ritual (lǐ 裡), and wisdom (zhì 智) are typologically parallel. In Chinese cosmology, the above four groups of essential elements are further reduced to form the dyadic structure of yin and yang. Yin and yang alternate with each other unceasingly. In this process yin which represents stillness and quietude serves as the foundation for the generative process wherein all things are nurtured and brought to maturity. Thus, according to this cosmogenic scheme, zhēn (i.e., the last in the Way of the Heaven sequence above) gives rise to yuán (i.e., the first in the sequence), just as winter contains within it all that is needed for the birth of spring. In theories of self-cultivation, the mind is also understood as operating in alternating phases of movement and stillness, yin and yang. Just as consciousness alternates between the phases of yin and yang, in quiet-sitting this process is reflected in the cultivation of both the quiet state “without thought” and the dynamic state of “proper thought.” We have already discussed cultivation of the quiet state above. The special characteristic of reverence practice lies in its emphasis on “movement within quietude, yang within yin.” This kind of movement in quietude, yang within yin structure belongs first of all to the (metaphysical) intersection between the realms of being and non-being, movement and quietude, and yin and yang; an extremely subtle ontological concept parallel to Zhōu Dūnyí’s famous statement “The Ultimate of Non-being and also the Great Ultimate” (wú jí ér tài jí 無極而太極). Zhū emphasized again and again that quiet-sitting is not merely to sit there in a stagnant or stupefied state. Rather one must personally experience “movement within quietude” or “being within quietude.” This kind of language appears repeatedly in Zhū’s writings and that of other NeoConfucians showing that Zhū felt tremendous trepidation about concepts like absolute quietude and pure emptiness. Zhū’s discussions indicate that even in the state of perfect quiescent, there are still (moral and rational) standards latent within consciousness which it must continuously seek to awaken. By calling on these rational principles at the deepest strata of consciousness, the student transforms his mind so that he has an ethical foundation upon which he can rely when he later responds to affairs. Of all the Confucian classics, the Fù 復 hexagram section of the Book of Changes most clearly deals with the transition between being and nonbeing and it is for good reason that it served as a major resource for Neo-Confucian discussions of self-cultivation.56

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The most subtle yet most fundamental addition the practice of reverence makes to the “practice of quietude” lies in its apprehension of “being” within absolute quiescence and nonbeing and the realization of the quasi-transcendent essence of the mind through the appropriation of the transcendent method of quiet-sitting.57 Expanding on this, Zhū’s practice of reverence further emphasized that quiet-sitting is not merely a kind of nonthinking, there is also quiet-sitting that employs thought: “It is precisely when nourishing and cultivating the mind during quiet-sitting that one should examine his thoughts; only then is it true nourishing and cultivating.” If the mind functions through alternating of phases of yin and yang, motion and stillness, then even when it is perfectly quiescent, this rhythm of alternating transformations is still present. Therefore, when the student’s consciousness is turned inward, it will certainly pass through a phase of nourishing and cultivating (i.e., a phase without thought), but after the mind has gone through this phase it will naturally cycle back into the phase in which it reflects on “moral and rational principles.” As the mind “thinks and reflects,” after a time “moral principle” will naturally become incorporated within the state of quietude and it is in this condition that the mind is prepared to engage with affairs. Zhū called this state “bright vacuity and quietude,” as opposed to “dark vacuity and quietude.” “Bright” and “dark” are terms commonly used in traditions of spiritual selfcultivation. In general, the Daoist school valued darkness. For instance, “darkness and more darkness” (often translated as “mystery upon mystery”), a well-known phrase from the first chapter of the Lǎozǐ, employs the metaphor of darkness. The Confucian school, on the other hand, valued brightness, the images of brilliance and illumination in the Book of Changes being, perhaps, the best example in the classical literature. Zhū’s “bright vacuity and quietude” represents an advance over the imagery in the Book of Changes. Zhū formulated a new concept of moral praxis based on the ontological proposition that critical standards were inherent, a priori, as moral principles in the psyche in its most open and quiescent state. With proper cultivation, these principles would naturally and unerringly issue forth in the course of concrete moral action. The differences between the practice of reverence and the practice of quietude are not limited to their different relationship to the practice of quiet-sitting. The most salient feature of the practice of reverence as an advance over the practice of quietude lies in the former’s response to the failure of “quietude theory” to provide guiding ethical principles. This was done by linking the practice of reverence to the quasi-epistemological theory of the “investigation of things and the comprehension of principle.” This is the third improvement that reverence practice made to the practice of quietude and it is also the feature most emblematic of Chéng-Zhū Neo-Confucianism. It goes without saying that the “investigation of things and the fathoming of principle” is an essential component of Chéng-Zhū Neo-Confucianism which carries implications both for its ontology and its theory of praxis. But it also clear that the “investigation of things and the fathoming of principle” has an epistemological component and for this reason I refer to it as “quasi-epistemological.” Since I have published an article devoted to the topic of the investigation of things I will not discuss it in detail here.58 In terms of praxis, the reason why the practice of reverence is closely related to the investigation of things and the fathoming of principle is that, as discussed, it is the intrinsic nature of human consciousness to oscillate constantly between quietude and activity. Moral

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matters can never be comprehended through introspection alone; there must also be an outward engagement with affairs, that is to say, a concrete identification with “affairs.” Or, put another way, one must “deal with things as things.” What is this “dealing with things as things”? If one does not understand the principle of something, there is no basis from which to “deal” with it. The meaning of the single term “principle” is multifaceted, in Chéng-Zhū thought carrying many implications from the metaphysical down to the most concrete and practical. Even in the early stages of learning it is necessary for the student to grasp the epistemological significance of principle, later, he will be able to respond to affairs based on these principles, taking the first step toward “dealing with things as things.” Even so, the “investigation of things and the fathoming of principles” is, in the end, a form of self-cultivation that is quasi-epistemological in nature rather than an epistemological proposition because the Chéng-Zhū notion of principle as inherent in things is not the same as the notion of principles as laws of nature in modern science. The Chéng-Zhū notion of principle as inherent in things refers both to principle as “that by which things are the way they are” (descriptive) and principle as the standard for “the way things ought to be” (prescriptive). Zhū emphasized that the examination of principles was a complex, multifaceted, and protracted process. In Zhū’s system, one cannot directly grasp the full ontological significance of “principlein-itself.” If the prescriptive implications of “the way things ought to be” were not exhaustively investigated first, then there could be no way to fully grasp the ontological principles underlying all things. Borrowing the language of Alfred North Whitehead, “connectedness” is the essence of all things,59 and one might also say that it is their “principle.” Just as “connectedness” generates continuously and without cease, so does principle; each generative process gives rise to a thousand more. Thus, fundamentally, the myriad principles underlying things and affairs are inexhaustible and can never be fully realized. However, in Chéng-Zhū thought it is believed that as many individual cases of things accumulate over time, one can infer the underlying connectivity of principle in its various dimensions: the metaphysical, the concrete, the prescriptive, the objective all unite and (outer) affairs and the (inner) psyche are brought to completion simultaneously. Since the fathoming of principles can never be achieved at a single try, the investigation of a broad variety of things is a prerequisite and Chéng-Zhū thought strongly exhorts the student to investigate things in the course of daily activities. The starting point for the “investigation of things and the exhausting of principle” is the constant interaction between mind and principle, each acting as a stimulus for the other. The end point is the unification of principle and mind: the mind of “bright vacuity and quietude” that can comprehend all affairs and things. Accompanying the practice of the “investigation of things and the exhausting of principles” is the practice of responding to affairs; in this way knowledge and action both advance in unison. Theoretically, “responding to affairs” requires a slightly higher degree of value judgment than the “understanding of things and affairs,” but in actual practice the two are, of course, difficult to separate. In the doctrine of the unity of knowledge and action of the Wáng Yángmíng school, moral knowing and one’s naturally endowed sense of value are two different aspects of the same action, and in Wáng’s thought it is very difficult to separate “knowing things” [knowledge]

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from “responding to things” (action). But the Chéng-Zhū school does not believe in this kind of sudden teaching. For them, the moral judgment implicit in responding to things is designated as “righteousness.” Speaking in the abstract, “principle” is the objective standard and “righteousness” is the subjective standard. Practically speaking, “righteousness” always carries the connotation of “principle” as seen in the following statement: “As it resides in things, it is called ‘principle;’ when engaged with things, it is called ‘righteousness.’ ” In addition to addressing the relationship between reverence and righteousness here we should also discuss the relationship between principle and righteousness, which is even more important. The juxtaposition of the two terms “reverence” and “righteousness” originates in the Book of Changes, which states: “[The morally perfect man] uses reverence to straighten his inner life and uses righteousness to square his outer life. With reverence and righteousness thus established, his virtue is never solitary.” The Chéng-Zhū interpretation of reverence and righteousness is the most significant one in the history of Confucian hermeneutics. Seen as complementary, reverence and righteousness were conceived as mutually reinforcing concepts, with reverence to straighten the inner life and righteousness to square the outer life, as stated in the Book of Changes. However, strictly speaking, the two are not completely parallel in the sense that reverence includes righteousness within it. Ideally, the state of consciousness present in the “practice of reverence” is none other than the mind of “bright vacuity and quietude” that comprehends principle as both “that by which things are the way they are” and the “way things ought to be.” In “righteousness,” on the other hand, the emphasis is on “the way things ought to be” and so “righteousness” is a supplementary teaching to “reverence.” When the practitioner responds to things with a mind of “bright vacuity and quietude” he is able to manage affairs by coordinating his knowledge of standards and criteria with his moral sense. The most significant improvement the practice of reverence makes to quietsitting, then, is to make awareness of principle (or standards and regulations) an integral part of theories of praxis. Because this development represented such a major divergence from the tradition of quiet-sitting, it was slow to exert an influence and in fact elicited intense skepticism. However, from the Chéng-Zhū perspective, the practice of reverence emphasizes that, from self-realization at the most subtle levels of consciousness to the broadest, most diverse application of one’s mental capacities, there is a kind of “spiritual core” that functions as a unifying thread and ensures that all human activity possesses a definite orientation. This kind of spiritual boldness is surely worthy of our attention.

Conclusion: An alternative method of quiet-sitting If we were to understand reverence as merely a type of “concentration practice,” then there would be nothing particularly unique about it, because the concentration of the mind and body in order to trigger a breakthrough in consciousness is a quite common form of spiritual self-cultivation. Limiting ourselves to the Chinese tradition of philosophical and religious Daoism we find various methods like “obtaining the one” (dé yī 得一; Lǎozǐ), “penetrating the one” (tōng yú yī 通於一; Zhuāngzǐ), and

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“guarding the one” (shǒu yī 守一; religious Daoism). These techniques naturally have minor methodological differences, but in so far as they seek to concentrate the powers of the body-mind in order to transform ordinary consciousness they can be considered similar kinds of “concentration practice.” If we consider the reverence as a form of “concentration practice” in the broad sense, then Chéng-Zhū reverence practice is not that revolutionary and it is not difficult to find parallels with Buddhist and Daoist forms of practice. The uniqueness of the practice of reverence lies in the way it shifted the field of “concentration” from a practice that was removed from the body and affairs and expanded it into a practice that engaged the body and affairs. With this expansion, the nature of “concentrative unity” also underwent a subtle but far-reaching change: It went from an “internally directed” practice to an “outwardly directed” practice, from a disengaged and transcendent mode of practice to a mode that could realize unity amid the multiplicity and variety of daily existence. But this is not to say that the Chéng-Zhū school ever denied the importance of “quiet-sitting” and the “practice of quietude”; it merely viewed them as having a more limited role. Though Chéng-Zhū teachings replaced the practice of quietude with the practice of reverence, the relationship between the two practices was not dialectical because the practice of quietude and quiet-sitting always remained at the core of the practice of reverence. It is easy to understand why most schools of meditation (jìng-zuò) encourage practitioners to withdraw temporarily from the world, curtail physical activity, and devote themselves to turning inward. For it is just such a letting-go combined with deep inner concentration that can lead to a breakthrough in consciousness and the transformation of everything from the body-mind to the very essence of the world’s existence. This is the meaning of Zhuāngzǐ’s “Penetrating the one, all things find completion.” This kind of disengaged self-realization is quite potent and it is not difficult to find other testimonies from those who have undergone similar spiritual experiences. As a transcultural, trans-ethnic, trans-religious, and transgender phenomenon, like wearing clothes or eating food, the very universality of quiet-sitting is itself persuasive proof of its effectiveness. Chéng-Zhū practitioners were of course not unaware of its function, to the contrary, it was precisely because they understood the complexities and difficulties inherent in the “dynamic form of quiet-sitting” that they repeatedly emphasized the importance of practicing self-cultivation in quietude, a fundamentally disengaged form of quiet-sitting. We might put it this way: the “disengaged form of quiet-sitting” can be seen as the structural foundation of the “practice of reverence”; it is only when the foundation has been made secure that real work on the “construction” of reverence practice can begin. If we were to restrict the purpose of quiet-sitting to “enlightenment,” “selfrealization,” or words to that effect, then there is a kind of inconsistency in the shift from the practice of quietude to the practice of reverence. First, it goes without saying that neither the Daoist religion of inner alchemy nor the various schools of Chán pursued the practice of reverence, and that even within Neo-Confucianism itself we find an array of different voices and opinions. An example of this can be found in the views of the Ming dynasty Neo-Confucian Chén Báishā, founder of the Jiāngmén school, who abandoned the practice of reverence preferring to carry on the tradition

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of quietism stating: “Our Way has a grand master, the immortal Zhū Zǐyáng [=Zhū Xī].”60 With regard to praxis, the entire development of the Wáng Yángmíng school can be said to be a reaction against the practice of reverence in the broad sense. Short of making radical revisions to the meaning of the “reverence,” its close association with the Chéng-Zhū school is extremely clear, as is its rejection by later Confucians. It is not that Chéng-Zhū followers were unaware of the wondrous, almost magical effects of the practice of quietude but, in their view, this was precisely where its dangers lay because, unless this kind of practice was properly used, it could easily diverge from the core values of Confucianism. The Confucian school had always promoted the values of “the sincerity (chéng 誠) and enlightenment (míng 明) of the world.” Here the world includes the natural world in which the myriad things exist, the ethical world of human relationships, and the world of the individual psyche. In the quietistic mode of practice these core values, or at least some part of them, could easily be lost sight of. The natural and ethical realms, in particular, were likely to be neglected. Even if this neglect was only temporary and the student could always reconnect with them, from the perspective of the Chéng-Zhū scholar, this reconnection would be “incomplete” or “indirect.”61 On the other hand, not only was the practice of reverence in keeping with the original spirit of early Confucianism, it also matched the new spirit of post-Song dynasty Confucianism and the inception of the ideal of “complete substance and great function.” How the “substance—function” mode of thought arose in Neo-Confucianism is still not entirely clear. Seen as an internal development within Neo-Confucianism, preQin Confucian classics like the Book of Changes served as prime sources. Seen from the perspective of intellectual history, it was the Neo-Daoist metaphysics (xuánxué 玄學) of the Wei and Jin dynasties (220–420), like the works of Wáng Bì (王弼 226–49), that mark its historical origins. Regardless of its earlier history, from Chéng Yí onward the notion of “substance and function” quickly became a paradigmatic mode of thought in Neo-Confucianism. Zhū Xī strongly promoted this concept and here, too, he was the key figure in its development.62 Phrases like “complete substance and great function,” “comprehending substance and actualizing it as function” were logical expressions of “substance—function theory.” According to the basic tenets of this theory, all things (here “things” include “affairs” and “events”) are inherently oriented toward the Way (Dào 道). They are all expressions of the Way. If a single thing were “not Dào,” then the Way is incomplete. In this sense, substance—function theory is a Chinese version of pantheism. The theory of substance and function is Neo-Confucianism’s most important inheritance from the teaching on “sincerity and enlightenment” in the Doctrine of the Mean and the teaching of “no recklessness” or “no wantonness” in the Book of Changes. The full significance of the practice of reverence clearly emerges when we see it in the context of substance/function theory. The reason why “disengaged quiet-sitting,” as I have called it, serves as a necessary but not sufficient condition as a basis for reverence is that the Chéng-Zhū school viewed quiet-sitting as limited to the mind, thus creating an irreparable division between mind and things. According to substance–function theory, substance and function share the same source. That is, the different principles underlying the myriad things were intrinsically related to the Dào—the single, universal,

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primal principle. The principles underlying the myriad things (function) are all subject to the universal operation of the Dào (substance). The practice of reverence requires that “self-realization” be actualized in active engagement with each individual affair and thing. These are closely examined and clarified from every angle so that finally, through this involvement with the “specific and concrete,” there occurs a breakthrough in which the great substance of the Way is revealed. This is the learning of “complete substance and the great function.” But the exact conditions of the breakthrough, that is, which “specific matter or thing” might trigger the so-called “sudden opening and integration,” and when this might occur, were impossible to determine. Consequently, the practice of reverence required the broad and general investigation of things. This broad, all-inclusive investigation of things conformed to the requirements of the “teaching of sincerity and enlightenment” in early Confucianism. When we examine theories of praxis in the various great spiritual traditions, the Chéng-Zhū school could rightfully assert that the practice of reverence was a thorough and painstaking method of spiritual cultivation that emphasized spiritual transformation within the context of daily life and in accordance with moral and rational principle. And yet this spirituality of daily existence and moral principle was seen as being of one substance with the state of consciousness developed in quietsitting. Moreover, quiet-sitting provided practice in daily life with a dynamic power to unfold and develop. Thus, the practice of reverence must undoubtedly be considered a prominent element in the spiritual culture of quiet-sitting. If we acknowledge that the chief purpose of quiet-sitting is not “sudden enlightenment” in which one directly attains Confucian Sagehood, Daoist immortality, or Buddhahood, but lies, rather, in its relationship to the “Way,” then “reverence” should be understood to be a sequential and gradualist practice that sought to grasp the Way amid the multiplicity of daily affairs. This is its most outstanding feature and, in this sense, it may be considered to represent an alternate form of quiet-sitting. If reverence was such a balanced and stable form of practice that conformed to Confucian values then we must address one final issue: Why wasn’t this form of practice favored in later discussions of self-cultivation? Instead, it was the practice of the School of Mind that achieved superior standing or, at the very least, displayed more vitality and dynamism in Chinese intellectual culture. As a form of gradualism, reverence practice was always seen as representing a lesser mode of self-cultivation. Here we need not discuss the conflict between the Northern (gradualist) and Southern (sudden) schools of Chán with which we are all familiar. In Neo-Confucianism, none of the more vital thinkers of the Ming era appear to have inclined toward the ChéngZhū practice of reverence but in fact opposed it. This historical perspective makes one doubt whether the practice of reverence ever really fulfilled the role Chéng Yí and Zhū Xī imagined it would. Given that reverence practice gained currency through the efforts of Chéng Yí and Zhū Xī, let us examine them as individuals more closely. Chéng Yí maintained an intensive practice of reverence throughout his life and this had a profound influence on the character of his disciples. The famous anecdote about the “the Chéng disciples standing in the snow” is expressive of this Neo-Confucian culture of moral discipline and spiritual cultivation. This new form of cultivation made uneasy other Confucian

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scholars of the period who were accustomed to older approaches. This is why whenever the poet, scholar, and statesman Sū Shì (蘇軾 1037–1101) heard the word “reverence” he wanted to “smash it to pieces.” Sū’s perspective makes it easier to understand the degree of attention Chéng Yí’s teachings received in his own time. Compared to the copious biographical resources we have for Zhū Xī (like Huáng Gàn’s [黃榦 1152–1221] Record of Conduct [Xíngzhuàng 行狀]) and Wáng Yángmíng (like the Chronological Biography [Niánpǔ 年譜] compiled by Wáng’s disciples Qián Déhóng 錢德洪 and Luó Hóngxiān 羅洪先), biographical material on Chéng Yí is sparse. However, if we compile the materials we do have, we find that the image that emerges is quite clear and consistent. Hú Ānguó (胡安國 1074–1138), a second generation Chéng school disciple, described Chéng Yí as follows: “When taking government service, all his actions were in strict conformity with ritual; when resigning his post, he was always in strict conformity with righteousness. In cultivating his person, he was disciplined and strictly adhered to moral standards. He truly stood out among all other scholars.” This kind of strict adherence to rules and regulations was hardly in keeping with Sū Shì’s taste and it is no wonder that the two men did not get along well. It is through Chéng’s self-cultivation in which every word and every action conformed to moral “rules and standards” that we can get a sense of the particular flavor of the practice of reverence. More than any other scholar it is Zhū Xī whose thought comes closest to Chéng Yí. Though the two differed temperamentally, perhaps because their teachings were similar they ultimately came to share certain personality traits. After Zhū’s death, his son-in-law Huáng Gàn wrote a “Record of Conduct,” in which he described Zhū’s homelife as follows: In walking he was relaxed and respectful. In sitting he was proper and straight. In his leisurely life he would rise before dawn. He would wear a “deep” garment in which the jacket and skirt were attached, headgear of a wide cloth, and squareheaded shoes. He would worship at the family shrine and then bow before the portrait of Confucius. He would then withdraw to his study. His stool and desk were always in the correct position. All books and articles were always in good order. At meals, the arrangement of soup and food dishes had a definite place, and the use of spoons and chopsticks had a definite spot.63

Zhū was not born with a temperament that was “relaxed and respectful” and “proper and straight” and this was surely the result of his practice of reverence. The words “always” and “definite” further indicate the strict orderliness of Zhū’s life which he nevertheless carried out in an unhurried and relaxed manner. A “Record of Conduct” is a eulogistic genre in which the author attempts to summarize the life of the deceased and it naturally contains words of praise. But I believe that the above selection from Huáng Gàn’s Record of Conduct for Zhū is an accurate portrayal which may serve as a footnote to the above description of Chéng Yí as “cultivating his person with discipline and in strict adhered to moral standards.” The temperament and character of the two men were surely the result of many years of self-cultivation and one might call it the physical embodiment of reverence practice. From the above descriptions of the two we see what most struck men of later generations about their behavior was the “regulation” of their conduct and the

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“spiritualization” of their bodies. In this way the true meaning of “concentrative unity” lies in the perfect integration and regulation of one’s entire person, from consciousness, to the body, to behavior. In Huáng Gàn’s description of Zhū’s practice of “concentration on the one” in the Record of Conduct it says: “From his entire mind to his entire body to the myriad things none were not in accord with Principle.” Huáng Gàn’s words are indeed accurate and precise and can be said to be the best description of the results of the practice of reverence. Zhū’s style of conduct stood as a model for later generations of Confucians and we can often find similar personality types among the Zhū Xī scholars in later times.64 In this manner, the practice of reverence has assured the continuity and development of Zhū Xī learning. In conclusion, allow me to summarize in the following way: the practice of reverence is a mode of “quiet-sitting which guides and directs the wisdom and consciousness of the subject so that it is fully realized in the form of ethical action.” If students of the Chéng-Zhū school practice accordingly, we may truly believe that they have, indeed, fulfilled the hopes and expectations of the two masters.

7

Meditative Pluralism in Hānshān Déqīng Halvor Eifring

One problem in the historical study of meditative practices is the lack of sources that go beyond discussing the wondrous effects of meditation and describe the concrete techniques thought to bring about such results.1 Many meditative traditions prefer to go about this aspect of their spiritual training in silence, without explicating the methods or working mechanisms involved. However, there are exceptions, and one of them is the Chinese Chán master Hānshān Déqīng 憨山德清 (1546–1623). In his dharma talks 法語,2 he often addresses lay and monastic meditators with detailed instructions on how to achieve the best results. In his work as a meditation teacher, Hānshān often meets with disgruntled meditators complaining that years of practice have yielded little effect. He repeatedly explains that this is not due to problems with the technique itself, only with their own lack of diligence and proper practice. Although his dharma talks are prescriptive rather than descriptive in nature, they offer a detailed picture of his recommended forms of meditation, as well as the effects such practices are aiming at, and the assumed connection between practice and effect. Both in terms of doctrine and practice, Hānshān is clearly rooted in the Chán tradition of keyword investigation stemming from Dàhuì Zōnggǎo 大慧宗杲 (1089– 1163) and Zhōngfēng Míngběn 中峰明本 (1263–1323),3 and he is among the spiritual ancestors of the early modern Chinese meditation master Xūyún 虛雲 (?1840–1959). However, he also transcends this tradition by including buddha invocation, sūtra recitation, mantra repetition, and the contemplation of the mind in his repertoire of recommended meditation techniques. This may be seen as an effect of what is usually referred to as late Ming syncretism, an attitude he shares with other famous Buddhist teachers of the time, in particular Yúnqī Zhūhóng 雲棲祩宏 (1535–1615), Zǐbó Zhēnkě 紫柏真可 (1543–1604), and Ǒuyì Zhìxù 蕅益智旭 (1599–1655), as well as laymen like Yuán Liǎofán 袁了凡 (1533–1606).4 Thus, one might seek to contextualize Hānshān’s meditative methodology by seeing it as a product of two lines of influence, a vertical (historical) line stretching back to Dàhuì and Míngběn and a horizontal (cultural) line including Zhūhóng, Zhēnkě, Zhìxù, Liǎofán, and others. As we shall see, however, history and culture need to be supplemented both with a larger comparative framework and a more detailed look into Hānshān’s biography and the personal experiences that may have led to his choice of methodology.

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Ridding the mind of thoughts In his autobiography, Hānshān relates how as a young monk he went around looking for a teacher who could help him to “some day get rid of all deluded thoughts.”5 The notion of deluded thoughts (wàngxiǎng 妄想 or wàngniàn 妄念) is deeply rooted in Buddhist tradition and is not immediately translatable into everyday English. However, both in Hānshān’s dharma talks and Chinese Buddhist discourse in general, this notion is mostly treated as synonymous with a number of other words, all of which typically refer to the spontaneous flow of random or “stimulus-independent” thoughts that tends to fill our minds and make us digress from whatever mental task we are immersed in: zániàn 雜念 “diverse thoughts”, zhòngniàn 眾念 “all thoughts”, zhūniàn 諸念 “all thoughts”, wànniàn 萬念 “all [ten thousand] thoughts”, xīnniàn 心念 “mental thoughts”, and niàntou 念頭 “thoughts”. There are conceptual differences between these terms, but they all refer to the same natural flow of random thoughts, to the wandering mind. It is this flow that the young Hānshān is seeking to calm down, stop, or dispel. He is not alone. The attempt at ridding the mind of thoughts has a long history within Buddhism. The very notion of deluded thoughts points to the assumption that such thoughts constitute obstacles to awakening, like clouds covering the sky. As a Buddhist, Hānshān is seeking a dimension beyond the cycle of birth and death. At the outset, “all men have this [dimension] within themselves naturally, not even lacking a hairsbreadth.” However, “the amassment of seeds of attachment, deluded thoughts and sensory rumination through countless aeons has lead to the strong and habitual tainting of the mind,” so that “the superb illumination is obstructed,” and people “pursue their activities amidst the world of body and mind and the shadows of deluded thoughts,” and end up “roving around in the realm of birth and death.” In full accordance with much Buddhist thinking, spontaneous thoughts are looked upon as obstructive residuals from a past that spans any number of individual lifetimes in the cycle of reincarnation. On the other hand, “if deluded thoughts melt away, one’s original substance naturally appears.”6 As I try to show in another chapter in this volume, the attempts at ridding the mind of spontaneous thoughts are not restricted to Buddhism, but occur in widely different meditative traditions originating in China, India, and Europe, including such disparate traditions as classical Yoga, Christian mysticism, and early Daoism. These practices cannot be assumed to stem from the same cultural sources. They have most likely emerged independently of each other and belong within widely different philosophical and religious systems. The fact that they all contain similar ideas about ridding the mind of spontaneous thoughts, therefore, needs an explanation that goes beyond the individual culture. Since spontaneous thoughts are a basic feature of the human mind, even when the individual is at rest, any attempt at ridding the mind of such thoughts seems to go against basic human nature. In some cases, such attempts may be explained as ways of getting beyond distractions that bring the mind away from its primary object, much like a college student trying to concentrate on his reading rather than daydreaming. However, the attitude toward spontaneous thoughts within meditative traditions goes beyond the wish to avoid distractions. Such traditions, whether conceived of as dualist, non-dualist, or squarely monist tend to build on a basic duality

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between a phenomenal and a non-phenomenal dimension, where the ultimate goal of their various practices lies in the non-phenomenal dimension, while spontaneous thoughts are judged to be as deeply ingrained in the world of phenomena as is the body or any other material object. Spontaneous thoughts are typically considered to be particularly obstructive to the goal of reaching beyond the phenomenal realm, partly because they tend to cloud the mind, which in spite of its phenomenal nature is seen as a gateway toward the non-phenomenal dimension. The attempts at ridding the mind of spontaneous thoughts, therefore, must be seen in light of a cross-cultural (though not necessarily universal) urge to reach beyond the phenomenal dimension. Such cross-cultural commonalities suggest that meditative concepts and practices are not only shaped by cultural contexts, but also by generic features of human existence. Such generic features form the basis, therefore, not only for instincts with an obviously biological foundation, but also for higher-level functions that are usually expressed within spiritual or religious traditions, in casu, the attitude toward spontaneous thoughts. This is not a deterministic view, since the generic features in question provide a range of different options, the attempts at ridding the mind of spontaneous thoughts by no means representing the only possibility, even within meditative traditions. Hānshān’s meditative practice, therefore, must be seen as a product of at least three forces: generic features, historical and cultural contexts, and individual choices. In the following, we shall look at the various methods recommended by Hānshān as antidotes to the flow of spontaneous thoughts. These are methods of meditation in the sense of attention-based techniques for inner transformation.7 Some of the same methods are also used within ritual practice, with a less individual and more external emphasis, but while it is impossible to draw a sharp line between their meditative and ritual usages, I will mainly be concerned with the former. In particular, I shall look at the focus of attention in these meditative techniques, in other words, their different meditation objects.

Spontaneous thoughts as meditation objects According to Hānshān, spontaneous thoughts are like “dust covering the true mind.” Without this dust, the true mind would be readily available to anybody, and all Buddhist teachings and methods would be superfluous. The presence of this dust, however, necessitates the use of provisional methods aiming to “purify the mind and expel the shadows of deluded thoughts and habitual tendencies,” in order to ultimately “escape the cycle of birth and death.”8 These provisional methods include meditation, and one of Hānshān’s recommended forms uses the thoughts themselves as a meditation object, in an attempt to “fight poison with poison,”9 a method that he often refers to as “contemplating the mind.”10 This method resembles the free association of psychoanalysis in that it directs the attention toward spontaneous thoughts without attempts at direct interference, though in contrast to psychoanalysis, Hānshān does not recommend content analysis of the thoughts, and even less their verbalization. Hānshān clearly regards this as

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a fundamental form of meditation, more directly addressing the obstructions to awakening than any other form, and he often recommends its use alongside other techniques. For him, as in the typology of meditation in general, a basic distinction exists between meditation objects that are actively generated by the meditator (such as keywords, buddha-names, sūtras, and mantras) and spontaneous objects, which are present independently of the meditative practice. The use of spontaneous thoughts as a meditation object belongs to the latter category. The distinction is reminiscent of, though perhaps not quite identical to the ancient Buddhist distinction between concentrative meditation (śamatha; 止) and insight meditation (vipaśyanā; 觀). Actually, Hānshān asks the meditator to direct his attention not to the thoughts themselves, but to a place beyond the thoughts: Watch diligently the place where a single thought arises and ceases, to see whence it arises and whither it ceases. 於妄念起滅處，一覷覷定，看他起向何處起，滅向何處滅。

This contemplation of whence and whither is meant to result in a realization that “there is no place where [the thought] arises or ceases,” making it evident that “arising and ceasing are baseless,” and thus bringing the meditator a good step toward a dimension beyond birth (arising) and death (ceasing). Furthermore, the contemplation of the arising and ceasing of a single thought is also meant to result in “this single thought appear[ing] in isolation” and “no longer being part of the stream of previous and later thoughts,” so that “all the mind’s dust has no place to settle.” This “superb medicine” will then “naturally pull away the root of the illness of deluded thoughts.”11 Hānshān also tells the meditator to ask himself “what are [the thoughts] after all” and “who is in the end the one making [the thoughts] arise and cease.”12 He does not, however, explicate the function of these questions. Asking what the thoughts are may be similar to asking where they come from, thus once again directing the attention toward a point beyond arising and ceasing. Asking who is the one making the thoughts arise and cease may superficially point to the meditator himself. But who is after all the meditator? Most likely, the question has no ultimate answer. It is, in a Buddhist sense, empty or illusory, like the very notion of self. The questions of whence, whither, what, and who, therefore, point beyond any ready-made answer. One could perhaps say that they point the meditator toward a non-phenomenal dimension beyond language, reason, and sensory perception. As shown by Robert H. Sharf in this volume, the contemplation of the mind was promoted, and sometimes opposed, in early Chán circles during the Tang dynasty, almost a millennium before Hānshān. Even earlier, it was described in some of the first truly Chinese Buddhist meditation texts written by Tiāntāi Zhìyǐ 天台智顗 (538– 97), who tells the meditator to contemplate his “greed” and his “anger”—as well as his “compassion”13—until there is no longer arising and ceasing14: Without arising or ceasing, it is empty. Emptiness is truth, and when the truth is reached, the mind(‘s activities) will cease. 不生不滅故即空。空即真真故心停。

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Zhìyǐ also poses the what and who questions: What is the cursing? 何等是罵？ And then contemplate who the one who is cursing is. 又觀罵者是誰。

He concludes in accordance with non-dualistic thinking: The one who is cursing is equal to all the buddhas. 罵者與諸佛等。

Zhìyǐ’s teacher Nányuè Huìsī 南岳慧思 (515–77) employs similar questions in contemplating the emptiness of the senses, as exemplified by the sense of smell below15: Contemplate where this fragrance that you smell comes from, where it arises, where it goes off to, who is its recipient, and what its appearance is like. When contemplating like this, you will realise that this sensation of fragrance comes from nowhere and enters into nowhere and has no recipient and no appearance. It cannot be discriminated, but is empty and without existence. 觀此所臭香從何方來， 何處生也， 入至何處， 受者是誰， 相貌何似。 如此觀時， 知是香觸無所從來， 入無所至， 亦 無受者，復無相貌。不可分別，空無所有。

Huìsī concludes that our “physical body” is “born out of the mind of deluded thoughts.”16 Using spontaneous thoughts as objects of meditation is, to my knowledge, primarily a Buddhist method, typically associated with the open contemplation of vipaśyanā (Chinese guān 觀). Outside the Buddhist context, there also exist methods with some resemblance to the contemplation of the mind. As I discuss further in another chapter in this volume, the Yoga Sūtra attempts to meet what are conceived to be “negative thoughts” (vitarka, including violence and other thoughts brought about by greed, anger, and illusion) not with suppression, but with attempts at seeing them in their larger contexts and thereby revealing their negative consequences. The Kashmiri Shaivist meditation manual Vijñāna Bhairava holds that the “state of Shiva” is manifested “wherever the mind goes, whether outside or within.”17 Finally, though the attentiveness (prosochi), watchfulness (nipsis), and guarding of one’s heart (phylaki kardias) advocated by Christian Hesychasts primarily aim to halt the thoughts before they enter the mind, they also sometimes include an element of observation and exploration18: One type of watchfulness consists in closely scrutinizing every mental image or provocation.

In spite of a few such cross-cultural resemblances, however, the contemplation of the mind remains a specifically Buddhist form of meditation.

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Keywords as meditation objects While emphasizing the contemplation of spontaneous thoughts, Hānshān recommends even more strongly the use of a keyword to drive away all deluded thoughts: Whenever deluded thoughts arise, take up the keyword with force, and the deluded thoughts will cease by themselves. 若妄想起時，提起話頭一拶，則妄想自滅。

The term “keyword” translates two Chinese words, gōng’àn 公案 “public case” (= Japanese kōan) and huàtóu 話頭 “speech fragment”. There is a tendency that the term gōng’àn refers to well-known Chán dialogues from the past, while huàtóu refers to excerpts or formulas from such dialogues used for meditation purposes. Thus, when Hānshān tells his disciples to “use a gōng’àn as a huàtóu,”19 the term gōng’àn clearly refers to stories that may or may not be used for meditation, while huàtóu is reserved for meditation uses. The compound gōng’àn huàtóu 公案話頭 reflects this distinction, referring to Chán dialogue fragments used as meditation objects, more or less like the single term huàtóu.20 Note, however, that Hānshān’s favorite keyword is the buddha invocation keyword, that is the formula “who is (after all) the one invoking the buddha”21: Although there exist many keywords, the buddha invocation keyword most easily brings good effect in the world of dust and clamour. 公案雖多，唯獨念佛審實的話頭，塵勞中極易得力。

This keyword is not based on a Chán dialogue at all, but, as we shall see, on an attempt to utilize the widespread practice of buddha invocation for similar purposes. Still, Hānshān repeatedly refers to this keyword as a gōng’àn, as in the expressions “the who gōng’àn,” “the buddha-invocation examination gōng’àn,” “the buddhainvocation Chán-investigation gōng’àn,” and “the buddha-invocation gōng’àn.” He also occasionally (though much less frequently) refers to the same keyword as a huàtóu, as in the expression “the buddha-invocation examination huàtóu.”22 It seems, therefore, that Hānshān does not make a consistent semantic distinction between gōng’àn and huàtóu. While well-known Chán dialogues from the past are always referred to as gōng’àn, excerpts or formulas from such dialogues used for meditation purposes may be referred to as either gōng’àn or huàtóu. In this latter sense, this chapter translates both as “keyword”.23 In contrast to spontaneous thoughts, keywords are meditation objects actively generated by the meditator during meditation. Since most of the keywords build on quotations from well-known stories, their wording is usually more or less fixed, though the length of the excerpt used for meditation varies, as in the following three variant keywords based on one and the same story: “Does even a dog have buddha nature?” Zhàozhōu said: “No.” 狗子還有佛性也無？州云無。

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“No.” 無。 “A dog has no buddha nature.” 狗子無佛性。

Even the who keyword, which is not based on a story, is quite stable in its wording, though the initial zhè 這 “this” and the sentential adverb bìjìng 畢竟 “after all” are optional: Who is (after all) the one invoking the buddha? (這)念佛的(畢竟)是誰？

In addition, Hānshān sometimes represents 這 “this” by the graphic variant 者 and once by the more literary synonym cǐ 此. In a single instance, he leaves out the word “Buddha” 佛: “Who is after all the one invoking?”24 But these are just minor exceptions to the general rule of a fixed wording. Apart from the who keyword and the poetic line “Originally not a thing is,” all the keywords mentioned by Hānshān in his dharma talks refer to well-known Chán dialogues between a teacher and a student. A few of them resemble the who keyword in containing a question from either a student or a teacher, but most of them quote answers from presumably awakened teachers (see Table 7.1). In terms of illocutionary force, there is not much difference between the keywords formulated as questions and those formulated as answers, since the answers are, at least on the surface, quite absurd and serve to amplify the force of the question rather than providing a solution. Both the explicit questions and the questions for which a keyword provides an answer regard fundamental issues concerning self and buddhahood. If anything, the absurd answers reinforce the idea that the solution needs to be found outside the realm of language, logic, and rationality. The no keyword provides an answer that goes against Mahāyāna doctrine (according to which all things have buddhahood), the dried shit keyword an answer that literally pulls a lofty question down into the dirt, the let go keyword a paradoxical answer (since there is supposedly nothing left to let go of), the Mt. Sumeru keyword is a seemingly irrelevant, though potentially meaningful, answer to a simple yes-no question, while the cypress in the courtyard keyword and the three pounds of linen keyword bring the attention away from lofty questions and back to the here and now. The originally not a thing is keyword is neither a question nor an answer, but also seems to point to a realm beyond rational understanding. During meditation, keywords are made the objects of “investigation” (cān 參, jiū 究 or cānjiū 參究) and “examination” (shěn 審, shěnshí 審實 or shěnwèn 審問). Though obviously based on the enigma posed by the keyword, the main aim of such investigation and examination is not to find an answer, and certainly not a rational or logical answer, but rather to create an intense sense of doubt (yí 疑, yíqíng 疑情 or y íxīn 疑心). In sharp contrast to doctrinal Buddhism, in which doubt figures on the list of obstacles to meditative progress, Hānshān urges the meditator to “heavily add a sense of doubt” during meditation. The enigma posed by the keyword will

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Table 7.1 Discourse functions of keywords in Hānshān’s dharma talks Keyword (short form)

Speech act

Role relation

Who is the one invoking the buddha? 念佛的是誰 The Sixth Patriarch: “Not thinking of good, not thinking of evil, what is your original face?” 六祖不思善不思惡如 何是本來面目 All dharmas return to the one, where does the one return to? 萬法歸一，一歸何處 No. 無

Asking a question

Meditator to himself

Asking a question

Teacher to student

Asking a question

Student to teacher

Answering the question “Does even a dog have buddha nature?” 狗子還有佛性也無？ Answering the question “What’s the meaning of Bodhidharma’s coming from the West?” 如何是祖師西來意？ Answering the question “What is Buddha?” 如何是佛？ Answering the question “What is Buddha?” 如何是佛？ Answering the question “When not a thing is anymore, what then?” 一物不將來時如何？ Answering the question “When no thought arises, are there still mistakes?” 不起一念還有過也無？ Poetic line written to display awakening

Teacher to student

The cypress in the courtyard. 庭前柏樹子

Three pounds of linen. 麻三斤 Dried shit. 乾矢橛 Let go! 放下著

Mt. Sumeru. 須彌山

Originally not a thing is. 本來無一物

Teacher to student

Teacher to student

Teacher to student

Teacher to student

Teacher to student

Awakened student to teacher

then create a “lump of doubt” filling the mind until it is “clogged,” so that “thoughts no longer arise.” If one “keeps practicing without distractions at all times, wherever one is,” in the end this “lump of doubt will burst apart,” “the cycle of life and death will immediately be broken,” and the meditator will “instantly see his original face.”25 Rather than posing an obstacle to meditative progress, therefore, doubt

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becomes an essential and necessary element, without which meditation will yield no result: This is why they say that with little doubt there will be little awakening, with great doubt there will be great awakening, and with no doubt there will be no awakening. 所謂小疑小悟，大疑大悟，不疑不悟。

The method of keyword investigation, then, consists in the investigation and examination of any one of the keywords referred to in Table 1, with the aim of generating such a strong and all-compassing sense of doubt that there is no place for deluded thoughts and the mind is eventually brought beyond its ordinary functioning to a realization beyond all phenomenal understanding. Keyword investigation is among the few forms of meditation that originate in East Asia, with no direct parallels outside this region.26 It is usually regarded as a unique product of the Línjì 臨濟 school of Chán Buddhism. Hānshān traces its historical origins to Línjì’s teacher Huángbò Xīyùn 黄檗希運 (d. ca. 850), but agrees with modern scholarship that its intensive use only began almost 300 years later with Dàhuì Zōnggǎo, from whom Hānshān inherited the notion that “with great doubt there is bound to be great awakening.”27 In Dàhuì’s rhetoric, the indecisiveness of doubt contrasts with the certainty of awakening, and the ultimate goal is to activate or actualize the sense of doubt so as eventually to “crush” the “root of doubt.”28 Like Hānshān, Dàhuì emphasizes the continuous investigation of the doubt itself: I call on you, sir, to investigate the spot where the sense of doubt has not yet been crushed, and not to let go of this investigation at any time, whether you are walking, standing, sitting or lying down. 願公只向疑情不破處參， 行住坐臥不得放捨。

The keyword is a tool for focusing this attention to the doubt: A monk asked Zhàozhōu: “Does even a dog have buddha nature?” Zhàozhōu answered: “No.” This one word is the knife that will crush the sense of doubt relating to life and death. 僧問趙州：”狗子還有佛性也無？”州云：”無。”這一字子， 便是箇破生死疑心底刀子也。

According to Dàhuì, the doubt generated by the keyword represents all doubts, including the basic existential doubt that stands in the way of true awakening: All thousands or ten thousands of doubts are at bottom only one single doubt. When you crush this doubt by means of the keyword, all thousands and ten thousands of doubts will instantly be crushed. 千疑萬疑，只是一疑。話頭上疑破，則千疑萬疑一時破。

While Hānshān inherits this concern with doubt from Dàhuì, his focus is slightly different. Dàhuì takes the doubt itself for granted and is mainly concerned with crushing it, while Hānshān, as we have seen, actually encourages the active generation of a sense of doubt. This is not Hānshān’s own innovation, since the change of emphasis

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is already evident in Zhōngfēng Míngběn some 300 years earlier. As to the notion of investigation, it is already present in Dàhuì and much more prominent in Míngběn, though in both cases only using the single term cān or the more neutral term kàn 看 “to look at; to observe,” in contrast to the strong emphasis and diversified vocabulary related to investigation and examination in Hānshān. Thus, while Hānshān’s method of keyword investigation owes much to his predecessors, it also differs from them, not only in his preference of the who keyword rather than the no keyword, but also in the nuances of the investigation and examination involved. If we go beyond Buddhism, there are some parallels between the absurd replies involved in many keywords and the “holy madness” found in a number of both Asian and European mystical traditions,29 though Hānshān keeps this madness within bounds by restricting it to dialogues used as objects of keyword investigation, as opposed to the openly crazy behavior for which both earlier and later Chán teachers were renowned. There are also parallels between the keyword questions with no answers and the contemplation of unsoluble conundrums in other traditions, such as the Vijñāna Bhairava of Kashmiri Shaivism30: The unknowable, the ungraspable, the void, that which pervades even nonexistence, contemplate on all this as Bhairava [the absolute]. At the end illumination will dawn.

Another possible parallel is the insistence in the fourteenth-century English work The Cloud of Unknowing that its recommended intensive contemplation of God and nothing but God will be frustrated by the “cloud of unknowing” that forever separates Him from us, similar to the “doubt” created by keyword meditation. Thus, both a historical and a larger comparative perspective may help us get a full picture of the nature of keyword investigation.

Alternative meditation objects Dàhuì sees keyword investigation as a unique way of relating to doubt, bluntly dismissing all other forms: If you abandon the keyword and seek to generate doubt by means of other texts, or to generate doubt by means of scriptures and teachings, or to generate doubt by means of ancient gōng’àn stories, or to generate doubt in the midst of everyday worries and cares, then this will all be in the realm of evil demons. 若棄了話頭， 卻去別文字上起疑， 經教上起疑， 古人公案上起疑， 日用塵 勞中起疑，皆是邪魔眷屬。

Compared to Dàhuì, Hānshān seems much more open to alternative methods: Whether by keyword investigation, buddha invocation, mantra repetition or sūtra recitation, as long as you believe firmly in your self-mind, steadfast and unwavering, you are certain to escape the cycle of life and death. 不論參禪念佛持咒誦經，苟能的信自心，堅強不退，未有不出生死者。

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In the end, Hānshān sees even keyword investigation as just a provisional means, which may be dispensed with once the aim has been reached, like a tile used for knocking on the door: Although its effects come easily, it is just like a tile used for knocking on the door; eventually it must be thrown away, it’s only that we have no way but to use it for a while. 雖是易得力，不過如敲門瓦子一般，終是要拋卻，只是少不得用一番。

Just as the tile may be replaced by some other suitable tool, so may keyword meditation be replaced by other meditative techniques. In the following we shall look at the three alternatives most frequently discussed by Hānshān in his dharma talks: buddha invocation, sūtra recitation, and mantra repetition.

Buddha-names as meditation objects As we have seen, buddha invocation (Chinese niànfó 念佛) features heavily in Hānshān’s repertoire of keywords, the keyword “who is (after all) the one invoking the buddha?” directly referring to this practice. For Hānshān, the invocation of the buddha Amitābha (Chinese Āmítuó fó 阿彌陀佛) is an integral part of keyword investigation: With the buddha-invocation examination gōng’àn you simply use Amitābha Buddha as a keyword (huàtóu). Just use the Amitābha Buddha phrase as a keyword, and do the examination practice. 念佛審實公案者， 單提一聲阿彌陀佛作話頭。 就將一句阿彌陀作話頭， 做 審實工夫。

However, when Hānshān praises the power of buddha invocation to rid the mind of thoughts and reveal one’s true nature, this also applies to contexts that do not involve keyword investigation: If you recite the buddha’s name in your mind repeatedly and without interruption, so that your deluded thoughts vanish, your mind’s light is manifested, and your wisdom appears, then you will become a buddha’s dharma body. 若念佛心心不斷，妄想消滅，心光發露，智慧現前，則成佛法身。

Buddha invocation was (and still is) a much more widespread meditative and ritual practice than keyword investigation. Hānshān can safely assume that all the people he talks to, both laymen and monastics, know the practice well and have much experience with it. Thus, his discussions of it are likely to reach a larger audience than his discussions of keyword investigation. The importance of buddha invocation for the who keyword is only one reason for his interest in this practice.

Sūtras as meditation objects In one of Hānshān’s dharma talks, we hear of a monk who has vowed to recite the Lotus Sūtra for the rest of his life, but is not satisfied with the results of his practice.

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Instead of suggesting that the monk switch to keyword investigation, Hānshān urges the disgruntled monk to keep up his sūtra recitation. He insists that the choice between sūtra recitation and keyword investigation “is but a matter of taste.”31 In both cases, the failure to reach awakening is a result of the way the method is being performed, not of the technique itself: Reciting sūtras without reaching awakening is just like investigating Chán without seeing your self-nature, the result of a lack of genuine practice. 持經而不悟心，與參禪而不見性者，總非真行.

Like keyword investigation and buddha invocation, sūtra recitation is also explicitly mentioned as a way to rid the mind of thoughts: Try to pick up this book [the Platform Scripture] and read it, and deluded thoughts, distortions and defilement will melt like ice and break like tiles all by themselves. 試取此卷讀之， 不覺妄想顛倒情塵。自然冰消瓦解矣。

The effect of the three methods is considered to be more or less the same.

Mantras as meditation objects Yet another practice sometimes recommended by Hānshān is the (probably mostly mental) repetition of mantras.32 In some cases, mantra repetition is looked upon as a beginner’s method that makes it easier to enter onto the path of self-cultivation: It seems that for someone with a genuine motivation and a fear of the life and death cycle, mantra repetition is a good way of entry. 看來若是真實發心，怕生死的，不若持咒入門。

In this it resembles sūtra recitation, and the two are often mentioned together. Their relative ease of practice also make them suitable as last resorts whenever keyword investigation and the contemplation of the mind meet with obstacles: When the keyword loses its power, or the contemplation of the mind fails to illuminate, and you can’t find a way out, you must worship the buddhas, recite sūtras, and repent, and you must secretly repeat mantra kernels, and use mudras to dispell [the obstruction]. 話頭用力不得處， 觀心照不及處， 自己下手不得， 須禮佛誦經懺悔， 又要 密持咒心，仗佛密印以消除之。

In addition, like the recitation of sūtras, mantra repetition is also looked upon as a complete practice in itself. Again, disgruntled monks who have been practicing mantra repetition but are disappointed with the results are urged by Hānshān to keep to their practice: When you have repeated your mantras for thirty years without effect, it is not because the mantras are not efficacious, only because the repetition of mantras is

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done with an inefficient mind, as if you were pushing an empty cart downhill, your mind set on rolling along, with no effort made at all. With this mindset you won’t see any effect either in this life or in innumerable aeons to come. 禪人持明三十年無見效者，不是咒無靈驗， 只是持咒之心，未曾得力，尋 常如推空車下坡相似， 心管滾將去， 何曾著力來。 如此用心， 不獨今生無 驗，即窮劫亦只如此。 You don’t understand how to use it to discipline your habitual tendencies and crush to pieces your deluded thoughts, but instead nourish your unawakened mind with your attachment. That’s the only reason why there is so much effort and so few results. 不知借以磨煉習氣、破除妄想， 返以執著之心， 資助無明， 故用力多而收 功少耳。

Hānshān returns to the image of the tile used to knock on the door: You only want to have the door opened, so you don’t need to care about what the tile in your hand is like. 只是要門開，不必計手中瓦子何如也。

In the end, the disgruntled monks are told, there is no fundamental difference between mantra repetition and keyword investigation. Mantras are understood to have magical properties, and the emphasis is more often on their power to counter diabolic forces than on their concrete effect on mind wandering: Relying on the power of the mantra is sufficient to counter this demon. 仗此咒力，足敵此魔。

However, since “all diabolic realms are thought to be born out of deluded thoughts,”33 the difference is probably one of language rather than reality. References to demonlike beings often occur in the description of keyword investigation as well, as when it is said to “make the spirits and ghosts weep and wail and hide their traces.”34 Like other meditation objects, therefore, mantras are also seen as efficient antidotes against deluded thoughts.

The question of syncretism One possible explanation for Hānshān’s openness toward alternative forms of meditation lies in the general syncretist atmosphere of the late Ming period. The late Ming saw a number of attempts to reconcile the “three teachings” (Confucianism, Daoism, and Buddhism), as well as different schools of Buddhism (in particular Chán and Pure Land), and even Confucianism and the more obviously foreign religion Christianity. Hānshān does not relate to the contemporary influx of Jesuit Christianity, but can plausibly be argued to be a typical representative of both three teachings syncretism and Chán and Pure Land syncretism.35

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With regard to the three teachings, Hānshān had studied the Confucian classics in his childhood and early youth, and his interest in them continued even after he became a Buddhist monastic. He wrote well-received commentaries on the Confucian classic Dà xué 大學, the historical work Zuǒzhuàn 左傳 (also much revered by Confucian scholars), and the Daoist classics Lǎozǐ 老子 and Zhuāngzǐ 莊子. Throughout his life he was held in high regard not only by Buddhists, but also by Confucian men of letters. He repeatedly claimed the unity of the three teachings: The three teachings represent the same truth. 三教本來一理。 The three sages represent the same substance. 三聖本來一體。

In these respects, Hānshān was a typical representative of the three teachings syncretism, which was particularly popular in the late Ming, though it had much earlier roots. As for Chán and Pure Land syncretism, its doctrinal background is sometimes traced to the early Song dynasty monk Yǒngmíng Yánshòu 永明延壽 (904–75).36 For Hānshān, however, the amalgamation of the two is primarily a question of practice and less a doctrinal issue. The inclusion of various forms of buddha invocation in a Chán doctrinal setting also had a history of several centuries, and became particularly widespread from the fourteenth century onward. The origin of the buddha-invocation keyword, as used by Hānshān, is not entirely clear.37 What has often been overlooked is the fact that Dàhuì himself relates the following gōng’àn story: Zhàozhōu addressed the crowd saying: “You shouldn’t pass your days idly. Practice invocation of the buddha, invocation of the dharma and invocation of the sangha.” Then a monk asked: “How about students practicing invocations on their own?” Zhàozhōu said: “Who is (are) the one(s) practicing invocations?” The monk said: “Without a partner.” Zhàozhōu said: “You donkey!” 趙 州 示 眾 云 ：” 不 得 閑 過 。 念 佛 念 法 念 僧 。” 便 問 ：” 如 何 是 學 人 自 己 念 ？”州云：”念者是誰？”僧云：”無伴。”州叱云：”這驢！”

This story not only refers to the practice of buddha invocation in a Chán setting, but even contains the crucial question of who the one(s) invoking the buddha is (are). While not yet developed into a fixed method, this passage may have provided the inspiration for the development of the who keyword.38 Apart from this, different ways of combining Chán and Pure Land practices into a single practice began to appear in the fourteenth century, including the use of the phrase “Amitābha Buddha” and then “Who is the one invoking the buddha?” as a keyword. By Hānshān’s lifetime, the buddha-invocation keyword had become a common practice, and Hānshān was only one of a number of famous monastics who recommended it over any other keyword. Another even more famous monk who did so was Yúnqī Zhūhóng, with whom Hānshān was acquainted.39 As we have seen, however, Hānshān’s acceptance of non-Chán methods goes even one step further. He not only includes the Pure Land practice of buddha invocation,

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but also sūtra recitation and mantra repetition. When he urges people to keep to their practice of sūtra recitation and mantra repetition rather than switching to his own favorite method of keyword investigation, this is primarily an expression of a negative attitude toward indecisiveness: You should not do this one day and that another day. 不得今日如此，明日又如彼。

In his emphasis on steadfastness, Hānshān resembles many of his Chán Buddhist predecessors. This emphasis does not go counter to the notion that Hānshān and his contemporaries were tolerant syncretists. There are, however, several other problems with the syncretist explanation. First of all, there are well-known conceptual issues surrounding the term syncretism,40 and there are serious questions as to the existence of a Pure Land School with which Chán could enter into a syncretic relationship.41 In our context, however, the main question is to what extent the so-called syncretist impulses in Hānshān and many of his contemporaries are real expressions of tolerance toward alternative ideas and methodologies, and to what extent they are grounded in other motivations, including, perhaps, both power tactics and emotional issues. Let us start with the one type of syncretism that we do not find in Hānshān’s writings, the one that includes Christianity. We have no way of knowing how Hānshān would have reacted to Christianity, but we do know that some of Hānshān’s contemporaries, such as the Buddhist monastics Zhūhóng and Zhìxù, who are also generally thought to be syncretists, reacted very negatively to the new arrival, and considered it heterodox.42 Zhūhóng attacked it from a combined Buddhist and Confucian point of view, while Zhìxù attacked it from a purely Confucian point of view, using his regular name rather than his monk’s name, and thus disguising his identity as a Buddhist monk, no doubt in order more easily to win the hearts and minds of the Confucian gentry—hence, a mild form of power tactics. At the very least, this suggests that late Ming syncretism is highly selective in its tolerance. As for the three teachings syncretism, there is no doubt that Hānshān despite being a Buddhist monastic still entertained a lifelong love and enthusiasm for the Confucian and Daoist classics. His commentaries on these classics grow out of his genuine interest, as well as perhaps a wish to reconcile the various strands within his own spiritual orientation. His Confucian and Daoist writings do not seem primarily to be motivated by power tactics, although they may indeed have endeared him to the Confucian gentry of the time, including such famous Neo-Confucian friends as Gāo Pānlóng 高攀龍 (1562–1626) and Qián Qiānyì 錢謙益 (1582–1664). On the other hand, his form of syncretism differed in important respects from the one most widespread among Confucian scholars. While the dominant view in the late Ming was that “the three teachings converge in Confucianism,”43 clearly placing Confucianism at the top of the pyramid, Hānshān places Buddhism on top. He argues that “the sages set up teachings of varying depth to accommodate different circumstances,” and while he calls Confucius the sage of the “human vehicle” and Lǎozǐ the sage of the “heavenly vehicle,” all the Buddhist sages transcend these realms, the śrāvakas and pratyekabuddhas “transcending the human and the heavenly,” the bodhisattvas

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“transcending the two vehicles,” and the buddha “transcending the sacred and the profane.”44 His commentaries on Confucian and Daoist classics likewise are firmly based within his Buddhist worldview. Thus, his view of the three teachings is not so much syncretic in the strict sense of the term as it is inclusivist. In Timothy Brook’s words: Inclusivism seeks to explain the ideas and forms of a religious tradition in terms of another. In effect, it reduces the content of one to that of another. When one religion is brought within the ideational system offered by another, the former is regarded accordingly as an inferior, incomplete, or “failed” representation of truth.45

Hānshān looks upon Confucianism and Daoism with love, but clearly sees them as incomplete and shallow compared to Buddhism. What about Hānshān’s Chán and Pure Land syncretism, or the expanded version that also includes sūtra recitation and mantra repetition? There is no doubt that his own preference is for the combined Chán and Pure Land practice of buddhainvocation investigation. This method is even considered to be superior to more established forms of Chán keyword investigation, such as the no keyword favored by Dàhuì and Míngběn. Buddha invocation, sūtra recitation, and mantra repetition without the element of Chán investigation are also held in high regard, but sometimes only as ways of entry or as last resort when the more advanced technique of Chán investigation fails. In fact, Hānshān thinks that for these methods to become effective at a more advanced level, they need to add the element of Chán investigation. We shall return to this issue below. What is important to note is that Hānshān’s tolerance of alternative forms of meditation is by no means all-embracing. There are many well-known forms of Buddhist meditation that he never mentions, including breath- and body-based techniques and loving-kindness meditation, both of which are discussed in detail in the book Jìngzuò yàojué 靜坐要訣 by the lay scholar Yuán Liǎofán,46 who like Hānshān had also learned to meditate from the Chán teacher Yúngǔ Fǎhuì 雲谷法會 (1500–75). Even the most famous Chán alternative to keyword investigation, the technique of silent illumination (mòzhào 默照), is only mentioned once, and then using a highly derogatory phrase inherited from Dàhuì: “the typical heretical Chán of silent illumination.”47 He shows much more respect for non-Chán methods like buddha invocation, sūtra recitation, and mantra repetition than for the alternative Chán method of silent illumination. The open, eclectic, and inclusivist attitudes of the late Ming most certainly provided an atmosphere that made it easier for Hānshān and his contemporaries to include and show respect and tolerance for alternative meditative methodologies. As we have seen, however, this openness was highly selective.

Early experience What, then, explains Hānshān’s inclusion of some methods and exclusion of others? One possibility worth exploring is that he included methods with which he had

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made an early acquaintance. This might account for his emotional affection for these methods as well as his technical proficiency in them. We know that Hānshān’s early encounter with the Confucian and Daoist classics led to a lifelong interest and enthusiasm for these texts. According to his autobiography, he was in his fifteenth year when he started serious study of the Four Books (Sì shū 四書) of Confucianism, and he had memorized them completely from beginning to end the following year. We also know that he came in contact with Buddhist monastic practices at an even earlier age. How much is his selection of favored meditation techniques influenced by his early experiences? According to his autobiography, the first meditation-like practice Hānshān came in contact with was the recitation of sūtras: I was in my ninth year. While studying in a temple, I heard monks reciting the Avalokiteśvara Sūtra, which can save the world from suffering, and I was delighted. I asked a monk to teach me the basics, and after reading [the sūtra] cursorily, I was able to recite it. 予九歲。 讀書於寺中， 聞僧念觀音經， 能救世間苦， 心大喜。 因問僧求其 本。潛讀之，即能誦。

He was praised by his mother for his ability to recite “like the old monk.”48 In his thirteenth year, he was taught how to recite the Lotus Sūtra, and he followed up with a number of other sūtras in the following year. It is likely that this very early encounter with the recitation of sūtras provided a basis for his positive attitude toward this practice. According to his autobiography, Hānshān practiced intensive buddha invocation after having entered monkhood in his nineteenth year, partly inspired by his reading of the Extensive Records of Zhōngfēng 中峰廣錄, in which Zhōngfēng Míngběn advocates both keyword investigation and buddha invocation, though urging practitioners to choose one and not mix the two. Since Hānshān had not yet learned keyword investigation, he opted for buddha invocation, and with astonishing results: So with full concentration I invoked the name of the buddha day and night without interruption. Soon I saw Amitābha Buddha in a dream one night, appearing and standing in the air. I saw the brilliant contours of his face clearly just where the sun had set. I knelt down and felt endlessly infatuated. I also wished to see the two bodhisattvas Avalokiteśvara and Mahāsthāmaprāpta, and then their upper bodies also appeared. After that, I could always see these three holy men clearly before my eyes, and I had faith that my self-cultivation would be successful. 乃專心念佛， 日夜不斷。 未幾， 一夕夢中見阿彌陀佛， 現身立於空中。 當 日落處， 睹其面目光相， 了了分明。 予接足禮， 哀戀無已。 復願見觀音勢 至二菩薩，即現半身。自此時時三聖，炳然在目。自信修行可辦也。

The experience of such rewarding dream visions of the Pure Land trinity must have played an important role in his continuing passion for buddha invocation as a meditation method.

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According to his autobiography, Hānshān learned the Chán investigation of the who keyword in the following year. Again his practice was very intensive: Originally I didn’t have the knack of self-cultivation and was much distressed by this, so I offered incense and asked for help. My teacher instructed me in the investigation of the buddha-invocation keyword. After this I practiced investigation and invocation without stop. For three months I was as if in a dream and took no note of the other monks or everyday tasks. 初不知用心之訣， 甚苦之， 乃拈香請益。 大師開示， 審實 念佛公案。 從此參究， 一念不移。 三月之內， 如在夢中， 了不見有大眾，亦不知有日用事。

In the process, Hānshān got seriously ill, but after having prayed and promised to atone for his bad karma, he fell sound asleep and got miraculously well again. His single-minded investigation of the keyword was such that even when he went to the market, he continued his meditation as though he were sitting in the meditation hall. Again, it is easy to understand that such intensity of practice would leave its mark on Hānshān and make him continue to teach keyword investigation for the rest of his life. Thus, the early experience of sūtra recitation, buddha invocation, and keyword investigation may provide an explanation for Hānshān’s great respect for these three practices. As for the fourth type of meditation that he often mentions, the repetition of mantras, there is, however, no indication that this practice was equally a part of his early experience. In Hānshān’s autobiography, it is seldom mentioned, and not at all before he is in his fiftieth year. Early experience, therefore, can hardly account for Hānshān’s inclusion of mantra repetition in his favored repertoire of meditation techniques.

Language beyond sound and meaning What the four types of meditation that Hānshān favors do have in common, apart from their Buddhist orientation, is the fact that all of them, in one way or another, build on linguistic utterances. Keyword investigation is based on a question or an enigmatic dialogue or a fragment thereof; buddha invocation builds on the name of Amitābha Buddha or, less often, other buddhas or bodhisattvas; sūtra recitation uses entire sūtras, from the very short Heart Sūtra to the long Lotus Sūtra, or fragments thereof; and mantra repetition builds on pseudo-Sanskrit phrases typically seen as magic spells. In contrast to the meditation types ignored or discouraged by Hānshān, therefore, all four techniques are examples of language-based forms of meditation.49 This does not imply that the methods in question are recitative in the traditional sense. Plain recitation only plays a modest role in these techniques. In spite of their linguistic basis, they do not primarily consist in the pronunciation of meaningful linguistic utterances.

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Beyond sound With regard to sound, these practices typically take place in silence. Keywords are formed as linguistic utterances, though they are “taken up” mentally rather than verbally. They are “contained [or spread out] in the chest” and then “investigated quietly,” in order to “fill and stop the faculty of thought.”50 Although the phrasing of each keyword is fairly uniform (with some variants, as we have seen), there is no indication in Hānshān’s writings that the phonetic aspect of the keyword utterance plays any significant role.51 The nominal classifier used when counting them is zé 則 “item,” not shēng 聲 “sound.”52 In buddha invocation, the sound aspect plays a more obvious role, and the phrases used are counted using the classifier shēng “sound.” Still, even buddha invocation is primarily a mental thing, as when the meditator is asked to “take up the phrase ‘Amitābha Buddha’, clearly and uninterrupedly in the mind,” “invoking the buddha with one’s mouth but with an impure mind” being considered of little use.53 The verb niàn 念 is ambiguous and may refer both to mental thinking and verbal recitation, though a less common verb, chēng 稱 “to call; to name; to say,” refers more explicitly to recitation. In sūtra recitation, the sound aspect also plays a more obvious role, at least sometimes. It was the sound aspect of sūtra recitation that Hānshān’s mother praised when she first heard him recite a sūtra. The verb translated here as “recitation,” sòng 誦, usually refers to recitative practice involving actual pronunciation, even chanting, though it may also take place mentally. The verb chí 持, literally “to hold; to keep,” may be used for any kind of object that is kept in focus during meditation. Two verbs for reading, dú 讀 and kàn 看, are also used, and while the former is often associated with audible reading, the latter actually has as its basic meaning “to see.” Furthermore, the soteriological effect of working with sūtras is sometimes also believed to come from writing (shū 書 or xiě 寫) a copy of the sūtra, with no sound aspect involved. Finally, even when the effect of working with sūtras is linked to its audibility, this does not always come from one’s own recitation, but may also come from hearing (wén 聞) others reciting it: As soon as he heard a phrase from the sūtra, he suddenly realised the nature of the self-mind. 一旦聞經一語，頓悟自心。

Most of the classifiers used to count sūtras (or parts of sūtras) relate to the material or structural aspects of books, not to their sound aspect: juǎn 卷 “roll; scroll,” bù 部 “part”; cè 冊 “string; scroll”; zhāng 章 “chapter”; háng 行 “line”; and yǔ 語 “phrase.” The most common indigenous Chinese terms for mantra are zhòu 咒 “spell” and 真言 “true speech,” both of which point to the linguistic aspect of mantras, the former also to its magical nature. Mantras are usually looked upon as being part of the Tantric “secret teachings,” and the secrecy surrounding them suggests silent repetition rather than loud recitation. Their mental nature is emphasized in phrases like “repeating (lit. holding) a magical mantra in the mind (lit. heart).” Sometimes mantras are compared to keywords, and have in common with them the fact that they are typically assigned

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by a teacher to a student, with an emphasis on the importance of “inscribing [them] thoroughly in the mind and keeping [them] constantly in the thoughts.”54 Mantras are also called xīn-zhòu 心咒, literally “heart spell,” emphasizing the effect they have on the mind rather than their verbal recitation. With mantra repetition, the most common verbs are chí 持 “to hold; to keep” and tí 提 “to take up; to hold,” none of which indicates recitation. There are, however, also examples of more explicitly recitative verbs, especially sòng 誦 (or sòngyǎn 誦演) “to recite” and sometimes shuō 說 “to say.” Note, however, that even such recitation may be done in secrecy and silence, as suggested by the compound mì-sòng 密誦 “secretly recite” (not found in the Hānshān material). The only classifier used with mantras in the Hānshān material is háng 行 “line,” referring to writing rather than speech.

Beyond meaning With regard to semantic content, the main emphasis does not lie on the meaning in any of the four types of meditation object recommended by Hānshān. This is most obviously true of mantras, which are typically meaningless to the human mind, even if they are sometimes assumed to have secret, symbolic, or divine meanings that only the gods and the illuminated mind understand. Both Hānshān and others often refer to them as “secret speech” with “secret meanings.”55 In keywords, the semantic content is not unimportant. For instance, Hānshān tells the meditator to reflect on “why does [Zhàozhōu] say ‘no’?,”56 thereby clearly relating to the semantic content of the no keyword. This reflection, however, has no rational solution, but is only a means to generate a doubt that will fill the mind and thereby stop the stream of thoughts: You should not seek to understand the keyword, but only use it to generate doubt and to chop off and block out all deluded thoughts. 不是要明話頭，只借話頭發疑，斬截妄想。

Hānshān ridicules those who presume to understand the keyword: They only look for an answer in the keyword itself. They look and look, and suddenly they come up with something intriguing and say they have reached awakening and present a gatha that they recite, as if it were a wonderful thing. 只管在話頭上求。求來求去，忽然想出一段光景，就說悟了，便說偈呈頌， 就當作奇貨。

Like his predecessor Míngběn, Hānshān refers to keywords as “insignificant speech” 無義味話. From its superficial existence as a meaningful utterance, therefore, the keyword is transformed into a technical element beyond questions of ordinary semantic meaning. Buddha names and sūtras are more obviously meaning based. We shall see, however, that in Hānshān’s recommended use of them even they are transformed into technical elements producing doubt, their meaning aspect fading into the background.

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Generating doubt All these four forms of meditation, therefore, build on a language in which both phonetic form and semantic meaning gradually dissolve. This move may be understood as a conscious turn away from rational thought. All of the meditation objects in question take as their point of departure concrete linguistic (or, in the case of mantras, pseudo-linguistic) phrases that are somehow understood to refer to or represent the ultimate truth of buddhahood: keywords referring to discussions of the nature of buddhahood, invocations to those who have achieved buddhahood, sūtras discussing doctrinal issues relating to buddhahood, and mantras thought to represent the buddha mind.57 However, since the ultimate truth lies beyond the language and logic of the phenomenal world, lingering on the meaning aspect of these objects will not bring the practitioner the deeper awakening that he seeks. Instead of reflecting rationally, he needs to enter into the all-encompassing doubt potentially generated by the meditation object: Doubt it over and again, doubt it until your mind is like a wall, with no room for the generation of any other thought. 疑來疑去，疑到心如牆壁一般，再不容起第二念。

Doubt here becomes the vehicle that leads to the total mental absorption often associated with the higher states or stages of meditation, leaving no room for the “deluded thoughts” that otherwise distract us. The generation of doubt in Chán investigation has much in common with the use of questions concerning whence, whither, what, and who in the contemplation of the mind. The introduction of the who keyword from the fourteenth century onward makes the connection more explicit, not only merging keyword investigation and buddha invocation, but also bringing in an element from the contemplation of the mind as described by the early Tiāntāi teachers. In the following statement concerning the who keyword, Hānshān goes one step further and also adds the question of whence, relating to the “arising” of the keyword: Gently take up the buddha-name again, and contemplate with full absorption whence the buddha-name arises. After 5 or 7 invocations, deluded thoughts no longer arise. Then add the feeling of doubt, and explore who is after all the one invoking the buddha-name. 緩緩又提起一聲佛， 定觀這一聲佛畢竟從何處起。 至五七聲則妄念不起。 又下疑情，審這念佛的畢竟是誰。

In the following statement regarding the no keyword and the who keyword, Hānshān asks questions of whence (arising) as well as whither (ceasing): But this investigation and examination is only a way of observing whence this word no or this word who arises, and whither it ceases. You only look at the point of arising and ceasing of this thought, in order to see the source of rising and ceasing. 然此參究審實， 只是覷此無字誰字， 起從何處起， 落向何處去。 只看者一 念起落處，要見起滅根源。

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And in the following statement about keywords in general, Hānshān asks questions of whence and what: From there you gently but forcefully take up the keyword, turn back and look at the point where it arose, to see whence it arose and after all what it is. 從此緩緩極力提起話頭，返看起處，從何處起， 畢竟是個甚麼。

When a monk who has been repeating mantras for thirty years complains about the lack of results, Hānshān tells him to add the element of Chán investigation, helped by a question that uses the word what but in effect asks who the one repeating the mantra is: Just treat your mantra mind as your keyword . . . Just as the effect is about to take hold, add a strong feeling of doubt, observe it deeply, and explore what the one forcefully repeating the mantra after all is. 就將持咒的心作話頭。 就在正著力處， 重下疑情， 深深覷看， 審問只者用 力持咒的畢竟是個甚麼。

While the use of buddha invocation as a basis for keyword investigation had already been around for a couple of centuries before Hānshān learned it from Yúngǔ, Hānshān may have been the first person to apply the same type of transformation to mantra repetition. He concludes that “if you can repeat the mantra this way, it is the same method as Chán investigation.”58 In the process, questions originally belonging to the contemplation of the mind have been used to activate the sense of doubt. Hānshān is less explicit about the transformation of sūtra recitation into keyword investigation. There are no examples of sūtra recitation accompanied by the questions associated with the contemplation of the mind, and the element of doubt is never specifically mentioned in the context of sūtra recitation. Most of the time, Hānshān is simply concerned that those who recite sūtras should do so with a proper mind-set. He does, however, explicitly identify sūtra recitation and Chán investigation: Sūtra recitation is keyword investigation, and Chán investigation is sūtra recitation. 持經即參究，參究即持經。 How can sūtra recitation and Chán investigation be different things? 持經與參禪豈有二耶。

Both are equally demanding: When the ancients practiced Chán investigation, they would always be willing to spend thirty years of hardship. Now the sūtra [that you are reciting] has ten thousand parts, so anything less than thirty years will not suffice. 古人參究，必拌三十年苦心；今經萬部，非三十年不足。

And both may eventually lead to the same result: How can you say that only Chán investigation can bring to an end the cycle of life and death, while sūtra recitation cannot bring to an end the cycle of life and death? 豈獨參禪能了生死，而持經不能了生死乎？

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The relationship between advanced sūtra recitation and Chán investigation is quite close.

Inclusivism By adding the elements of investigation and doubt, including the whence, whither, what, and who questions originally associated with the contemplation of the mind, Hānshān in effect transforms buddha-names, sūtras, and mantras into keywords, largely leaving behind their original functions as devotional evocations, holy scriptures, and magic spells. On the surface, therefore, Hānshān meets other meditation methods with an open mind, but he does so primarily by turning these methods into variants of keyword investigation. The only other use he sees of them is as introductory practices for mid- and low-level practitioners. With regard to meditation, therefore, Hānshān remains an ardent follower of keyword investigation, to the extent that other methods are only accepted if they can be subsumed under the same basic methodology. His position in this respect resembles his position with regard to the three teachings, where Confucianism and Daoism are subsumed under Buddhism and treated as less complete versions of the same vision. In both cases, Hānshān should not really be regarded as a syncretist in the strict sense, but as an inclusivist. Interestingly, although Hānshān is loyal to the principles of keyword investigation, and although he knows a number of regular keywords that are based on gōng’àn stories from the Chán tradition, he clearly prefers to use and recommend a keyword that has inclusivism built into it: the buddha-invocation keyword, which, as we have seen, not only merges keyword investigation and buddha invocation, but also includes the who element originating in the contemplation of the mind.

Hānshān’s meditative methodology To sum up, Hānshān’s favored repertoire includes two main types of meditation, one in which the meditation object consists of the spontaneous thoughts naturally passing through the mind (contemplation of the mind), and one in which a meditation object based on linguistic or pseudo-linguistic elements (keyword, buddha-name, sūtra, or mantra) is generated by the meditator during meditation. Both types are seen as means to reach to the other side of the “deluded thoughts” that usually occupy the mind, in order to approach a dimension beyond the rational and sensory phenomenal world, to see one’s “original face.” In the most prototypical cases, each of these two types of meditation has its own technical features and a specialized vocabulary. The contemplation of the mind includes the following two elements:

1. directing the attention toward spontaneous thoughts 2. contemplating the arising (whence) and ceasing (whither) of spontaneous thoughts, searching in vain for a point beyond their arising and ceasing, and

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further contemplating the nature of these thoughts (what) or the nature of the one having the thoughts (who) Meditation by means of a self-generated object, on the other hand, starts from the following basic structure:

1. generating the meditation object 2. generating doubt by investigating and examining the meditation object, the meditation process or the meditating person, eventually becoming completely absorbed in this doubt As we have seen, Hānshān often mixes elements from the first type of meditation into the second, most notably by using the who keyword as his main self-generated meditation object, but also by asking questions of the arising (whence) and ceasing (whither) of this and other self-generated meditation objects, as well as of the ultimate nature (what) of the object. He also routinely uses verbs originally associated with the “contemplation” of the mind to refer to the process of Chán “investigation” or “examination,” in particular qù 覷 “to look; to gaze” and guān 觀 “to look; to observe,” in addition to the more neutral verb kàn 看 “to look; to see.” Hānshān is less prone to mix elements from the second type of meditation into the first. In spite of the similarity between Chán “investigation” (cān, jiū, cānjiū) or “examination” (shěn, shěnshí, shěnwèn) and the “contemplation” of the mind, the verbs describing the former are never used to describe the latter. In a letter to a householder, Hānshān once mentions the element of doubt in the context of the contemplation of the mind: When you do not understand where [the thought] arises, you should not refrain from doubting. When your doubt reaches its utmost, you will naturally attain complete understanding. 不知起處，莫道不疑。疑至極處，當自了知。

In his dharma talks, Hānshān never mentions the sense of doubt in such contexts, only in the contexts of meditation on a self-generated meditation object. Note, however, that Hānshān believes even the contemplation of the mind will lead to full meditative absorption (dìng 定 or sānmèi 三昧, from Sanskrit samādhi), with all thoughts being crushed to pieces, notions that are traditionally linked to meditation with a selfgenerated meditation object. To some extent, therefore, the blurring of the distinction between the two forms of meditation goes both ways. Reading Hānshān’s dharma talks with a view to intertextual features, one easily gets the impression that the talks are but a pastiche of what others have written before him, a mosaic of elements from a long tradition of Buddhist meditation. Indeed, Hsu (1979) feels he needs to excuse his interest in Hānshān, since the latter’s philosophical thought is not particularly original. By looking at the relationships of Hānshān’s meditation techniques to those of the early Tiāntāi teachers and to Dàhuì Zōnggǎo, Zhōngfēng Míngběn, and other Chán teachers, this chapter has examined some of the vertical (or historical) lines underlying Hānshān’s meditative methodology.

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This chapter has also examined some of the horizontal (or cultural) lines linking Hānshān to his contemporaries—to other scholars and Chán monastics of the late Ming period. We have seen that a majority of them shared several concerns, most obviously the issues relating to syncretism. The scholars, some of whom like Hānshān doubled as Chán monastics, tended to display a combined admiration for Confucianism, Daoism, and Buddhism, while the Chán monastics tended to mix a good dose of Pure Land doctrine and methodology into their Chán practice. Again, therefore, Hānshān does not appear to be particularly original. This chapter has also briefly discussed the links between Hānshān’s Buddhist approach to meditation and the approaches found in less closely related or completely unrelated traditions, in particular classical Yoga, Christian mysticism, and early Daoism. While cross-cultural similarities in the meditative approach to spontaneous thoughts have been discussed more thoroughly in another chapter in this volume, they are mentioned here to emphasize that Hānshān’s (and anybody else’s) approach to meditation is also partly shaped by generic features relating to the nature of the human body and mind. While such historical, cultural, and generic elements do go a long way in explaining Hānshān’s meditative methodology, they still do not represent the complete picture. In spite of all the external influences, there was also ample space for individual choice and creativity. Culturally, Hānshān resembled his contemporaries in simultaneously espousing Confucianism, Daoism, and Buddhism, but he differed from the majority in favoring Buddhism rather than Confucianism, and he presented his own inclusivist vision of the relationship between the three. Historically, Hānshān’s meditation techniques pick up elements from the Tiāntāi teachers as well as Dàhuì, Míngběn, and other Chán teachers and Buddhist traditions, but he sometimes combines these elements in original ways. While the application of Chán investigation to buddha invocation was well known long before Hānshān, applying the same approach to mantra repetition and, less clearly, sūtra recitation seems to be Hānshān’s original contribution. Finally, the extensive cross-pollination of the contemplation of the mind and the meditation practices that employ a self-generated meditation object may also represent an innovation, which began with the who keyword long before Hānshān’s lifetime, but which Hānshān brought a good way further. The main innovative feature of Hānshān’s meditation practice, therefore, lies in the combination of elements more than in the elements themselves. A comparison of Hānshān and the late Ming scholar Yuán Liǎofán illustrates well how an invididual’s contribution matters just as much as the context in which the individual operates. Like Hānshān, Yuán learned meditation from the famous Chán monk Yúngǔ Dàhuì. In Yuán’s treatise on Buddhist meditation, however, there is no sign that his approach comes from the same source as that of Hānshān, since none of the same forms of meditation is covered. We do not know whether this is because Yúngǔ chose to teach his two students different techniques or because the students chose to pick up different aspects of Yúngǔ’s teachings. In spite of the many historical, cultural, and generic influences, therefore, Hānshān’s dharma talks are more than just a mosaic of quotations, borrowings, allusions, influences, and cultural clichés. Even if all its separate pieces could be derived from

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other sources, the way these pieces are put together attests to the presence of a subject with his own distinct experiences, an individual who makes his own personal choices. Sung-peng Hsu may be right that Hānshān was not a particularly original philosopher, but this was because philosophy was not his main concern. When it comes to meditative methodology, we have seen how Hānshān combines a heavy historical and cultural legacy with his own unique contributions in his attempt to help others reach beyond the thoughts and ultimately seeing their “original face.”

Section Three

Competing Cultures Meditative traditions are often subject to a complex array of external cultural influences, typically bringing with them elements of doctrine and practice in various degrees of competition and conflict: the yogic discipline, bhaktic devotion, and Sufi mysticism of the Hindi sants; the Islamic, Indic, and Javanist elements of the Sumarah movement; and the Confucianism, Daoism, Buddhism, and Korean folklore involved in cinnabar-field meditation.

8

The Hindi Sants’ Two Yogic Paths to the Formless Lord Daniel Gold

While in the West, the term yoga most often refers to the popular hatha yoga exercises of the body, in modern Indian religion the term has also been used very inclusively— often preceded by modifiers—to mean almost any kind of spiritual practice: bhakti yoga can refer to a devotional way; karma yoga can denote a path of active service. In some more traditional North Indian spiritual circles, however, yoga has a more specific meaning somewhere between its narrow hatha yogic and very extensive contemporary senses, referring to a considerable number of practices that entail internal attention to bodily energies without any necessary performance of hatha yogic postures. It is with this meaning that I will use the term here. Yogic practices in this sense are said to lead to different kinds of experiences depending in part upon the particular energies—generally seen as centered in different areas of the body—on which the practitioner focuses and upon what we might call his or her avenue of approach to them. Some approaches seem to offer experiences of ecstasy on a path toward a theistically conceived divinity, others to lead directly to an apparent knowledge of the ground of consciousness. The Hindi sants of North India were a diverse tradition whose members together knew a variety of these yogic practices and approaches. From the standpoint of meditation studies, they show us some alternative dynamics through which different locations within the body can be taken as foci for attention. The extended sant tradition thus provides perspectives on Daoist and Sufi practices of the body also treated in the Cultural Histories of Meditation project, to which some parallels are offered toward the end of this chapter. While the Daoist parallels suggest some basic commonalities of the human body and imagination, those to Sufi tradition may well have some direct historical basis.

The Hindi sants The North Indian sants, who flourished from the fifteenth century and continue to appear today, acknowledge a rich common heritage but have drawn on it in different ways. Their heritage includes the yoga of the body that came to them first through the

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tradition of gruff Nath yogis. At the same time, it has embraced rapturous affective experiences sometimes described in language borrowed from the Krishna devotion developing contemporaneously with their own tradition. The shape of the sants’ piety, moreover, seems to have been influenced by Sufis, Muslim saints who were also prevalent in the India they knew. For like many Sufis, sants were known for cultivating love for a Lord who was worshipped as a formless being. Although the cultivation of love for a formless Lord might not strike people familiar with Western religions as particularly unusual, and does have precedents in older Indian tradition,1 it is in fact not such a common religious attitude in later Hinduism, appearing as a kind of religiocultural anomaly. Those who recognize the divine as essentially formless, while sometimes practicing conventional image worship, usually follow an inner path of intellectual discrimination, renunciation, or austere yoga— often in some kind of combination. Those who cultivate an intensity of love for the divine have normally oriented it toward worship of one of a number of mythically rich images, the most common in North India being that of the beautiful youthful Krishna.2 The sants’ piety is often referred to as nirguṇa bhakti: nir means without and guṇa means quality or form. Thus this is a bhakti, “devotion,” without qualities—or perhaps more accurately, to a Lord without qualities: devotion to a formless Lord. It contrasts in tradition to saguṇa bhakti (sa means with), devotion to the Lord envisioned in some human or human-like form, such as that of Krishna. The North Indian sants, among the first poets in a language recognizable as Hindi, produced countless verses describing intense feelings for the divine—feelings of merging or being suddenly engulfed by love—and sometimes called the divine by names of Ram or Krishna, but they didn’t normally portray him anthropomorphically as the Ramaite or Krishnaite poets regularly did, describing him luxuriantly as a being “with arms and legs.” The sants’ experience was something else and seems to have at least sometimes emerged from a type of yogic practice that was oriented toward bodily focuses at the point between the eyes and higher and that foregrounded listening to internal sounds. Although the sants talked about their practice in a language deriving from that of Hindi verses attributed to the legendarily austere yogi Gorakh Nath, the quality of their experience often shows clear influences from Krishnaite and Sufi devotional strains. What I would like to do here is to discuss some relationships between the sants’ devotional yoga and the more familiar yogic practices some also performed that focused on centers in the spine. Because these centers are most often taken as six (not including the special station at the top of the head), I will refer to the more familiar practices generally as six-chakra yoga. Those practices, which include special breathing techniques (prāṇayāma) and postures, were also popularized by the Naths, and their existence, at least, has long been widely known to spiritually adventurous Indians. Although the most important of the later sectarian sant lineages clearly disdains sixchakra yoga, this does not seem to be true of many sants who preceded them; these sometimes describe that yoga, praise aspects of it, and/or suggest spiritual attitudes congruent with it. The relationships between these two modes of practice are plural because the sants—despite their mutual recognition and a common heritage—are extremely diverse, a diversity that derives in good part from the traditions’ autonomous individuals and lineages and its consequent utter lack of institutionalization as a whole.

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First I will look at some sayings attributed to the great early sant Kabir in order to identify a few central elements of the tradition that are crucial to its characteristic inner practice. Then I will discuss some turns that practice took in both six-chakra yoga as practiced by sants and the particular sant sound practice that is clearly evident in later sant tradition. In conclusion, I will turn to the way in which one twentieth-century sant brought versions of the two together and conceptualized their complementarity.

Suggestions of practice in the sayings of Kabir Movements of regional poet saints singing devotional verses in Indian vernacular languages began about the sixth century CE in South India and developed different styles of piety as it moved up the subcontinent. The first saints in the Tamil country at the southeastern end of the subcontinent, were fiercely iconic; the Lingayats of Kannada country to the north and west of the Tamils were rather iconoclastic; and the Maharashtrian tradition to their north—contiguous to our Hindi sants in place and immediately preceding them in time—featured a gentle Krishna devotion mixed with aniconic and yogic strains. Although some Muslim rulers and Islamic cultural traditions had certainly made their way to Maharashtra by the time of that tradition’s thirteenth-century emergence, any effect it may have had on its formation pales before the effect it had on the Hindi sants, who developed in a fifteenth-century North Indian world in which Islamic religion and culture were an integral part. Sufi mystics were present there in large number—as well as many Muslim rulers, landlords, and converts. While the elements of sant experience can be traced largely to Indic sources, the impact of Islam appears formative to the ways in which these elements came together in their piety. Not only does the sants’ cultivation of love for a formless Lord appear more congruent with Sufi piety than with anything on the immediate Hindu horizon, but two of the most important early sants, Kabir and Dadu, seem to have come from artisan castes newly converted to Islam. Familiar with Islamic as well as Hindu traditions, they championed an inward devotion that transcended the orthodoxies of both. Of these two figures, Kabir was the earlier and, in popular imagination, continues to tower above all the Hindi sants who came later. Many verses attributed to Kabir depict him as fiercely iconoclastic, ridiculing the outward practices of both Hindus and Muslims in favor of the true Lord within: On the eleventh day of each fortnight the brahman doesn’t eat; in Ramadan the qazi fasts for twenty four. Pray tell me why eleven months are empty and one month has so much more? And if God only lives in mosques whose land lies in between? Can Ram reside in images and pilgrims’ stops— in neither one has he been seen. The east is the abode of Hari; Allah’s station’s in the West.

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But Rama and Rahim both lie within the heart, and there alone is where to seek them. As many women, men, that have been born: they’re all your forms. Allah-Rama’s little child, Kabir knows that one as his guru and his pir. (177)3

With this kind of verse, Kabir has been portrayed by some of his popular Western translators, such as the poet Robert Bly (2007), as a kind of free spirit—which he undoubtedly was, although in no way a gentle one. At the same time, a great many couplets (as well as longer songs) attributed to Kabir suggest particular sorts of inward experience. Some of this experience includes visions of lotuses and a version of the unstruck sound frequently referred to in yogic traditions. Inside—a bright shining lotus where Brahma makes his home. The bee-mind is attracted there: hardly anybody knows. (9:17) Kabir sees a bright shining lotus, a spotless, risen sun. Night’s darkness disappears: he hears the horn of unstruck sound. (9:36)

The lotuses and sounds, however, frequently come together with a fervent devotion not commonly found in yogic texts: There heavens are thundering, nectar drips down, banana trees bloom, and the lotus shines bright: Where just His few real slaves are found, Kabir is bound in adoration. (9:35)

Often, this devotion is oriented to the guru and is expressed not just as humility but as intense love: The guru had been pleased with me, and told me something true. The cloud of love then burst, and soaked me through and through. (1:34)

Although these verses are intriguing, it is hard to know just what they mean or even how far they reflect any experience of Kabir and other early sants. Because those sants were largely illiterate singers, not writers, and then became legendary figures, a great many verses have come down in their names. Indeed, most any pithy proverbial expression circulating in North India can be found somewhere in a version that presents it as a couplet of Kabir. It thus seems very difficult to reach any kind of analytical certainty about what the early sants said, much less their practice.4 The experiential poetry attributed to the early sants—especially to Kabir—has been interpreted variously

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within later sant lineages and in scholarship. Although the verses of Kabir I cite in this section are not all from what appear to be the very oldest stratum of texts, they are all fairly well known and not particularly sectarian. They represent a generic Kabir as representative of a core of sant expresssion. Despite the various interpretations that have been given to them, the verses do show some commonalities: a devotional experience expressed through abstract, not anthropomorphic, images that seems to be the result of some sort of yogic practice, together with some frequently recurring terms framing that practice. As is often the case with key terms in religious traditions, these could be profoundly ambiguous.

Śabda This is a term that means word or sound. It is found very frequently in the sayings of early sants (along with a few other terms with kindred meanings) and is even commoner in some later ones; as a central term in Hindi religious verse it is distinctive to the nirguṇa tradition, giving primacy to the auditory experience of the divine, not its visual image. Śabda, here translated as word, is often praised in its own right: So many different words there are— Attend the word that’s true. The word through which you’ll meet the Lord: Grasp it close to you. (15:88)

In the context of internal practice śabda refers first of all to a version of the unstruck (anāhata) sound heard internally by yogis and which is part of the standard yogic repertoire, where it is often called nāda. In yogic texts, it is often said to begin with the yogi’s access to the heart chakra, conventionally named the anāhata chakra. Kabir refers to it specifically in hearing the horn of unstruck sound (9:36 above), and probably alludes to it when describing the “thundering” in the heavens (9:35). In addition to its yogic meaning, however, śabda can also be used (or interpreted) in more mundane, literal senses. Thus, the expression guru śabda can broaden the yogic sense of śabda to mean the unstruck sound that the guru caused the devotee to hear, or it can simply refer to the guru’s word, in the sense of the guru’s order or his teaching. Extending the sense of the guru’s teaching, śabda is also sometimes used to refer to one of a sant’s verses, or to a type of verse. For adherents of living sant traditions, the context usually makes clear whether the referent is internal sound, recorded verses, or spoken words, but for solitary readers of texts the referent is often very much a matter of interpretation. In all senses, though, the śabda of sant verse does not refer to any ordinary word; it is always a word loaded with some kind of religious force.

Guru The term guru also has weighty meanings, and not only as a source of śabda. The multiple meanings of the term, moreover, are complexly linked. Certainly, the term can refer to a living sant, particularly in contexts when a charismatic teacher is present. In traditions where there is no such obvious figure, it often refers to a sant at the head

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of a lineage. In the texts, moreover, the term guru or satguru “the true guru” often appears as the highest divine principle and seems to be used as a name for the Lord. This leads some Indian and Western interpreters to talk of the guru primarily as the inner guide, and this may be how some free-spirited sants have interpreted the term in the texts, although it is probable that most had teachers of some sort even if they didn’t name them. But for disciples of a living guru, the conjunction of the highest divine principle and its human embodiment can be very powerful. The two couplets below both play on a Hindi pun—the Hindi word bāni, which means a saying and can have much the same meaning as śabda, is also a word for arrow: The true guru’s the true hero: just one arrow he shot. But how it struck! A wide wound in my heart, I hit the ground. (1:9) The satguru, with steady grip, put an arrow in his bow, then let it go. And I, exposed, was hit. My body like a forest burst in flames. (1:23)

Here we see the guru as the source of śabda, but met in what is expressed poetically as a kind of rapturous encounter. Is the referent to a living guru, to the supreme Lord, or somehow to both at once? In an otherwise aniconic devotional tradition that also entails yogic practice, the figure of the guru can indeed bear quite some weight—the word guru literally means heavy—and become a central mystery.

Yogic jargon In addition to frequent mention of śabda and guru in exalted senses, the sant verses also contain a distinctive technical language that derived from the Hindi usage of the Nath yogis.5 It includes words that are fairly common in yogic parlance, such as trikuṭī, “three peaks” for the place between the eyebrows, and others that are less so: sunna, derived from the Sanskrit śūnya, “void,” seems to refer to a particular yogic region that is replete with a higher consciousness, nothing like the “empty” śūnya of Buddhist philosophers; banka nāl, the “crooked tunnel” is used as a technical term that I have heard interpreted in different ways (Gold 2002), as is niranjan, translated as “spotless,” in verse 9.36 above. Indeed, as we will see, from the perspective of some later sant lineages, “the spotless risen sun” of that verse can have a very particular technical meaning. What we can say with a reasonable degree of confidence about the internal practices represented by the generic Kabir is that they were focused on a divine with no human shape (other than perhaps that of the guru), toward which devotees were sometimes drawn affectively through feelings of ecstatic love. The sants’ practices also sometimes led to experiences of an unstruck sound that does not quite seem to have been (or not only to have been) the corresponding experience of the yogis, which was sooner a quiet enstatic absorption rather than a loving ecstatic one. As is common in the yogis’ nāda practice, sants might further be drawn to places of concentration at the point between

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the eyebrows and above—places referred to in terms originating with Nath yoga, but not presented there in vivid poetic terms. Different sant lineages would add to this practice, develop it in different directions, and sometimes, apparently, let it lapse.

The growth of sant tradition Sant tradition grew in two ways. First, sants had disciples, who themselves became revered as sants. Second, new figures emerged, as if from nowhere, working in the sant style but without naming any particular guru—either singing about the guru in general or claiming inspiration from a sant of the distant past. Many of these no doubt had teachers or a teacher they learned from, and from whom they may have received esoteric initiations, but they didn’t identify any one person as a guru in the central sense that the term could often have among sants. What these all had in common was that they were at least regionally remembered figures who identified with sant tradition and produced verse that conformed to its poetic norms, which were not in fact particularly demanding. Some of these figures have left little or no institutional trace; others have stood at the head of lineages that remain vital today. New sants and sants in established lineages tended to have different attitudes toward tradition. The first, while acknowledging a spiritual kinship with a broad brotherhood of sants, felt little compunction about supplementing any practice they derived from it with resources from a common Indic repertoire. They were also by definition poets of some merit who had attracted enough disciples to preserve their work. The second often were not notable poets and even more often not poets at all. While some literary figures blossomed later in the larger lineages—most notably in that of Dadu6—successive lineage leaders often limited their contributions to the development of worship and practice traditions that found authority in the notable poets of the lineage and the larger sant tradition. Still, even with inherited patterns of practice, sants in lineages, as gurus themselves, could also make innovations. It became easier for them to do so as the continued emergence of new sants outside of lineages enriched the store of practices already seen as part of the broader tradition and on which they could draw without appearing to make radical change. The earliest sants tended to come from the lower—if not the very lowest—caste communities. Because leaders of some later movements of social protest within these communities have looked to an early sant as a source of pride and inspiration, contemporary scholars have sometimes focused on the sociopolitical roles of sant movements (see Dube 1998; Wakankar 2010). But a sociological approach to sant tradition also has some less immediately political aspects: in general, popular nirguṇa devotion developed in less ritually restrictive ways than its saguṇa counterpart—which normally featured an image of the divinity worshipped according to some variant of common brahminical norms—and most people involved in later sant traditions were de facto not entirely satisfied with conventional ritual orthodoxies. But for many of the later sants, their unease with tradition may have come less from political oppression than from a middle-class sociological displacement during some tumultuous centuries of early modern change.

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By the eighteenth century many new sants came from middle-ranking communities or higher—a number were from mercantile castes—while the old lineages that survived, often called panths or “paths” (e.g., the Kabir panth, Dadu panth), were firmly entrenched and producing treatises and rituals of their own. Although new sants and panth leaders still sometimes came from low castes, many of those who didn’t seem to have been literate—in Hindi if not in Sanskrit or Persian—and to have had fairly comfortable lives. Most seem to have been less interested in social protest than in living quietly and pursuing their spiritual goals. Some themselves composed written texts preserved within continuing lineages. This, together with the fact that the later sants were usually not so illustrious as to inspire others to use their names, means that there is less doubt about the authenticity of the texts attributed to them. Literacy among sants thus changed the shape of the textual corpus of the tradition. The short remembered verses of presumably illiterate early sants still formed the basis for a common store of Hindi verse that later members could draw on as scripture. Indeed, many sants composed a verse or two naming earlier proponents of nirguṇa bhakti as past expounders of the way. Traditional redactors eventually made compilations of songs, often supplementing those of gurus in their own lineage with verses from the wider band of sants. Like their unlettered predecessors, literate sants also wrote short independent verses, although sometimes in a language more erudite than that of the early sants, who generally aimed at a popular audience. But some also wrote longer works, such as Charandas of Delhi’s eighteenth-century Bhakti Sāgar or Tulsi Sahib of Hathras’s early nineteenth-century Ratna Sāgar and Ghaṭ Rāmāyaṇa. Works like these, which sometimes show influence from Sanskritic and Persianate sources, offered not just glimpses of a path but some more sustained descriptions of one as well, together with some theological undergirding of it. Within this expanded sant corpus we can discern two ways in which practice developed, one more general, the other more specific, and neither mutually exclusive.

A synthesis of practice for the people In a short book on the spiritual practices of the sants entitled Sahaj Sādhanā, “Natural Practice,” the eminent Hindi literary scholar Hazariprasad Dwivedi makes a statement that I think can be taken as reasonably representative of a view held in much old-school Hindi scholarship on the sants. Discussing the nearly universal esoteric principle of corresponding microcosms and macrocosms, Dwivedi tells us This body is indeed the universe, and if this is properly understood, then the highest principle can easily be grasped. In the earlier tantric tradition, this basic principle led to much extended, complex literature containing secrets of how to gain access to innumerable centers of divine power. The sant practitioners made the same principle graspable by the people in very natural language. This is their most weighty contribution in the field of spiritual practice. (Dwivedi 1963: 55)

The great sants, then, in this view, were widely accomplished practitioners who were able to share aspects of their secrets with ordinary humanity. They understood, further, that the nirguṇa truths they could realize through yoga also had vital devotional

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dimensions that might be more readily accessible to common people. And by the fifteenth century, Indic religious traditions had an immense array of practices, both yogic and devotional, on which individual sants could draw. Although Dwivedi ends Sahaj Sādhanā with a short chapter called Madhuropāsanā, “sweet adoration,” where he discusses emotional states and devotional attitudes, in that book he in fact gives particular weight to the yogic and tantric sides of sant practice. His central terms for presenting the practitioner’s universe are the tantric principles of Śiva and Śakti—consciousness and power (1–26), and he uses the four increasingly subtle stages of the yogis’ nāda to elucidate the sants’ śabda (29–52). In that discussion he also refers to kuṇḍalinī, the latent power coiled up within the body like a snake, which wakes up through yogic practice. “Kabir,” he notes, of course never made clear reference to kuṇḍalinī, but he was definitely fully aware of this principle. . . . Actually, in order to understand the sound practice of Kabir and the nirguṇa-path sants a knowledge of the principles of mantra of the Śaiva and Śakta practitioners is very helpful. (36)

Dwivedi later goes on to describe various forms of repetition of mantra and divine names, a practice very frequently found in contemporary sant lineages; prāṇayāma, which is also often found in some form; and various haṭhayoga practices, which are less so (55–71). While one can argue with Dwivedi’s particular yogic perception of sant practice as a whole here—indeed, Dwivedi’s specific views on Kabir and sant tradition in general have become somewhat controversial7—it is clear that many sants knew about practices of the body and presented them at least as options for disciples. In a collection that contains much sant verse in a familiar style, Maluk Das—a seventeenth-century sant from Kara village near Allahabad who was well known in his day (Chaturvedi 1972: 575)— presents a brief description of the chakras (Malūk and Vaṃśī 2002: 187)8 as well as “a description of the eightfold exercises” (aṣṭāng abhyās varnan), that is, of Patanjali’s eight-limbed yoga. Maluk Das gives a concise presentation of the classical eight limbs, even distinguishing two main varieties of the last, savikalpa and nirvikalpa samādhi, “absorption with and without an object.” In the next section, however, each of the eight limbs of yoga takes a devotional turn oriented toward Hari, a Vaishnava name that Maluk Das uses for the formless Lord. The first three limbs are treated summarily: maintaining restraint (jam = yama [1]), regularity (nem = niyama [2]), and a good seat (āsana [3]), disciples should listen to instruction with good will. Then prāṇayāma [4] and pratyāhāra (sense withdrawal [5]) should be done while constantly uttering Hari’s name. Consciousness should be held (dhāraṇā [6]) at Hari’s feet and meditation (dhyāna [7]) done in the heart until: Then you’ve stepped into samādhi [8]: no object there at all— Hari’s there then face to face, the seer merges with the seen. This is turiyā, how you know Him, what there is to know; It’s nirvikalpa, says Maluk Das, nirvāna’s abode. (82–83)

Certainly, this nirvikalpa samādhi doesn’t really seem to be what Patanjali was referring to, which appears sooner as a final cessation of individual consciousness, or at any rate

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as something less celebratory than Maluk Das’s experience; at the same time, though, Maluk Das doesn’t quite portray the loving ecstasy earlier seen in some of the couplets of the generic Kabir either, with alluring lights and disciples burning up and falling to the ground. Maluk Das here gives us a more orderly approach to the formless Lord, an absorption into a joyful all-knowledge through the steps of a faux aṣṭāng yoga. Maluk Das also offers other approaches. He could, for example, also write in the cool voice of a Vedantin. In a long verse discourse called Jñāna Parochi, “Knowledge Unseen,” he proclaims: Know: I am brahma, I am peace, truth, consciousness, and bliss! The body’s false; the ego’s nothing— that’s what’s called true knowledge. (197)

Maluk Das shows familiarity with a wide range of approaches, most of which he graces with devotion, but not all. Maluk Das’s most prominent contemporary proponent, Nanak Chand (b. 1926), known as Yogiraj Nanak, also offers a mix of devotion and yoga, with an emphasis, for his part, on simple yogic practices, including prāṇayāma and bīja “seed” mantra recitation at the different chakras (see Yogiraj Nanak 2003). Appearing as a modest modern guru attached to sant tradition, Nanak Chand’s story may help illustrate one of the ways their tradition has grown. Nanak Chand hails from Maluk Das’s home region and traces a physical decent from one of the sant’s uncles; he now resides in a middle-class residential area of New Delhi at an ashram with a shrine to his illustrious ancestor. As a young man, he set off on a spiritual search, “meeting many popular saints and seers” (Yogiraj Nanak 2003: 9). He worked for some time in distant Kashmir but didn’t achieve a sense of his mission in life until he came home and meditated at the shrine of his long-passed relative, at which time he realized his destiny was to be a spiritual teacher himself. Although Maluk Das’s verses emphasize the importance of the guru as much as that of most sants, Nanak Chand doesn’t seem to have had a guru in the normal human sense. His relationship to Maluk Das was through no direct initiatory lineage, but through some felt familial and regional closeness together with an experienced spiritual inspiration. No doubt he learned some practices from different religious teachers during his earlier wanderings, but he also seems to have experimented with some he had read about (he is literate in English as well as Hindi). He has found his authoritative voice, though, through the tradition of the sants, and is currently in official charge (albeit in absentia) of Maluk Das’s shrine at Kara. Like many sants, he has written Hindi poetry. Nanak Chand’s story is suggestive of the way some past figures, too, may have come to sant tradition—without close ties to a living guru, mostly making their own way. One of the tradition’s virtues as an alternative to orthodoxy has always been its openness: sants could come from any station and did not need to take formal renunciation. Many spiritual techniques were named or at least hinted at in the developed sant textual corpus, so there was room for a great many forms of practice. The ambiguity of the central language of guru and śabda, further, allows those terms to be interpreted in less than esoteric ways. Śabda as sacred word could be interpreted

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as a mantra or divine name to be uttered—an exercise that could also figure as a preliminary to the more esoteric sant śabda practice. A guru could be a sant of the past revealed in a dream or an inner voice as well as a living teacher of esoteric practices. At the same time, the experiential verses of the sants were only a part—if an important one—of the total corpus of sant verse. Much of that consisted instead of more straightforward prayers or “warnings” (cetāvnī) about the ephemerality of worldly existence. At gatherings of devotees it is often songs of this sort that are the most recited. Because the sants have usually tried to keep themselves open to a broad public, most have attracted many devotees who seek their spiritual protection but who engage in no disciplined practice or in just a very simple one. Yet even simple practice, we often hear, when done with humility and fervor, can lead to big results. And some apparently simple practices, as they develop, turn out to be not so simple after all.

Esoteric devotion for the middle classes By the end of the eighteenth century a more complex stream of sant practice begins to come clearly into view. The usage of esoteric jargon in some sant lineages with reasonably robust traditions seems to have converged: it has by this time become a more or less consistent language for describing stages of ascent in the inner and outer heavens for devotees doing related versions of esoteric śabda practice. The consistency between lineages shows enough uniformity in language to suggest some mutual familiarity—together, perhaps with some influence from an esoteric strain of Islam.9 Individual sants in these lineages could also be eclectic, but this was an eclecticism dominated by a distinctive, increasingly well-developed esoteric strain. Particularly noteworthy here are the development of some theologies that seem unusual in Indic tradition, reminiscent of mediterranean gnosticisms featuring “two powers in heaven” (Segal 1977). In addition to the highest “formless” Lord, these theologies present a demiurge ruling the human world, using sensual desires to blind the souls there to the path to the true Lord’s home. This dualism is articulated clearly in the Anurag Sagar, “the Ocean of Love,” a Hindi treatise of obvious Kabir panthi sectarian origin but which circulated widely in later sant lineages.10 There Kāl, “time,” found in the early Kabirian corpus as the inevitable destroyer of mortal beings, is personified as a being ruling the lower worlds, keeping the human souls in his thrall. The great deceiver, he is addressed as Dharam Rai “King of duties (dharma)” and usually referred to as Niranjan, “the spotless,” which in normal Hindu usage can be an unironic epithet of the divine. The highest Lord then sends Kabir, appearing with different names in each of the four ages of Hindu lore, to release the souls from Kāl/ Niranjan and bring them back to him. As practices and theologies become codified, the yogic terms that seem irregularly used in the early texts appear with consistent meanings in some later lineages. The most specific usage is in the mid-nineteenth-century Radhasoami lineage, which continues to have a wide following today throughout North India, with large centers in Agra and in Beas, Punjab. In the verses of its founder, Shiv Dayal Singh—known as Soamiji Maharaj—Kāl and Niranjan become two closely related beings whose power

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over humans is concentrated at specific places in the body: Niranjan ruling at the point between the eyebrows, and Kāl ruling at a place slightly above that. In the central forehead are the plains of sunna, “the voids,” with its rulers, and so on to the realm of truth, sat lok. Each of these bodily stations, moreover, has its own sensory characteristics: Niranjan, for example, is yellow. By concentrating on śabda and letting themselves merge into it at each of these successive realms, devotee moves through the higher worlds to the formless Lord. Although this usage of the sants’ technical jargon is most codified among the Radhasoamis, sants from other later lineages, such as the Gulal Panth of the eastern Gangetic plain, used the terms in some similar ways (Gold 1987: 137–45). The same is less likely to be true for scattered verses of earlier sants. It is thus not clear that the “spotless risen sun” of Kabir’s couplet 9:36 translated above was originally meant to be read as an esoteric reference to the Radhasoamis’ yellow point of “spotless” Niranjan, as it is likely to be read by many today.11 The Radhasoamis, moreover, particularize the larger sant tradition in more than their technical usage. In this lineage especially, the driving power is love and attraction, with the six-chakra yoga clearly disdained. Even within the esoteric traditions before the Radhasoamis, the esoteric meaning of śabda had become something more than internal sound, the “horn” and “thunder” of Kabir’s verses 9:36 and 9:35 above. It now no longer refers just to sound, or even a sound power as manifest in mantras; it can also be experienced as a stream into which the devotee merges and which carries him or her along. These lines, part of a verse discourse by the eighteenth-century sant Gulal to his disciple Bhīkhā, describe the soul leaving the body through śabda, which is first referred to as anhad nād (Hindi for the anāhata nāda of the yogis): In the sky-void, Bhikha, All things have a place. Anhad nād, śabd, vital forces Consciousness, I tell you. That void lives in the body Manifest in all; in all unmanifest. When someone comes in touch with it He finds the guru’s śabda. The body doesn’t merge with it. The soul does, though, and leaves the body, Going off in śabda. (Mahātmāoṃ kī Bānī: 205)

Radhasoamis are emphatic that this sort of ascent happens only through the guru’s grace, that is, through an initiation by a living guru which opens up a continuing pull toward the divine. Devotees have to concentrate, but then have to let themselves be pulled. When successful, the practice can open up worlds of blissful ecstasy from which the devotee is loath to return. It is thus most compatible with the gnostic dualism found in the Anurāg Sāgar, a version of which Soamiji also taught: devotees are drawn out into higher realms from where the bodily life of cause and effect seems to be a very petty affair, but that life inevitably pulls them back.

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Many of the later saints seem to have practiced the same kind of yoga, if often with less extreme emphasis on love to the exclusion of other yogic practices. Paltu Sahib of Ayodhya, from the same broad lineage as Gulal and Bhikha, offers a song that plays on his own merchant-caste identity to describe his ecstatic condition: Who will keep my shop now, hey, who will keep the shop? (refrain) The goods are all at trikuṭī, suṣumnā’s got a mattress on the floor; My main store’s at the tenth door; where sits endless Lord. (1) Iḍā, pingalā—my two scales, they hang from the soul’s strings. I’ll grasp the cross-beam of true sound, and weigh out piles of pearls. (2) The sun and moon will keep up watch on heaps of primal stuff Climb to turiyā, set up shop; that’s how I’ll take charge. (3) The master satguru’s interceded, I’ve met sweet-seller Rām; He’s sounded the drum at Palṭū’s house, who keeps getting paid back a hundred-twenty-five percent. (4) (Palṭū Sāhib 1974: 28)

Much of the experience seems similar to what we find in other later sants. Paltu talks about śabda (true sound, line 2) and the sounding of the drum (line 4). His condition is pleasurable, with Lord Ram as the sweet seller (4) and piles of pearls to weigh out (2). He’s had the satguru’s grace (4). Paltu’s use of technical language is more idiosyncratic than that found in the later Radhasoami codification, but it can be read against it in a way that does not seem forced: the tenth door is located in larger Hindu tradition in the mid-forehead, like the Radhasoamis’ sunna, and later Radhasoami interpreters tend to equate the two. At the same time, Paltu uses a broader range of traditional yogic language than normally used by the Radhasoamis (iḍā, pingalā, turiyā) and doesn’t hesitate to use the language of tantra to describe his experience: In the merging of Śiva and Śakti, I have found my bliss I have found my bliss, water merges into water. (Palṭū Sāhib 1974: 104)

In Hindu tantra Śiva and Śakti represent the cosmic polarity not only metaphysically as Consciousness and Power, but also as male and female in sexual yoga. Although I have heard terms from sant texts interpreted in the sexual sense (Gold 2002)—and “water merges into water” is suggestive—Paltu here is almost certainly adapting the tantric language to a more devotional ethos, with the water here a play on the common devotional figure of the dissolution of the self into the divine. The trademark language of the sants is clearly that of śabda, which at least by the eighteenth century could be understood to describe a certain kind of esoteric practice done with greater or lesser degrees of loving devotion. At the same time, even sants in esoteric lineages were free to innovate as ideally spiritually independent holy persons, drawing on commonly practiced yogic and devotional techniques around them. How they managed psychically and intellectually to integrate a version of śabda practice with other yogas and devotional modes were likely individual matters, but we have an example from the twentieth century of how one contemporary sant managed to do so.

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Two yogic paths: A twentieth-century formulation Thakur Mansingh Kushwah (1909–83), known as Malik Sahib, was born into a rural gentry family of the former princely state of Gwalior, now included in the northernmost part of the Indian state of Madhya Pradesh. He received an education at the Sardars’ School on top of Gwalior fort, established for the local elite, and went on to government service in Gwalior State and its successors in the Indian union. In the tradition of the sants, he earned his own living: his family was no longer wealthy and neither was he.12 As a young man, Malik Sahib came into contact with Lala Shyamlal, known as Guru Data Dayala, who traced a lineage to Radhasoami Maharaj through the latter’s younger brother Pratap. This was always to remain a minor Radhasoami lineage, often ignored in its histories. Malik Sahib became an ardent disciple of Guru Data Dayala and brought others to him; when his guru passed on in 1940, Malik Sahib felt called upon to give initiation in the tradition himself. The managing committee at the guru’s ashram, however, had other ideas, although it in fact never managed to find a viable successor. So Malik Sahib continued on his own, holding religious gatherings where sayings of the sants were read, and giving initiations. He thus made his own groups of disciples in different towns as he moved around his home region in government service. In 1953 he came into contact with Yogendra Vijnani, like himself a householder, who initiated him into a Shaiva śaktipāt tradition. This he passed on to his disciples already doing śabda practice, which in contemporary Radhasoami parlance is called surat śabd yoga—with surat being a term for the self-conscious soul and the originally Sanskrit śabda pronounced in the modern Hindi way.13 As presented to Malik Sahib, his early surat śabd yoga and his later Shaiva yoga were two distinct lines of spiritual practice having their own theological bases and leading to different experiences. The śaktipāt practice was monistic, grounded in understandings about the ultimate unity of Śiva and Śakti. It had devotional aspects to be sure, but it did not highlight the experiences of intense, blissful love that were featured in the surat śabda yoga of the Radhasoamis. Instead it was said to lead relatively quickly to a clarity of consciousness through an awakening of the kuṇḍalinī. The theology of the surat śabda yoga Malik Sahib practiced was as dualistic in the two-powers gnostic sense as any found in the late esoteric sant traditions. Indeed, Guru Data Dayala wrote a book in English called Retransformation of Self, which tells much the same story as Anurāg Sāgar, substituting the loving satguru for Kabir and dressing itself in early-twentiethcentury scientific garb (Shyam Lal 1923). As in other late esoteric sant traditions, adherents seeking union with the Lord were promised experiences of rapturous bliss in higher worlds on the way. For both disciples and guru, these two experientially and intellectually divergent traditions needed to be integrated. For the disciples, experiential integration was foremost. The disciples still experienced the ecstatic love associated with śabda, but now often in the six bodily chakras as these were purified by the kuṇḍalinī śakti through familiar yogic processes of prāṇayāma and postures as well as through some less familiar means. As the disciples progressed, they were more likely to successfully catch the audible śabda in the higher regions. What kept Malik Sahib’s two practices together for the disciples was the centrality of the guru’s grace in both: that grace now provided a wider variety of experiences, but they were all recognized as coming from

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the same source. For the guru, the experiential integration of the sants’ śabda and the yogis’ kuṇḍalinī seems to have been immediate. And using the resources of the extended Hindu tradition, he soon found a way to integrate them conceptually as well. Unlike Kabir and some of the earlier sants, Malik Sahib never renounced the established traditions. He lived as a Hindu householder, if giving priority to the inward interpretation of myth over the outward performance of ritual. While still a young man, he wrote interpretations of the esoteric meanings of mythic figures such as Krishna and Hanuman that derived from his experiences of inner worlds as a surat śabd yoga practitioner. Later he would, conversely, look at the surat śabd yoga from the point of view of the larger Hindu tradition. The force of loving attraction featured in that śabda practice, he said, was the hlādinī śakti spoken of by the ancient sages, the power of delight. Malik Sahib’s experience gave him a particular practical perception of how hlādinī śakti works. He understood it to rise up the front of the body, starting from the svadiṣṭhāna chakra, in the genital area. It could be triggered by nām, “name”—a word or phrase repeated internally or externally and taken as the voiced co-efficient of the unstruck śabda. Eventually the nām merges with the breath (prāṇa) and reaches the point between the eyebrows. From there the ecstatic journeys of the surat śabd yoga practitioner truly begin. The kuṇḍalinī, he said as most do, travels up the spine, in the back of the body. He added that it then travels up over the head and down to the point between the eyes. From there yogis are also able to merge into the highest consciousness through unstruck sound, moving through the increasingly higher points of concentration sometimes shown in yogic diagrams. They are, however, likely to do so without the hlādinī śakti, experiencing an enstatic calm, not an ecstatic bliss. Both those oriented toward yoga and those oriented toward devotion experienced unstruck sound, but differently. In psychically synthesizing the practices of gurus from two different traditions, Malik Sahib both complicated his inner world and enriched it. He was also literally able to see it as complete. Looking to the four directions of the body spoken of in Hindu lore, he talked about the path of śabda/hlādinī śakti as the eastern path. This was the path in front, which offered feelings of love and objects to vision: it was the path to the true Vishnu. The path of kuṇḍalinī, up the back, was in the west, the direction of the setting sun. It was the path leading to Śiva as ultimate consciousness. The eastern path was like a train ride: it took some time, but you got to see some marvelous sights along the way. The western path was like an airplane flight, a potentially quicker way to the goal, but offering no sights. Depending on their temperaments, devotees could progress differently. Although Malik Sahib was working exclusively from the Indic traditions he knew, his descriptions of different flows of energy in the body can suggest parallels from esoteric traditions beyond the subcontinent. The recitation of nām and its merging with the breath recalls techniques of Sufi dhikr recitation discussed by Elias, which can lead to sequences of colored lights,14 as also appear on Malik Sahib’s eastern path. By contrast, Eskildsen’s description of Daoist practice of energies rising up the body and including a vision of the red snake15 recalls the practice of kuṇḍalinī, also sometimes envisioned as a snake, on Malik Sahib’s western path. Whatever the historical relationships between these Near Eastern and East Asian practices to the Indic ones that Malik Sahib knew, their similarities to them do suggest that, like the human body

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itself, the potential paths for the flows of psychic energy within it are basically the same across humankind. Malik Sahib’s own interest in religiohistorical analysis, however, was more parochial than ours. His particular perspective on the flows of psychic energy in the body gave him a way of understanding some of the diversity in sant tradition that concerned him, particularly the divergence between the apparent references to hathayogic practices of some early and middle sants and the prevalent love-oriented Radhasoami practice of his own day that was dismissive of them. Kabir, he thought, as many in India who revere the great sant do, had knowledge of the practices of all the traditions of his day: “haṭhayoga, the Nath panth, Vaishnava [devotional] teachings and others. . . . Grasping the essence of each teaching, Kabir Sahib proceeded to simplify them into his śabdabrahma worship.” Kabir’s practice, as Malik Sahib saw it, was first to “pierce the lower six chakras”—like Dwivedi, Malik Sahib suggests that Kabir knew about the kuṇḍalinī energy even if he never named it as such—and then to “turn the psychic energies (pavan) inward, centering them upwards from the trikuṭī [between the eyebrows].” At this point the soul “begins to move ‘in the swing of love and devotion.’” This route, then, begins on the yogic western path and culminates on the devotional eastern one. According to Malik Sahib, it spread among early sants and their successors, and eventually reached the early-nineteenth-century sant Tulsi Sahib, whom many, including Malik Sahib, see as the guru of Radhasoami Maharaj. Tulsi Sahib abandoned most of the haṭhayoga, but kept prāṇayāma. Radhsoami Maharaj abandoned even prāṇayāma: “Probably in accordance with the circumstances of the age” he developed a śabda practice “through devotion alone” (Sant Mansingh 1976: 67–8). Malik Sahib could readily come to this view of sant tradition—which admittedly gives him a privileged place in its restoration—because he stood apart from any major institution, just as did the Malukdasi guru Yogiraj Nanak Chand discussed above. Although these two stand as contemporary independent figures in a continuing tradition of sants, they otherwise seem to have little in common. Still, taken together they suggest some vital socioreligious dynamics suggested by the ambiguous divine and human nature of gurus in sant tradition. As charismatic individuals, each was for his disciples, a very special living focus of the divine—for most, their sole living guru. At the same time, each of them had irregular relationships to living gurus themselves. Malik Sahib recognized not just his main surat śabd yoga and śaktipāt gurus mentioned above, but also a third, sant Lochan Das, who taught him a version of surat śabd yoga in his youth. Nanak Chand, by contrast, recognized no living guru at all, while finding transformative inspiration (and some religious authority) in the spirit of Maluk Das. The principle of the guru in sant tradition as something ambiguously human and divine means not only that the person of a living guru can loom very large, but also that the guru can be found in different persons—including other sants—or outside any body. It can provide loyalties within lineages that preserve traditions, but also lets spiritually adventurous individuals tap different sources of practice—sometimes very powerful ones. By continuing to bring sometimes radically different practices together in new ways, a hallmark of the Hindi sants from their beginnings, the sants keep their heritage vital.

9

Inner Islamization in Java Paul D. Stange

Islam is integral to but not always the heart of Java’s rural religious pattern. While burial is universally Islamic, prayer houses often remain only an anteroom, space for cleansing and protection prior to dealings with ancestral spirit realms. Islam and the kejawen (Javanist) world of spirits have not been exclusive domains but interdependent fields, an underlying indigenous grammar has been continually interplaying with imported idioms. The lexicon of Javanese has been deeply enriched first by Sanskrit and then by Arabic but its structure remains Malayo-Polynesian.1 “Javanists” are those who prioritize the spiritual synthesis of Indic Madjapahit rather than the culture of later Islamic Demak. Their court and folk traditions include prophesies that Java was to fall under the sway of foreign culture for 500 years before a Jaman Buda, a new golden age, would resurrect indigenous spiritual identity.2 Thus even advocates of the Buddhist revival in the 1960s held that villagers had no need to “convert”; that at heart they were already Buddhist and had only to acknowledge the fact.3 For Javanists deconstruction of overlying imported influences was intrinsic to affirmation of independence and a key cultural aspect within the national revolution which began in 1945. The competing mythology, within local communities and scholarship, is that Java has long been fundamentally and overwhelmingly Islamic. From that perspective tensions between orthodoxy (santri) and Javanism (kejawen) may exist, but “inside” what was already a Muslim frame.4 These alternative gestalts provide a fundamental axis for debates about what it has meant to be Indonesian or Muslim in the archipelago context. This tension was famously represented by Geertz as one between syncretic Javanism and orthodox Islam; as divergence between santri piety, abangan animism, and priyayi mysticism.5 Since 1980, when the Suharto government tipped regulatory structures toward revivalistic Islam, the social and ideological framework of life has inexorably prioritized Islamic discourses and signifiers in “outward” (phenomenologically accessible) domains.6 Yet while the dar-al islam, the house of Islam, refers exoterically to the community of believers, esoterically it is the psychic/spiritual space within which the condition of surrender to the will of Allah exists. Thus even orthodox views of jihad refer at once to the outward expansion of the community of the faith (ummat) and, as its higher form, to the inward expansion of the spiritual territory characterized by the condition

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of submission.7 With this in mind “Islamization” can be reread: it refers not only to outward professions and actions, but also to the inner spiritual state of submission. Ethnography focusing on recent meditation practices can be used at least suggestively to characterize shifts and reorientations of attention within the body. Shifts in deployment of attention, correlatively in approaches to consciousness, are a distinct domain of religious change.8 Attending to the way attention is directed within the body through meditation practices can lead to unexpected conclusions. In this context the resulting perspective establishes grounds for reinterpreting the interplay between kebatinan (disciplines of inner awareness) and Islam in Java. Sumarah, the movement from which examples will be drawn here, was seen by Geertz as representing mystical Indic culture. Any conventional outward criteria of Islamization indeed positions it as in opposition to doctrinal orthodoxy. However, when we focus on internal practices and keep inner aspects of Islamization in view, the movement can ironically be read as a prime vehicle of the very “Islam” it is usually imagined as opposing. Establishing the significance, features, and accessibility of this inner interface is my prime objective here. Meditation practices involve disciplined cultivation of attitudes and attention to different zones within the body; they are not just reflections of changing ideologies and social practices in visible domains. Beyond polarities it is commonly emphasized that the Javanese, like most borrowers, adopted Islam in their own terms, maintaining continuity with earlier teachings. Geertz used the story of Kalijaga to suggest that change, insofar as conversion implied some, was on the surface rather than in the depths of spiritual life.9 According to legend Sunan Kalijaga was the offspring of royalty from Indic Majapahit but founded the traditional Islam of Mataram, the ethnic Javanese core surrounding Yogyakarta and Surakarta. Kalijaga’s conversion is supposed to have taken place near Demak, on the north coast (pasisir), the zone of trading states through which Islam entered Java. His conversion by Sunan Bonan involved asceticism and to Geertz this suggested completion rather than denial of the qualities of the spirituality prioritized in earlier Indic Java. Later shadow puppet drama (wayang kulit) presents a converse sense of the same continuity. In it Kalijaga encounters Judistira, the eldest of the Pandawa, who releases him from what would otherwise have been endless wandering. Kalijaga is said to have revealed that the written talisman which Judistira carried, one held to be the most powerful magical weapon (pusaka) of the Pandawa in the Javanese versions of the Indian Mahabharata, was none other than the kalimah shahadat, the Islamic confession of faith. Decoded this amounts to statement that the most powerful magic of the Indic era was Islam, present implicitly although unrecognized.10 Kalijaga’s orthodoxy is counterpointed in legends by the heresy of Seh Siti Jinar, a radical mystic like al-Hallaj, who was executed by a council of the wali, the founders of Javanese Islam. Traditional accounts hold that the wali agreed with Seh Siti Jinar in holding that mystical union lay at the end of Sufi (tarekat) praxis, that the gnosis at issue was consistent with monistic philosophy, and even that in the final analysis its attainment did not depend on maintenance of the shariah. However they objected fundamentally to his public announcement of this secret knowledge. This key debate became an archetype for later contention over the bounds of orthodoxy and converged with competing preferences for Indic or Islamic philosophical idiom.11 The

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counterpointing of al-Hallaj and al-Ghazzali in global Islam is replicated and localized as one between Seh Siti Jinar and Kalijaga in Java. Through dakwah movements and government legislation doctrinal orthodoxy and ritual participation are given increasing emphasis as the markers which bound and define the community of the faith, the ummat. Neither focus on the political balances of power in the country nor on literal senses of what constitutes Islam properly indicate the depths of contemporary Islamization. Drewes observed long before recent shifts that although Javanese Islam does not have the austerity Europeans habitually associate with Middle Eastern orthodoxy, the religion deeply influenced the interior of local spiritual life.12 At the same time practices relating to spirit forces remain popular and sacred sites, including graveyards, springs, mountains, caves, and temples, are visited regularly on propitious occasions for specific magical purposes. The objectives include sexual conquest, promotion or success in examinations, and wealth.13 Meditation movements include these kejawen practices, enmeshed in tantric-styled occult powers. Others, including a more Muslim wing, work to expand consciousness without focusing on spiritual powers or their social by-products. Divisions of this type correlate with varying commitment to animistic, Indic, and Islamic strata. As each of these is still strong, contemporary contention is rooted in the same tensions which were immediately evident when Islam first arrived. Sufi tarekat, important within archipelago Islam since the twelfth century, remain powerful, but are not problematic,14 at the same time movements such as Ahmadiyah have been long banned, and remain an issue today. There are several dozen major independent (of any religion) kebatinan organizations recognized by the government and hundreds of small local groups. Several million people are actively associated with mystical practices and even today most Javanese treat mysticism and meditation seriously. The basic psychological grid employed within the sects is remarkably uniform. Broadly they share conviction that normal awareness is confined to thoughts (pekir) and not sufficiently developed in the inner intuitive feeling (rasa). As a consequence of inadequate inner awareness, people tend to be guided in their actions by impulses directed by personal desires (nafsu). In effect we thus function to gratify our ego instead of as vehicles for the unfolding of God’s will, natural harmony, or the growth of consciousness. Even many Muslim Javanese have a firmly established sense of karma and reincarnation and use other Indian terms to describe and deal with the spiritual path. At the same time, Islam has left a deep imprint in terminology and style, much of which is straight Sufism, and most obviously in their stress on a monotheistically imagined God.15 The techniques used are as diverse within Java as in other mystical traditions: some meditate (semadi) through use of mantra, others concentrating on particular chakra, using Sufi dhikr, or tirta yoga (immersion in water).

Monism and dualism in meditation practice The Sumarah movement is a window to wider issues.16 Although not one of the largest movements it has been especially important because its leaders were especially active

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within umbrella organizations, which represent kebatinan nationally. Sumarah is practice and has no canon of teachings; does not identify with a particular religion; has no physical focus (meetings take place in normal homes); has no fixed teachers (in principle not focusing on personalities); and different individuals take the lead at various points even within the same session. Practice does not involve rituals. Guides stress that the awakening of consciousness is a natural process which cannot be forced by will or activated by formula. While members meditate individually (at any time that might suit them) they also usually meet weekly, generally in the home of advanced practitioners called pamong (loosely, “guides”). When practicing together those who may function as pamong provide direction and focus on the basis of awareness of their own process and simultaneous attunement to those participating. If their words have value it understood to be because they function within a field of connected experience. Direct and conscious awareness of “connected inner experience” has from the beginning been seen as the key to shared practice. Meditation, almost always termed “sujud” may take place in silence, or with only a few pertinent comments, but even conversation is meant to catalyze movement on a path each participant is understood as treading individually. When fragments of the

Figure 9.1 The founder of Sumarah, Sukinohartono, at his home in Yogyakarta in 1970. (Photo: Soebagio of Ungaran).

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teaching/learning process find their way onto paper appreciation of the message is considered to depend on contextualizing it in inner realization.17 As there is no fixed form of teaching, nor even of technique, practitioners and guides find their own styles and this variation is validated by the group’s theory. Nevertheless, those who enter the practice have often begun with the sesanggeman, a set of “vows” or principles which identify the prime convictions and objectives underlying the practice.18 These indicate affirmation that members “are certain of the existence of God” and the practice is fundamentally defined as one of total surrender. This is what the term “sumarah” means; more precisely it refers to the condition suggested by the Christian phrase “Thy will be done.” This is as close as one word could come to describing the nature of practice and the state it is directed to. Because it essentially means in Javanese what “islam” means in Arabic, the practice can easily be interpreted as deconfessionalized Islam. Yet although most members are also formally Muslim, they usually would say explicitly, as many other Javanese still do too, that they are merely “statistical” members of the faith. At the same time Sumarah emphasizes the autonomous revelatory origins of its practice. Leaders use the term “wahyu” for that internally, but soft peddle it in public to avoid offending orthodox Muslims, who hold that term in reserve for Mohammed’s revelation. While the movement has always emphasized that it is not a “religion” and has no connection with a particular religion, the keynotes of the practice nevertheless resonate clearly with Sufism.19 Certainly as a practice is geared toward conscious realization of and surrender to God it can be seen as focused on what orthodox Islam terms “the greater jihad,” the path of inner and self-critical purification. This is evident not only in terminology and discourse, but also in the way attention is directed within personal internal practice. Geertz identified mystical movements with the priyayi elite socially and with the Hindu-Buddhist kraton-oriented (court-oriented) tradition historically. Hadiwiyono argued more directly that these movements, with their tendency toward a “pantheistic monism,” are extensions of the classical Indic rather than recent Islamic culture of the island.20 Residual Indic philosophy, including strong monistic (non-dual) currents, does exist in Sumarah. More to the point, despite the generally Muslim tones of the movement, explicitly Buddhist and Islamic styles of meditation practice have existed side by side within it. This coexistence exposed the meditative interface between Islamic and Indic styles. Incidentally it also illustrates the range of emphases possible within one movement and resonates with contrasts between concentration and relaxation techniques, a contrast found within (and not just between) meditative groups and traditions.21 Counterpointing of monistic and dualistic approaches highlights differences in inner orientation associated with Indic and Islamic orientations toward meditation practice. In its own terms Sumarah is simply spiritual, neither Indic nor Islamic but with a membership which happens to include Muslims, Christians, Buddhists, and (among recent practitioners) even agnostics. Everywhere both branches and individual teachers have distinct orientations. The Sufi undercurrent is strong in most of the East Javanese branches of the movement, especially in the Madiun and Ponorogo area. Central Javanese members are more likely to distance themselves from Islam. Even

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Figure 9.2 Sudarno Ong at a meeting in Ungaran (near Semarang) in 1973. (Photo: Suyono Hamongdarsono). within the Surakarta branch there were two distinct styles of guidance which were influential during the 1970s. Suwondo, until his death in 1999 the director of a market bank, came from a network of batik-producing families from the Solonese district of Laweyan. His style of guidance reflected the qualities of that social origin in its directness, related to the business ethos of the group, and in emphasis on what are essentially Islamic terminology and values. In contrast Sudarno Ong, who died in 1982, was a peranakan (Chinese-Javanese) who spoke Javanese as his first language. He was born in Madiun, spent his childhood in a rural market town, and worked as a collector of subscription fees and bills for a Chinese cultural association. His Buddhism can be traced to a grandfather in Madiun who had been active in the local Chinese temple, a klenteng. These house Javanese versions of syncretic south Chinese religion, in itself combining Buddhism, Taoism, and Confucianism into what Indonesians used to call “Tridharma,” the three teachings. While Suwondo’s activity and guidance reflected the terminology and style characteristic of wider Sumarah, Sudarno’s guidance departed obviously from the mainstream in both discursive and social terms. He did not always highlight association with Sumarah, but also guided what he called “relaxed meditation” for the Theosophical Society in Solo and for the mainly Chinese community of the Theravāda Buddhist vihara of Tanah Putih, on the outskirts of Semarang. The bhikkhus he knew through these associations accepted his practice as a Buddhist teaching but generally thought it too advanced to be of practical relevance to many people. At the same time the most common reservation of other Sumarah pamong about his practice was, ironically, the opinion that it touched only the first stages of practice instead of leading to the heart of it.22 According to Sumarah principles, practice of individuals is not centered on any individual, and members are always exposed to guidance through a variety of pamong. Nevertheless people tended to have favorites in the same way that Christians might choose a church by its minister, and only a minority engaged seriously with both

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guides. Sudarno’s focus on a field of awareness equalized through the whole body followed by “opening” without an imagination of “God” seemed to others, embedded in Islamic idiom, to mean that “true surrender to God’s internal guidance” had not begun. Conversely from the standpoint of Sudarno’s “non-dual” discourse any imagination of “separate self surrendering to an imagined object” remained dualistic, tied to devotional (in the kalbu, the esoteric center associated with the heart) focus on an “external” object. The number of followers who worked with both increased sharply when Westerners began to follow the practice in the 1970s. Initially they were most attracted by Sudarno’s guidance, because he was open without prerequisites. Other Sumarah pamong including Suwondo were initially skeptical of Western interest, also holding that conviction in God was necessary before people could begin. Nevertheless within six months Westerners, like the Javanese and peranakan membership of Sumarah in Solo, were involved with both guides. Like others they have had preferences, but most have been pressed through that circumstance to grapple with contrast between essentially Sufi and Buddhist meditative discourses. Suwondo’s sessions were dynamic and fluid and the flow of practice, including discussion about it, depended very much on the group present, issues raised, mood, and atmosphere of the day. Suwondo clearly saw himself as an active catalyst. He encouraged prospective guides to actively experiment in tuning in to others they were meditating with, not to fear errors but to make them so as to learn from them, to seek openings, to reach out and stir movement. Like most in the organization he used the Arabic term “sujud,” meaning “surrender,” for Sumarah practice. At times his guidance was punctuated by use of his version of the dhikr, “Allah . . . Allah”. He stressed linkage between total surrender to God, using the term “Allah” or less often its Indonesian alternate, Tuhan Yang Maha Esa, and service to humanity as an expression of God’s will. He often described the spiritual process in terms of an inner fight (pertarungan) between areas of the psyche which resist and those which aspire to the condition of

Figure 9.3 Suwondo Hardosaputra (center) at a meditation meeting in his home at Kratonan (Surakarta) in 1976. (Photo: Suyono Hamongdarsono).

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“sumarah,” that is the state of surrender. This formulation matches the Islamic sense of the “greater jihad” particularly closely. He enjoined people to exercise their commitment and will (tekad) to carry through the often unpleasant inner confrontations spiritual quest may open. In relating practice to daily life he spoke of the necessity of attuning at once to the “horizontal” and “vertical” dimensions—which is to say at once to the condition of existence around and to surrender to God. The Javanese term “eling,” which he and others in Sumarah use for the latter, means the same “remembrance” which is common to Sufi practices.23 Although he did frequently use the term “oneness,” he also advised people to “ask” (nuwun/bertanya) for answers or clarification from inside. This active seeking of inner clarification, ultimately theoretically deriving from God, works as an inward process of research and reflection (renungan) moving toward the Truth, called “Hakiki” in Sumarah, from the Arabic “khak.” Sudarno’s sessions were characteristically more methodical, with emphasis on long silent meditation. His sessions also varied and their tone depended on both context and mood, as all sessions do. But Sudarno’s sense of his role clearly differed from Suwondo’s. Sudarno made himself available for questioning and probing or advice, but if no questions eventuated he was content to let the session remain short and silent; he did not see himself as an “activator,” but as a receptive and responsive guide. His preference was for the term “meditasi”; and his key words included: “kendor” (loose, slack, relaxed) and “sadar” (conscious). He empathized with the way Krishnamurti described meditation, as a natural process of becoming increasingly conscious within and of the moment, of a dissolution of the division between observer (pengawas) and observed. His terminology was of “merger” and “union” rather than surrender. While Suwondo spoke of “surrender and service”; Sudarno spoke of “consciousness and compassion.” From Sudarno’s perspective it appeared that all we need to do is open ourselves and relax, first physically and then by automatic extension at deeper levels, so that as events arise within inner awareness consciousness dissolves them and we move toward a condition in which boundaries of ego, thought, and feeling no longer exist. Generally he advised against clinging to any “method” (patrap), and insisted that the “teacher” was whatever circumstance or event (inner or outer) we encounter in the moment. He frequently advised against concentration practices involving focusing of awareness on a thought, mantra, or specific area of the body, directing people toward opening and relaxing. He described concentration practices as implying separability of “self,” “method,” and “object” rather than leading toward an open field of awareness. Within almost every session he would begin by reminding everyone to let their attention sweep through the whole body, from toes to the head, so that as a starting point the whole physical body was engaged in the process. Though never referenced, this would be recognizable in yoga or vipassana contexts as a version of satipaṭṭhana. The procedure aims to produce a “democratically open” field of awareness. Implicitly he rejected dualism and monotheism by not referring to or invoking “God”; explicitly he rejected devotional styles of practice. Instead he held that when barriers have fallen away consciousness of others is no different from consciousness of self, leading actions to be responsive and automatically attuned to the real inner

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Figure 9.4 Sudarno Ong, with Suprapto Suryodarmo on his right and the author on his left, at a meditation meeting at the home of Suyono Hamongdarsono in Solo (Surakarta) in 1976. (Photo: Suyono Hamongdarsono). needs of others. He even disavowed Buddhist practices of invoking compassion (mettakaruna) because he held that they lead to mimicking something that only exists when arising spontaneously. Similarly he explicitly held that no idea of what God is can help in meditation. Instead of filling meditation with an aim and centring on the spiritual heart, as he said most Sumarah people did, he admonished students to be emptying themselves of everything. Suwondo’s teachings were framed in reference to God, surrender, service, active quest, inner struggle, and the eventual purification which results in the individual functioning purely as a channel for God’s will; Sudarno’s teaching was framed in monistic terms of union (without referent), consciousness, compassion, relaxation, openness, and the dissolution of the boundaries and desires which constitute ego, so that the person, insofar as any “thing” remains, exists in responsive harmony with the totality of existence. Here I am able to identify keynotes, tones, and emphases which differ and neither can nor intend to comment on difference in the qualities, or levels, of consciousness attained or claimed. Simply speaking of contrasts in discursive styles exaggerates differences; the two had a great deal in common and differences were not an issue between them. The point that I want to draw from this synoptic characterization of their styles of discourse and phrasings is limited enough so that many caveats are unnecessary. Even sustained analysis would bear out that Suwondo’s mode of discourse was dualistic (albeit never simplistically so).24 His key terms and tones were consistent with Islam and Sufism. On the other hand Sudarno’s terminology was emphatically monistic and consistent with Buddhist practice and discourse. If Sudarno’s style was “exemplary,” Suwondo’s was “emissary,” to borrow the distinction Weber made between Indic and Semitic styles of prophecy.25 These philosophical framings relate to styles of teaching, inner orientations, and the tones of experience. In presenting loosely Sufi and rigorously Buddhist philosophical outlooks, their difference, especially in attitude toward reference to God, was substantial.

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Wider Sumarah perceptions of Solonese practices were affected by other issues, having to do with the evolution of phases in Sumarah practice, which are not directly relevant here. Leaving those aside, while Suwondo’s style was consistent with organizational norms there was little awareness of Sudarno’s style beyond Solo. When Arymurthy, the most prominent leader of the organization during the 1970s and 1980s, articulated Sumarah’s perspective on prospective international development, during a meeting with Westerners in 1973, he stressed that “relaxed meditation” was not Sumarah. In his terms practice only became Sumarah when it led to direct inner reception of Hakiki (Truth), of absolute Truth recognized collectively within guided meditation. Elsewhere other Sumarah people frequently rejected the term “meditasi,” saying it was different from “sujud” because they imagined it led to void and not God. Thus even people who were not engaged with how Suwondo and Sudarno directed practitioners easily registered differences in their discourses.

Orthodoxy and heterodoxy: Meditation as a national issue A more widely relevant divergence within Sumarah connects directly with political forces affecting local religious life. The connection is strong because Arymurthy and Zahid Hussein were both simultaneously leaders of the movement and actors on the national stage from the late 1960s to the early 1990s. Their view of meditation practice differed, and eventually the conflict between them touched every level of their activity ranging from the national politics of religion, leadership in the Sumarah movement, and approach to meditation. Zahid emphasized surrender on the basis of absolute conviction (iman bulat) and centering on the heart; Arymurthy’s more elaborated system called attention to his version of the range of occult centers (cakras), stressing awareness through the whole body in the way that is emphasized within tantra. Zahid was orthodox and Arymurthy heterodox in relation to how mysticism relates to religion. These contrasts converged with distinct social positions: Zahid, early in this period a colonel and later a general in army intelligence, worked closely for and with President Suharto; Arymurthy, a civil servant in the taxation office, took an independent position in representations on behalf of autonomous mystical movements. Zahid was aligned with the government’s increasing orthodoxy; Arymurthy was marginalized in opposition due to heterodox views. In the 1970s the issue of kebatinan and Islam was prominent nationally, and it seemed increasingly possible for people to present themselves as members of mystical groups without also signaling membership in a world religious community. In the 1980s the pendulum of Javanese religious politics swung the other way. Now it is generally held that everyone must have a world religious affiliation and that, while it remains legal to belong to mystical movements, membership is strictly as an adjunct to what must also be an active “religious” commitment.26 This essentially represents a return to the orthodox Islamic view, that of al-Ghazali or Sunan Kalijaga, on how mysticism relates to religion. This rise in orthodoxy, one Suharto fed so as to avoid angering the Islamic community (the most conspicuous potential opposition to his government) was reflected more deeply in the textures of individual spiritual lives than we might expect.

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Figure 9.5 Arymurthy speaking to the Sumarah national conference in Surakarta in 1973. (Photo: Suyono Hamongdarsono). Arymurthy had the Indonesian equivalent of an MA in economics and spent most of his professional career with the taxation office. He became the national leader of Sumarah in 1966 and, in late 1970, a leading national representative of mystical practices. In 1978, through that role, he became the director within the government office responsible for faith (kepercayaan) movements, thus taking a leading role in the national politics of mysticism. At the time his posture was accepted and the New Order government, most likely Suharto personally, approved of his stance implicitly. Parliamentary legislation in 1973 was interpreted by most kebatinan adherents as indicating that it was legitimate to profess mystical practice without also nominating membership in an officially sanctioned world religion. Subsequently the establishment of a directorate, for the first time giving mystical movements representation in the bureaucracy, appeared to release mystics from supervisory oversight through the Ministries of Religion and Justice. Suharto had clearly encouraged the mobilization of kebatinan, probably on the basis of both personal sympathies, deriving from his upbringing in Central Java, and as a political counterweight to the oppositional force of Islam. In the late 1970s the complexion of the political climate began to change and with it the policy of the government. Zahid Hussein occupied a critical position within this shift. His role is clear simultaneously within Sumarah, for kebatinan generally and in national administration. Zahid had joined Sumarah early in its history and as a youth, around 1940, through his foster father in Yogya. The latter had been active in Muhammadiyah, the prominent modernist Muslim organization, then became a follower of Sukino, the founder of Sumarah. Zahid was simultaneously a national leader of Sumarah, a key leader of the (theoretically independent) umbrella organization of mystics, and a eventually general working in Bina Graha (the suite of Presidential offices next to the Palace in Jakarta). During the 1970s he played a trusted role in intelligence, for at least a decade being responsible for Suharto’s security during travels within the country. During the 1980s he managed Banpres, the President’s discretionary funds, much of it used as gifts to pesantren, Islamic schools. On the one hand he played a key role in Suharto’s efforts

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Figure 9.6 Zahid Hussein (center foreground) at the Sumarah conference in Surakarta in 1973. (Photo: Suyono Hamongdarsono). to domesticate and incorporate the kebatinan activists into the regime; on the other hand his job was to neutralize the critical potential of the pesantren.27 The New Order’s remarkable success in both these spheres was important to its political stability. It can hardly be coincidental that Suharto instructed Zahid to take the haj to Mecca in 1977. Because Zahid was then already prominent as a representative of kebatinan in national politics his trip to Mecca raised eyebrows. Some kebatinan people thought it was counterproductive for one of their public spokespeople to implicitly give such credence to the shariah. When Pak Zahid commented on the trip to me he said that it was to assess whether Suharto should take the haj himself, joking that he went to “test the vibrations.” This was more than a joke and would have been consistent with Zahid’s security function inside Indonesia: his spiritual sensitivity was no doubt seen as relevant to his intelligence work.28 In any event there is no doubt that by becoming a haji Zahid’s standing within the Islamic community changed. He became a more acceptable emissary and this may have been a deliberated prelude to the role he soon did assume in helping ease the Suharto government’s relations with the pesantren communities. Not incidentally becoming a haji and interacting increasingly with pesantren people also affected Zahid’s own discourse. Even his way of framing Sumarah meditation practice shifted during this period. This shift coincided with an independent factor, the maturation of Zahid’s practices and functioning as a leader, and that process may quite separately have brought the santri roots of his early youth closer to the surface. Zahid was junior to Arymurthy within Sumarah. Both were known nationally as presenters of a national TV time slot allocated to the movements, mimbar kepercayaan. Their relationship was intimate through the 1970s. In the early 1980s they moved apart. Their positions on national policies relating to kebatinan are suggestive of the classical contrast between al-Hallaj and al-Ghazzali or Siti Jinar and Kalijaga. In the national politics of religion the shift between the two is connected to the swing, already alluded to, from radical to conservative mysticism. The displacement of Arymurthy from his national role, as director within the Ministry of Education and Culture for the “faith”

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movements, was on Suharto’s instructions. Arymurthy held to the position, one he related to the Parliamentary legislation, that membership in a legitimate mystical or ethnic faith was enough to satisfy the constitutional requirement (it is still read that way now) for citizens to “believe in one God.” Whatever his personal predilections, Suharto was convinced by the 1980s that such a posture risked alienating elements of the Muslim community which he could not afford to offend. The policy which dominated the 1970s was tested during the lead up to the 1980 census. Funds within the Ministry of Religion are allocated according to statistics on religious affiliation collected through the census. On the basis of the 1973 legislation some kebatinan activists encouraged members to list themselves only by their mystical affiliation, as was held to be legal for their “residential cards” (kartu penduduk). In many areas local authorities have not accepted this in practice, but as this was theoretically legitimate the forms for the census were initially drawn up with columns for the accepted world religions and another labeled “other.” At the last minute the “other” column was eliminated, meaning that all citizens had to nominate a recognized world religion on their forms.29 Implicitly this meant that mystical engagements could be viewed only as an adjunct to and never as an independent alternative to religious affiliation. This shift correlated closely with a political swing toward the conservative mystical position, at least as that would be defined by tradition. Because Arymurthy stuck doggedly to his understanding of principles rather than accepting the shift in government thinking, Suharto concluded he had to be removed. Zahid Hussein followed the President’s view without difficulty and not only because of his job. His function did require agreement more directly than Arymurthy’s did. But his personal perspective also converged with the new line. His perspective was influenced by the national role he played as a mediator, acting directly on behalf of the President, in relation to both Muslim and kebatinan communities. This difference in perspective reverberated through the relationship between Arymurthy and Zahid Hussein in their government, umbrella movement, Sumarah, and meditative interactions. The contrast between their positions on the national front can be related directly to divergent emphases within their approach to meditation practice. A detailed explication of the contrasts would be possible and worthwhile, but within the limits of this context it is enough to suggest correlations to indicate how external and internal domains related to each other. From Arymurthy’s perspective the nature of Sumarah practice matured continually since its origins in the 1930s and became increasingly inclusive of the whole body. For Zahid Sumarah practice arrived complete, through the revelation Sukino received, and rests from start to finish on rounding the conviction (iman bulat) in God’s power as it moves through our individual life. From his point of view it is not the nature of the practice which has evolved, but only the maturity of individual practitioners. Furthermore, to his mind this does not require elaborate explication, which Arymurthy was prone to, but simply a practice of surrender which centered for him, as earlier Sumarah practice used to generally, on the heart (the kalbu within the sanubari). Convergence between Zahid’s views, his upbringing, his career, his sense of the practice, and even a position analogous within Sumarah to the Muslim view of Muhammad as the “seal of the prophets” is substantial and obvious.

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Shifting deployment of attention in the body There are a number of ways in which attending to the practical domain of meditation inverts standard images of the relationship between Islam and Javanism. A primary theme within the history of Sumarah has been effort to reorient people: to direct attention away from involvement with and dependence on the ancestral spirit kingdoms and toward internal individual harmony with “God’s will.” According to Sukino’s explanation when the Wahyu Sumarah, the “Sumarah Revelation,” was received there were offers of assistance from the spirit of Senopati, a founding ancestor of the current courts in Java. In the late 1940s young members in Yogya enlisted spirit armies for the revolution until Sukino vigorously rejected this strategy. In repudiating such links Sumarah was breaking with the pattern embedded in Javanist Islam. When Dr. Surono, the leader of the movement from 1950 to 1966, began to extend Sumarah through conversion of the spirit realms, the movement rejected his leadership. Informants from the strongly Islamic areas of Gresik, Demak, and Ponorogo all told stories of opposition to Sumarah based precisely on magical practices rooted in local Islamic saint cults which focused on the Wali. What was normatively perceived as “Islam” was inwardly magical and spirit bound; while Sumarah, normatively perceived as a Javanist heresy, was inwardly committed to the submission to God which Islam is supposed to represent. Extending this suggestion it is possible to identify a widespread current of inner Islamization within Javanism. The Subud movement is, like Sumarah, explicitly devoted to cultivation of an inner condition of total surrender to God. Its terminology is more pervasively and overtly Islamic than that of Sumarah and even foreign members adopt Islamic names. The Sapta Darma movement terms its practice “sujud” and its practice can be seen as a modified, tantric tinged, variant of the normal Islamic prayer. Ibu Pandji, a leader of the Pangestu movement, explained that their “panembah” (prayer) could not be termed either “semadi” or “meditasi” because to her both those terms implied void rather than God centeredness. Monotheistic senses of the spiritual, deriving essentially from Islam, have penetrated profoundly into popular consciousness. Even if the wayang mythology remains an active frame of discourse, the first and primary pillar of Islamic faith has taken firm hold. As mentioned already, folk healers, the same dukun who are associated with residual animism, invariably assert both that their power to heal comes from God and that they remain conscious when transmitting messages from spirits—in the latter bowing to Islamic distaste for practices of possession.30 The emblematic imagery of Kalijaga’s conversion was used to argue that nothing really changed, but perhaps what did change was in a reorientation on inner planes a domain of contention along with disputes about social practices and cultural concepts. Attunement to the sliding meaning of the term Islam, especially to the fact that shifts in that dimension of meaning constitute a key aspect within historical process, provides entry to reassessment of Islamization in this context, especially in its relation to mysticism. Even in orthodox terms Islam is not just a doctrinal and ritual system, as registered through religious texts and social process. Beyond the social realm, where ritual defines religion in terms conventional consciousness grasps easily, Islam can

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be understood as a mode of cultural discourse. “Islam” can refer to conventions of conceptualization and practice beyond those explicitly articulated by people, even experts, who call themselves “Muslim.” Islam also comprises characteristic orientations of attitude and attention within individual practice; these become clearer in the context of meditation practices. Scholars easily and habitually engage the social and cultural faces of mysticism. In those domains it appears as a style of movement, ideology, or philosophy. In its own terms, as the inner aspect of religious life, meditation engages precisely the domains of experiential spiritual praxis which cannot be definitively mapped by phenomenologically accessible expressions. Terms such as gnosis, in the Javanese context nglemu, refer quite precisely to knowledge of and through the whole body rather than to that which is mediated by intellect in isolation. I mention this to recall what is well established, that in dealing with the inner aspects of religious knowledge we always engage issues, zones, aspects, or functions, among the fields of awareness accessible through the body, other than intellect. Cultural difference and historical change is not merely an issue of translation within a single plane. Difference is amplified by divergent deployment of attention as that is channeled through distinct senses and by prioritization of messages registered in different parts of the body. Traditional esotericism everywhere construed mentation as one function among many and the highest consciousness as one which integrated diverse functions. Intellect has always been centrally positioned but never, until the Enlightenment, considered autonomous in the way we are now accustomed to assume it is. If differences between cultures involve shifts in prioritization of different aspects within the fields of awareness accessible to human beings, so also do changes through time. If we attend to the inner spheres which all religions prioritize in personal practices the history of religions is usefully redirected. It becomes a history not only of shifts and substitutions in the phenomenological realms of social organization or ideological image but also of the way attention is consciously directed within individual psychic experience.

10

Cinnabar-field Meditation in Korea Don Baker

Premodern Korea, at least during the second half of the Chosŏn dynasty (1392–1910), proudly thought of itself as a smaller-scale version of China. It modeled its political institutions on those of China. It used Chinese rather than Korean for almost all serious writing. And its religious culture looked very much like the religious culture of China, with two conspicuous exceptions. Though Koreans are fond of saying that they adopted the Three Teachings of China, that is only two-thirds correct. The dominant philosophy among the elite during the Chosŏn dynasty was the Chinese philosophy of Neo-Confucianism, just as it was in Ming and Qing China. Moreover, just as in China, there were Mahayana Buddhist temples scattered all over the Korean countryside. In fact, it would not be an exaggeration to say that Buddhism in Korea resembled Buddhism in China much more than it resembled Buddhism in its other neighbor, Japan. Moreover, Buddhism was the official religion of the Korean state until the end of the fourteenth century, so in that sense Korea was actually more Buddhist than China. However, Koreans did not show the same receptivity to the third of China’s famed Three Teachings. Daoism had a very small footprint on the Korean peninsula. Before the seventeenth century, there was an official Daoist temple at the court but temple Daoism did not spread beyond the court.1 Daoist gods, such as the Jade Emperor, were incorporated into Korea’s folk religion but were not worshipped apart from indigenous Korean gods and spirits or given their own shrines. (A possible exception is the Big Dipper deity, but that early on became part of folk Buddhism in Korea and was not seen as representing a separate religious tradition.) There were a few Daoist texts, philosophical texts such as the Dào Dé Jīng 道德經 (The Way and its Power) and religious texts such as the Yùshū Jīng 玉樞經 (The Jade Pivot Scripture), that were read in Korea but they never formed the basis for a separate philosophical or religious tradition. The specific denominations we see in Chinese Daoism do not appear in Korea. We don’t see any Celestial Masters there or any institutional signs of the Complete Perfection School. Therefore when Koreans engaged in what looks like Daoist meditation, their approach to meditation was quite different from what we see in those Chinese forms of Daoism. Instead, when Koreans adopted Daoist religious elements from China, they tended to absorb them into their folk tradition of animism and shamanism. When they read

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Daoist philosophical works, they read them from a Neo-Confucian perspective. The same sort of thing happened when they imported Daoist internal alchemy techniques. When they adopted them for their purported health benefits, as longevity-enhancing practices, they treated them either as a part of mainstream medicine or as part of Confucian practice, in accord with the Confucian injunction for a son to keep his body healthy so that he can serve his parents. When they imported them for spiritual rather than merely physical benefits, they absorbed them into the indigenous Korean tradition of the shinsŏn (神仙), god-like immortals. The belief that certain breathing practices and physical exercises can have a spiritual benefit is rooted not just in Daoist notions imported from China but also in a traditional Korean belief in the inseparable connection of mind and body. Even today, one way to say “self-cultivation” in Korean is to say momŭl takkda (polish the body). Koreans have long believed that one way to clear your mind so that you can have a more accurate perception of both your own emotions and the world around you is to clarify your ki (Chinese qì 氣, the ethereal stuff that coagulates into material entities such as the human body, as well as the energy that animates such bodies), which will improve both your physical constitution and your cognitive capabilities. That second effect was particularly important because Koreans believed that you could not act properly, behave morally and appropriately, unless you could see clearly where your own emotions were leading you and could see the world around you clearly enough to know how you should interact with it. This belief in the intimate connection between body and mind, between a healthy body and a clear mind, made Koreans particularly susceptible to Daoist claims that breathing practices and physical exercises designed to raise the quality of ki could make a practitioner not only a healthier person but also a more spiritually advanced person. We can see this connection between health and spiritual insight in the most important work of traditional Sino-Korean medicine ever produced in Korea. The Tongŭi pogam (A Treasury of Eastern Medicine—東醫寶鑑), compiled in 1613 by Korea’s most respected premodern physician, Hŏ Chun (許浚, 1539–1614), placed particular emphasis on three forms of ki: chŏng (Chinese jīng 精), ki (Chinese qì 氣), and shin (Chinese shén 神). As Hŏ uses them, they refer roughly to essential bodily fluids, bodily energy, and refined bodily energy, respectively. All three terms refer to the fundamental cosmic energy that animates the universe. Within the human body that vital energy takes three different forms, differentiated according to differences in visibility, tangibility, and density. Chŏng is visible vitalizing energy, such as semen or blood. Ki is invisible but palpable vitalizing energy, discerned when a doctor feels the pulse of a patient to determine the state of his or her internal energy. Shin is ethereal vitalizing energy, so rarefied that it provides the physiological basis for consciousness, and therefore for the ability to obtain the insight necessary to make moral decisions.2 In other words, Koreans, drawing on Chinese tradition, distinguished three modes of ki: animating ki (chŏng ki), energizing ki (ki), and perceiving ki (shin ki). Chŏng, ki, and shin are usually associated more with Daoism than with Confucianism, but Hŏ, though no Daoist, places fostering and reinforcing vital energy at the core of his approach to Sino-Korean medicine and to enhancing human capabilities.3

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The ambiguity of the term shin helped Hŏ and other Koreans link physical and spiritual health. Since shin is written with the same Sino-Korean character used for a supernatural being, it was used both for the ability to see clearly what needed to be done and as a descriptive title for those who had risen above the normal limitations of everyday human existence, such as the shinsŏn, the “immortals” who lived high up in Korea’s mountains. Koreans thus believed that proper cultivation of their inner energy, their ki, could both make them a better person and give them many more years on this earth, giving them a chance to join those shinsŏn in the mountains. Hŏ was not the first physician in Korea to adopt concepts and practices from Daoism (as we will see in a few pages, he advocated cinnabar-field breathing) in order to enhance both health and character. A century and a half before Hŏ wrote his medical encyclopedia, another medical encyclopedia, compiled in 1445, the Ŭibang yuch’wi (Classified Collection of Medical Prescriptions 醫方類聚) included a section on “promoting longevity.” That section opens with the statement that, in the days of old, human beings used to regularly live to be a hundred years old. These days, it complains, when men and women reach only half that age, they are already weak and frail. That is because human beings no longer practice the techniques that can prolong life. The editors of this section then proceed to provide excerpts from a number of Daoist guides to achieving longevity, including guides to lower abdominal and embryonic breathing, calisthenics, and vitality-enhancing sexual practices. This section also includes the popular Daoist advice to practice swallowing your own spit. It even includes an excerpt from the scripture of the Jade Emperor and a section explaining Daoist meditation on the “three-in-one.” Many of the texts excerpted in this Korean medical encyclopedia are taken from China’s Daoist canon.4 However, by far the most popular longevity technique adopted from Daoism is cinnabar-field breathing meditation, along with its associated physical exercises. Such Daoist techniques have a long history of use in Korea in non-Daoist contexts, both to enhance longevity and to enhance human cognitive and spiritual abilities. Practitioners assumed that by using certain breathing practices and physical exercises to expel decaying or weak ki from their bodies and replace it with fresh, healthy ki, they could then use their cinnabar field (丹田) to refine that higher-quality ki into chŏng and, particularly, shin, which would give them both a healthier body and a more enlightened mind. The cinnabar field is at the core of Korean energy-enhancing, and therefore longevity- and cognition-enhancing, practices. “Cinnabar field” is a literal translation for the two Sino-Korean characters which combine to provide the name of the invisible organs in the body, one below the navel, one in the chest, and one in the skull, which were believed to process ki inhaled through breathing (ki can mean air as well as energy) into forms of energy which enhance human physiological and cognitive functioning. They are called “cinnabar fields” either because the mineral cinnabar was believed by practitioners of the earlier Chinese tradition of external alchemy (the practice of concocting substances to be ingested in order to enhance longevity) to be the best base from which to derive longevity-enhancing substances or simply because the center of the cinnabar field was believed to be red, the color of cinnabar. Practitioners of internal alchemy (who, aware that external alchemy had failed to provide immortality,

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decided to try a different approach) believed that proper breathing techniques, physical exercises, and mental concentration would make it possible for the “cinnabar field” to generate ki that functioned the way actual cinnabar was supposed to function.5 Such internal alchemy practices were particularly popular in Korea in the century following the upheavals caused by the Japanese invasion of the 1590s and Manchu invasions of the 1620s and 1630s. However, their adoption by Koreans predates those traumatic events. The fifteenth-century eccentric Kim Sisŭp (金時習 1425–93) was the first Korean scholar we know of to write that by breathing in a certain way, men can slowly expel harmful ki from their bodies while accumulating good, life-prolonging ki. One specific technique he suggested is to rise early and sit facing the east, welcoming the ki that you breathe in through your nose (you are supposed to breathe in through your nose only and breathe out only through your mouth). You then slowly close your mouth so that less and less ki escapes, and you therefore accumulate more and more ki with each breath. Kim noted that we breathe 13,500 times a day, which, according to his calculations, adds up to approximately 4,860,000 times a year. If we ensure that every time we take one of those breaths we do so in the manner he recommended, after nine years we will find that we have rid our body of detrimental ki and of yin elements and are instead full of yang, healthy ki. (Kim accepted as axiomatic the traditional Chinese distinction between yang as active, hard, and strong and yin as passive, soft, and weak.) This happens because with proper breathing we breathe in only the “original ki” of heaven and earth and then store that ki in our cinnabar field. It is important to note that Kim Sisŭp wrote that there were two aspects of the pursuit of becoming a god-like immortal. Proper breathing techniques had to be accompanied by the cultivation of a proper moral character. That would lead to not only better health but also better insight into how to interact with the people and things around us.6 By cultivating a proper moral character, Kim means to refrain from standing, walking, sitting, lying down, watching something, or listening to something for too long a time. Such moderation, he believed, would preserve the three treasures—the three forms of ki: chŏng ki, ki, and shin ki. He goes on to say that those who want to live a long time should reduce their desires and refrain from getting angry. They should not overexert either their body or their mind. Instead, they should cultivate a calm mind.7 Moreover, Kim added, it is more effective to cultivate good ki through cultivating a moral character rather than through breathing exercises. That’s because, he writes, our mind controls our ki. If we cultivate a proper mental attitude, our determination to act properly would then be manifest through our ki, that is to say, through our physical body and its emotions. Therefore cultivating a good mind-and-heart would lead to better manifestations of ki, so cultivating a moral character should be our first priority.8 Kim Sisŭp added, in an essay on “dragon and tiger” (龍虎) practices, that if we try to gain a long life through physical exercises only, we are rebelling against Heaven, since Heaven determines our life span. To engage in Daoist practices merely to become an immortal is to display ignorance or disregard for the mandate of Heaven (命).9 In the next century, in an essay on the secret teachings of “Dragon-Tiger Breathing,” Chŏng Nyŏm (鄭磏 1506–49) elaborated on the techniques Kim Sisŭp had introduced,

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though with less emphasis on character cultivation. In that essay, Chŏng wrote that the way to cultivate our own internal elixir of longevity was quite simple. We should begin by retaining the ki we breathe in, refraining from excessive exhalation which would allow ki to escape, and then storing that accumulated ki in the part of our body in which it can be most effectively utilized. We do this by lowering our eyes to focus on our nose while we point our nose toward our navel. This ensures that we focus on the cinnabar field, where we want our ki to go. Most people, he said, focus on their head or their chest and thus that is where the ki accumulates instead of in their cinnabar field, the only place which can process it properly. He said that if we practice this method of breathing long enough, eventually we will advance to the stage of embryonic breathing (breathing through the skin), and then will go on to an even more advanced stage in which we will be able circulate our ki through our bodies in a reverse of the natural circulation order, sending warm ki from our upper chest down to our lower intestinal region and cool ki up from our lower intestinal region toward the upper chest. However, if we really want to be a god-like immortal, a shinsŏn, Chŏng warned that we also have to work on quieting our minds. The best way to do that, he advised, is to focus on the Supreme Polarity (太極). Such a focus will give us an undivided mind, a mind free of distraction, which is essential to being a god-like immortal. However, such mental discipline will not gain us that status unless we also enhance the ki that circulates through our body and our mind. So breathing exercises and concentrated meditation must go together. One without the other will not allow us to reach our goal of becoming a god-like immortal.10 The connection between physical improvement through breathing exercises and spiritual improvement through focused concentration is made even more explicit in the work of the seventeenth-century writer Kwŏn Kŭkchung (權克中 1585–1659). Kwŏn read extensively in both Confucian and Daoist works. He is particularly well known for his writings on the Cāntóng qì (The Triple Unity 參同契), a work of external alchemy that had been read for centuries as actually a guide to internal alchemy. Studying such a work was not particularly eccentric for a Confucian scholar. After all, the father of Neo-Confucianism, Zhū Xī himself, has written about the Cāntóng qì.11 However, Kwŏn went farther than mainstream Neo-Confucians normally did in the way he used the Cāntóng qì. He took it seriously as a guide to cinnabar-field breathing meditation practices. And he also believed that, if those breathing practices were combined with what he called Buddhist-style meditation (he used the Chinese character that, in Japanese, is translated as Zen: 禪), they would allow human beings to recover their original moral nature at the same time that they grew healthier. In his commentary on the Cāntóng qì, Kwŏn insisted that internal alchemy was similar to meditative Buddhism, in that both helped people develop psychologically. As he saw it, human beings are composed of both human nature (sŏng 性) and their personal physical endowment (myŏng 命). It is necessary to cultivate both to become a better human being. He argued that the best way to cultivate our myŏng was to create a gold elixir within our body by combining fire and water and then circulating that elixir throughout our body.12 Kim Sisŭp, Chŏng Nyŏm, and Kwŏn Kŭkchung are often considered by Koreans today to be more Daoist than Confucian and therefore to be outside the mainstream of

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Korean thought and practices during the Chosŏn dynasty. However, people who were clearly mainstream Confucians also promoted cinnabar-field meditation. One such mainstream scholar was Hŏ Chun, the famous physician mentioned earlier. Before Hŏ began his discussion of medicines, acupuncture, and moxibustion for the ill, in the first pages of his comprehensive medical encyclopedia he introduced the benefits of cinnabar-field meditation. He saw cinnabar-field meditation as preventive medicine. He may have been influenced in this belief by a man who worked with him on his medical encyclopedia, Chŏng Chak (鄭碏 1533–1603), the brother of Chŏng Nyŏm discussed earlier. Or he may have simply shared the belief of many Koreans that proper breathing practices and the cultivation of higher-quality ki were essential to living a healthy life. For whatever reason he wrote that, rather than wait until our body begins failing us, we should first cultivate our mind-and-heart, since that is the foundation of true health. He notes that Daoists correctly take quiet-sitting and mental discipline as the foundation for good health. Doctors, on the other hand, take medicine, diet, acupuncture, and moxibustion as their means of treating illness. In his view Daoists have grasped the essence (chŏng), the more refined techniques, of medicine while physicians merely rely on cruder methods to promote health and prolong life. He suggests one particular practice that sounds very Daoist. He advised rising early in the morning to sit facing east while exhaling three times to get rid of all your old ki. Then he suggested holding your breath for a while before breathing in clean ki through your nose. While doing that, he suggested further, let saliva collect in your mouth, swirl it around in your mouth for a while, then swallow it. This, he argued, will send ki to its rightful abode, your cinnabar field.13 Hŏ was not concerned only about physical health. He believed that cinnabar-field meditation would also enhance our moral character, making us more aware of our connections to the world around us and therefore making us better human beings. His chapter on cinnabar-field meditation includes sections entitled “emptying your heartand-mind unites you with the Dào” and “the heart-and-mind of human beings should be aligned with the movements of heaven.” He cites with approval a Daoist text from China that states “if you accumulate good ki, then your cinnabar field will be what it should be. If your cinnabar field is what it should be, then your physical body will be strong and sturdy. If your physical body is strong and sturdy, then your spirit (shin) will be perfected.”14 As a physician, Hŏ was not on the top rung of the Korean social ladder. (Physicians were considered mere technicians of the body and, as such, ranked below experts in philosophy, ritual, and ethics, i.e., Confucian scholars.) However, others who clearly shared his interest in cinnabar-field meditation were, for example, one of the greatest Neo-Confucian philosophers in all Korean history, T’oegye Yi Hwang (退溪 李滉 1501–70), promoted cinnabar-field meditation as well as Daoist physical exercises for both their physical and their spiritual benefits. T’oegye dedicated most of his scholarly time to explicating the moral psychology of li (the network of patterns governing appropriate interaction throughout the universe, embracing both human society and the natural world) and ki, arguing for the need to make to clearly distinguish between moral emotions generated by li and selfish emotions generated by ki. However, T’oegye

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also took the time to copy by hand a Ming dynasty text called in Korean Hwarin simbang (活人心方), compiled by Zhū Quán 朱權 (1378–1448). This work includes both specific directions for cinnabar-field meditation, with the usual injunctions to rise early in the morning, face east, and breathe out more than you breathe in to get rid of your bad ki, along with advice on how to cultivate your mind-and-heart.15 T’oegye also wrote to one of his disciples that the best way to nurture your innate moral nature is to combine regulation of breathing with conscientiously fulfilling the obligations of your everyday life. He noted, “Practicing breath control over a long period of time will not only keep you healthy, it will also help you preserve the moral nature you were endowed with at birth.”16 Moreover, when you regulate your breathing, you quiet the normal activity of your mind, and that is an essential step toward developing a moral character.17 This, T’oegye assures us, will also enable us to live longer, since the mind controls the body and therefore a properly nurtured mind will keep the body healthy.18 We find this same connection between moral and physical health in other wellknown Chosŏn dynasty Confucian texts. For example, Yi Sugwang (李睟光—1563– 1628) wrote in his encyclopedic collection of brief essays about various aspects of Korean culture that: If you close your eyes, your soul will remain in your liver. If you stop up your ears, then your essential bodily fluids will remain in your kidneys and testicles. If you keep all odors away from your nose, then your soul will remain in your lungs. If you refrain from talking, then your spirit will remain in your mind-andheart. If you don’t move your arms and legs, then your intention to do what is right will remain in your spleen. Scholars should keep these five principles in mind and abide by them if they want to preserve their animating life force and create a firm foundation of personal cultivation. This is what is written in a certain Daoist work.19

He goes on to cite a medical text that, according to him, states: Looking, listening, speaking, and moving about all use up our basic energizing ki (chŏng ki). That’s why Buddhists advocate sitting quietly facing a wall, and why Daoists advocate sitting alone in a room. This is to avoid using up too much of their life force.20

In other words, it is healthy both physically and spiritually to meditate. Yi Sugwang claimed to have met an actual immortal, a man named Namgung Tu (南宮斗).21 Namgung may have actually been a real person, since some others also claim to have met him. One who made such a claim is the well-known writer Hŏ Kyun (許筠 1569–1618). Hŏ wrote he had met a man named Namgung Tu, who claimed to be over ninety years old, yet looked much younger, with unwrinkled kin. When he asked him how he kept so healthy and young looking, Namgung told him how he had tried to become an immortal. Namgung claimed he had met a hermit living in a mountain forest and had studied internal alchemy from him. First, for three years, he read the Yellow Court Classic (Huáng Tíng Jīng 黃庭經) and the Cāntóng qì over and over again. Then, for six years, he enhanced his chŏng, ki, and shin with breathing practices in order to create an internal elixir. After that he spent six months circulating

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his ki, sending fiery ki down to his abdomen and watery ki up to his chest in hopes of producing an embryo of immortality. He failed to do so, although, he said, his teacher once loosened his own belt in order to show the golden radiance that radiated from the divine embryo in his teacher’s abdomen. Namgung claimed he came close to reaching his goal but when his own belly started to give off a gold hew, he got very excited about becoming an immortal and that lapse into emotion undid all the hard work he had done and killed the divine embryo that was about to appear in his belly. Namgung says that he then gave up on becoming a celestial immortal and settled for being a terrestrial immortal, one who lives long but not forever.22 The point of this story is that simply engaging in physical internal alchemy practices is not enough to reach full immortal status. Instead you also have to control your emotions. In other words, you have to develop a moral character. A somewhat more skeptical take on the possibilities of using internal alchemy practices to gain longevity could be found in the writings of one of Korea’s most respected Confucian writers, Chŏng Yagyong (丁若鏞 1762–1836). Chŏng remarked once that “those who crane their necks like a bird and twist their bodies like a bear, while concentrating on exhaling and inhaling, are engaged in ‘licentious’ and depraved practices.”23 As for the claim that such practices can make us healthier, Tasan wrote his brother Yakchŏn (丁若銓 1758–1816) that, even though he could feel that he was getting older and therefore didn’t have as much energy as he used to have, he would rather spend his time writing books instead of sitting quietly in a back room engaged in quiet meditation. Besides, he added in another letter, he tried imitating the meditative practices of Zen monks and found it more difficult than studying the Classics!24 Yet even a skeptic like Chŏng claims that he once met a man who appeared to be an immortal. He writes that he had met a guy called “Cho the immortal” who was a bookseller. Cho had all sorts of books, not just Confucian ones, and he seemed to know what was in all of them. However, despite his wide-ranging knowledge of scholarship, he appeared to be concerned about making a good profit. He would buy books from poor widows and orphans at an unreasonably low price and sell them at a much higher price. As a result, people stopped selling books to him. Frustrated, he withdrew from the world. There were rumors that he had gone to live in a remote valley deep in a mountain. In 1776, I happened to run into him in Seoul. He looked like he was only 45 years old or so. When I ran into him again 24 years later, in 1800, he hadn’t changed a bit. He looked like he was still only 45 or so. I haven’t seen him personally since then, but some people I know who ran across him after that say that he still looked in the same in 1821. And someone who saw him way back in 1756 reported he looked like he was around 45 then as well! If he was 45 then and is still alive today, he must be over 100 years old. How can he still have a full beard without a touch of grey in it? In an informal history of our times, it was written that “If a Daoist can purify his mind and heart and reduce his desires to a minimum, then he can rise to the greatest heights.” But this guy Cho was known to be quite greedy. How has he been

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able to live this long and stay healthy at the same time? Is it possible that, in this decadent time, such an immortal has been able to escape contamination?”25

Though there don’t appear to be many people writing about their own internal alchemy practices in the last century of traditional Korea, the nineteenth century, one nineteenth-century writer included a survey of Korean ideas about internal alchemy in his encyclopedic collection of essays about various aspect of traditional Korean culture. Yi Kyugyŏng (李圭景 1788–1856) identifies five different types of immortals, starting with those who are fortunate enough to be born with such high-quality ki that they can expect to live a very long time. Such immortals are called “celestial immortals” (天仙). At the bottom of his list of five types of immortals are what he labels “ghost-like immortals (鬼仙),” because they were born with a yin rather than a yang moral character. In other words, they were not born with a particularly moral character. However, these immortals have successfully improved themselves through such techniques as the Buddhist tool of a logical puzzle (what the Japanese call a kōan), which have allowed them to penetrate the principles that inform the universe and create a unified mind that sees everything clearly.26 Yi even provided some advice for how to transform oneself into a better person. He wrote that anyone can rectify their mind-and-heart if they wake up before sunrise each morning and, sitting down facing east as the sun rises in the sky, open up their heart to receive the warming rays of the sun.27 Cinnabar-field meditation, sitting down and engaging in meditative and breathing exercises that were intended to quiet the mind and send good ki to the cinnabar field in order to replace bad ki, faded in popularity near the end of the Chosŏn dynasty, though there were still a few who were aware of it and may even have practiced it. However, in the last quarter of the twentieth century we can identify a strong revival of interest in cinnabar-field meditation in Korea. That revival generally ignored the Chinese roots of cinnabar-field meditation as well as the centuries of practice of such meditation during the Chosŏn dynasty. Instead, we see Koreans in the twentieth century claiming that they are reviving the ancient longevity practices of Tan’gun, the legendary founder of the equally legendary first Korean kingdom 4,400 years ago. The revival of interest in cinnabar-field meditation was led by one of Korea’s new religions, one centered on worship of Tan’gun as God. When Kwŏn T’aehun (權泰勳 1900–94) was the leader of Taejonggyo, the largest Tan’gun religion, his stories of his experience with cinnabar-field meditation, and of the extraordinary powers he claimed to have gained from that experience, became the basis for a best-selling novel, called Tan (Cinnabar).28 Thanks to that novel, more and more people became interested in what came to be popularly called Tanjŏn hohŭp (丹田呼吸, cinnabar-field breathing). People who flocked to centers established to teach cinnabar-field breathing were taught that cinnabar-field breathing had actually been created by Tan’gun.29 In the 1980s a new group split off from Taejonggyo and began teaching its version of cinnabar-field breathing, along with the Korea-centric version of the origins of that practice, not only in Korea but around the world. Moreover, that group, which now calls itself Dahn World, preaches that cinnabar-field breathing, when accompanied by the appropriate physical exercises, will not only make the practitioner healthier

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but will also bring that practitioner enlightenment. Though it has re-labeled cinnabarfield breathing “brain respiration,” it continues to claim that the breathing practices it teaches originated 10,000 years ago with the teachings of Tan’gun.30 (Tan’gun is usually believed to have lived 4,400 years ago, but the Tan’gun religions have pushed that back another 5,000 plus years.) Moreover, it teaches that cinnabar-field breathing will allow us to “get to the core of our existence, and there, we will have a wider view and deeper insight. We will touch the unlimited world of possibilities, which lies hidden inside of each of us.”31 Dahn World and other Tan’gun-centered groups are not the only ones in Korea today promoting cinnabar-field meditation. So is a more mainstream new religious movement, the reformed Buddhism known as Won Buddhism. In 1997, the man who was then the head of this religious order, known as the Venerable Chwasan, produced a booklet explaining that cinnabar-field meditation is the most effective way to gain the mindfulness that is the goal of Buddhist meditative practice.32 In this booklet, intended to help Won Buddhists become better people, rather than turn them into immortals, Ven. Chwasan (左山 宗法師; his secular name is Yi Kwangchŏng, 李廣淨, 1936–present) writes, that, after you sit down to meditate, “bring all the body’s strength down to the Danjeon (Tanjŏn, the cinnabar-field) and, without dwelling on even one thought, be aware only of the energy that is gathered at the Danjeon.” The author then adds, “Since ancient times, resting in the Danjeon has been highly praised as the best technique for meditation purposes as well as for physical health.”33 The combination of spiritual and physical cultivation through cinnabar-field meditation remains popular in Korea today just as it did six centuries ago. Cinnabar-field meditation is, of course, only one form of meditation Koreans engage in. However, it was widely practiced among the literati elite during the Chosŏn dynasty and is widely practiced in Korea today. The hundreds of cinnabar-breathing training centers scattered throughout the southern half of the Korean peninsula provide plenty of evidence for that assertion. Though it may not actually have originated in Korea, despite the claims of many modern promoters and practitioners, cinnabar-field meditation has become an integral part of modern Korean culture. As such, it deserves mention alongside more orthodox meditation techniques, such as Sŏn Buddhist meditation, whenever the role of meditation in Korean culture is discussed.

Section Four

Cultural Mosaics One and the same meditative culture may be built from a kaleidoscope of elements of widely divergent origins but a high degree of integration, as in the cases of Tibetan Chöd and the Tamil Śaiva Siddhānta tradition. This section also includes a comparative study of the ways in which various meditative cultures deal with spontaneous thoughts during meditation, exhibiting a number of cross-cultural similarities and differences.

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Tibetan Chöd as Practiced by Ani Lochen Rinpoche Hanna Havnevik

On the Tibetan plateau, in the Himalayas and in Mongolia, the chöd (gcod) or “cutting” teaching is practiced. Chöd is performed primarily by lay yogins and yoginīs, but also by monastics. The chödpas (practitioners of chöd) are known to disregard conventional behavior, and in Tibet they often look like beggars. In contemporary Mongolia, chöd (Mong. luijin) recitation can give practitioners substantial income and has become somewhat of a fashion in the spiritual community.1 The chöd practitioners perform rituals for the dying and the dead, since one of their ritual specialties is “the transference [of consciousness]” (’pho ba) performed to guide the deceased’s consciousness to a better rebirth. The chödpas meditate at haunted sites, as well as at charnel grounds where corpses are dismembered. The practitioners are believed to be able to heal illnesses and turn back epidemics and to be immune from diseases. Chöd was codified and made popular in Tibet in the eleventh century by a woman, Machig Labdron (Ma cig lab sgron), and to this day women in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition are active in the tradition, emulating her example. One of them was Ani Lochen (A ne Lo chen 1865–1951), a yoginī and later an ordained nun, who promoted this meditation practice throughout the Himalayas and Tibet.2

Chöd and its philosophical background Tibetan Buddhism, being an amalgamation of late Indic Mahāyāna and indigenous Tibetan religious elements, developed a strong scholastic tradition thriving in monasteries, but one that coexisted with non-monastic meditational practices performed by non-celibate yogins and yoginīs; the tradition of chöd was one of these. Chöd belongs to the zhiche (zhi byed) “pacification” cycle taught in Tibet by the Indian yogin Padampa Sangye (Pha dam pa Sangs rgyas, eleventh century).3 Chöd never formed a separate school, but was assimilated into the main Buddhist traditions and the Bon religion, while remaining at the margins of Gelugpa (dGe lugs pa) institutions.4 The chöd teachings are based on the Prajñāpāramitā scriptures containing the essentials of Mahāyāna Buddhist philosophy. Chöd has many similarities with the

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higher tantric practices of the Anuttarayogatantras, and Sorensen (2010) argues that chöd borrowed several elements from Buddhist tantric practice and can be fully explained within the context of Mahāyāna Buddhism.5 While some scholars emphasize similarities between chöd and shamanistic techniques—for example the use of a drum, ritual music, and dance, the communication with spirits and demons, the dismemberment of the body, the transference of consciousness, and healing6—others warn against the tendency to confuse meditation techniques in Buddhism and Bon with New Age healing and shamanism.7

The meditation practice Chöd (gcod), which means “to cut” or “to sever,” aims at cutting through ego-clinging to abolish dualistic thinking at its roots. The chöd meditation involves visualizations (Skt. sādhana, Tib. sgrub thabs)8 where four classes of guests (mgon po bzhi),9 that is deities and demons, are invited to a feast during which the chödpa offers his or her body as food to be devoured. The deities are said to be symbolic images of the practitioner’s desires and wishes, while the evil spirits (’dre) are projections of the mind. The visualization involves two stages, first an invocation of fearful deities and spirits, and then a counter-action of the fear and horror brought about by these spirits by understanding that they are a product of the practitioner’s mind. The offering of the body is envisaged as consisting of successive types of offerings or feasts.10 By donating the body ritually to the demons, the chödpa transcends fear; she or he becomes absorbed in absolute reality, where the Buddhist teachings are offered to the visualized gods and demons and to all sentient beings. The goal is, as stated above, to abolish (gcod “cut”) ignorance and attachment, personified as demons, in order to attain a pure state of consciousness and a true understanding of reality.

Transmissions of chöd The origin of chöd is connected with two eleventh-century adepts, the South Indian yogin Padampa Sangye, who stayed a number of years in Tibet, and Machig Labdron from E in southeastern Central Tibet.11 Hagiographies of Machig Labdron emphasize different transmission lineages of chöd, some stating that Padampa Sangye transmitted the teaching to Machig Labdron—others that Machig received chöd directly from a transhuman sphere, from Tārā or Yeshe Tsogyal (Ye shes mtsho rgyal). Machig Labdron is also believed to be an emanation of the latter.12 Chöd is divided into the Father Lineage (pha brgyud), the Mother Lineage (ma brgyud), and the Son’s Lineage (sras brgyud), and Machig Labdron is said to be the transmitter of the Mother Lineage. In spite of the different origins of chöd traced in the sources, Machig Labdron is credited with its codification and as the one who made the practice popular in Tibet. In her hagiographies, Padampa Sangye figures as one of her teachers.

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Chöd texts and deities Since chöd became integrated into the Tibetan Buddhist traditions and in the Bon religion, there are many chöd texts in circulation, while not all the root texts of chöd have been identified.13 Tibetan adepts sought transmissions of teachings from many teachers, and each practitioner was therefore likely to have received chöd from several lineages but emphasized the lineage transmitted by their root teachers.14 The deities visualized in chöd meditation are commonly Vajravārāhī or one of her forms, for example Vajrayoginī, or her wrathful aspect Khroma Nagmo (Khros ma nag mo), but also Yeshe Tsogyal and Machig Labdron. In Mongolia, Vajrayoginī is the main deity visualized, and her iconographic images and statues are found in temples belonging to the so-called Red Tradition (i.e., non-Gelugpa), as well as in the homes of individual practitioners. In Mongolia, this non-monastic ritual practice was one that survived the communist purges and has been revived in recent years.15

Outward appearance and ritual objects The chödpas were inspired by Indian tantrics, the fierce-looking kāpālīkas and mad saints with matted hair, ragged clothes, and ash-smeared bodies who traveled in groups, practiced in cemeteries, performed offering feasts, ate disgusting food, and engaged in sexual yoga.16 Also Tibetan yogins (rnal ’ byor pa) kept their hair in matted coils on top of their head and dressed in the outfit of the yogin. The appearances of Tibetan yogins vary, but some wore white cotton skirts, yellow shirts, meditation belts (sgom thag) across their chest, and a white-and-red shawl around their shoulder; some even wore bone earrings.17 We have much less information about female Tibetan tantric adepts, but during secluded esoteric practices, their clothing resembled that of male yogins. In daily life yoginīs dressed like Tibetan laywomen, but in the religious maroon color, indicating their non-monastic status. While a few kept their hair in a knot on the top of their head, others let their hair hang loosely.

The ritual paraphernalia of the chödpa The ritual paraphernalia of the chödpa includes a small hand drum (d̩amaru), a ritual bell (dril bu), and a thighbone trumpet (rkang gling). Dzatrul Ngawang Tenzin Norbu (rDza sprul Ngag dbang bsTan ’dzin Nor bu 1867–1940), the abbot of Dza Rongphu (rDza Rong phu), a Nyingmapa monastery at the foot of Mount Everest, has written a ten-folio text on the symbolism of the ritual objects and the clothing of the yogin.18 His explanation again is based on an exposition of an unnamed yogin at Dza Rongphu. Since the yogins were often also chödpas, their ritual objects and clothing were the same.

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Figure 11.1 A monk practicing chöd at the gate of Tashilhunpo Monastery. (Photo: Havnevik 2010).

The drum According to the text, the small hand drum, the d̩amaru, is a symbol of sam̩sāra, the empty inner part symbolizing emptiness, and the skin on the drum the union of sam̩sāra and nirvān̩a.19 When the practitioner beats the drum, sam̩sāra is connected with the basic ground (gzhi) from where all appearances (snang ba) of the phenomenal world arise: the outer melodious sound is that of the Mahāyāna teachings; the red cloth band between both sides increases the lineage of “awareness-holders”; the bundles of five cowry shells are the palaces of the root and lineage lamas; and the beaters of the drum shake the depths of sam̩sāra, while the holder of the strap, the yogin or chödpa, controls appearances.

The thighbone trumpet The femoral bone trumpet (rkang gling) is a distinguishing ritual instrument of the chödpa. According to the Rongphu yogin, the thighbone should be taken from a

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corpse by someone without attachment or hatred20; others say the thighbone should come from a corpse of a sixteen-year-old girl.21 The yogin further stresses that when cleansed of flesh, the bone trumpet symbolizes the renouncement of inner and outer turmoil, the flat opening the “same taste” (ro snyom) of every phenomenon, while the central hold represents the central channel (Skt. avadhūtī, Tib. dbu ma) of liberation. When blowing the trumpet, the chödpa invites the deities to the feast. The first blow is an offering to the lama, the second overwhelms appearances, the third summons all sentient beings, the fourth transfers accumulated merit, and the fifth cuts through the grasping mind and the grasped object.

Ritual dance The chödpa not only performed recitations to beautiful melodies, but would also dance.  The chöd dance is done to control the demons in the five directions who personify the power of negative emotions: hatred and anger (east), pride and miserliness (south), desire and attachment (west), jealousy and envy (north), and ignorance and confusion (center).22 Ritual dance is part of public monastic ceremonies in Tibet, while the esoteric dance of the chödpa is often performed at haunted sites. Because of its secret nature there are hardly any descriptions of chödpas dancing at charnel grounds.23

Wandering hermits Contrary to our image of the Buddhist yogin meditating in a secluded hermitage, the chödpas wandered from place to place and could practice in groups. During chöd pilgrimage, a network of such dangerous sites (ideally 108 springs and 8 charnel grounds) were visited and considered ideal places to perform the ritual. In contemporary Mongolia, luijin practitioners perform pilgrimages (jardz),24 a short circuit in the mountains around Ulaanbaatar, while a long pilgrimage extends wider and lasts for four months.25 Wandering chödpa would earn their living performing services for laypeople, and today chödpa can be observed in towns and villages in Tibet reciting chöd while passers-by offer money into their beggar’s boxes. In Mongolia, chöd, or luijin (lus sbyin, “offering the body”), is performed as a daily ritual in Red Tradition temples and also by individual practitioners, some of them old women.

Ani Lochen’s career as a chödpa Ani Lochen was one among a relatively large number of yoginīs and female chödpa in premodern Tibet, but we still have scant knowledge about their lives. Luckily she was one of the very few Tibetan women who left an autobiography, offering us detailed insight into her spiritual life since her childhood, including her practice of chöd.26

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Ani Lochen was a nonsectarian but primarily Nyingmapa yoginī and nun. She was born in northern India and took part in a vibrant milieu of itinerant tantric yoga and chöd practitioners roaming the Himalayas and Western and Central Tibet during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. During the first decade of the twentieth century, Ani Lochen established a combined hermitage and nunnery for 300 women at Shugseb (Shug gseb), south of Lhasa; here chöd continued to be a focus of meditational practice.27 After her father died, the thirteen-year-old Ani Lochen and her mother joined a group of nonsectarian adepts, male as well as female, roaming the Himalayas and the Tibetan plateau. The group gathered around a charismatic yogin, who was a direct disciple of a famous nonsectarian master from Amdo (A mdo), northeastern Tibet, Shabkar Tshogdrug Rangdrol (Zhabs dkar Tshogs drug Rang grol 1781–1851).28 Along their path the group of adepts halted in caves and mountain hermitages to meditate and practice yoga. They performed chöd at haunted sites and were asked by locals to stop epidemics and to perform funerary rituals. They called each other “religious friend” (mched grogs), an appellation also used for a tantric partner. From their root teacher, the yogins and yoginīs received religious teachings transferred in the lineages of some of the most famous sages in Tibet. The practice of chöd was an important part of their repertoire and became a hallmark of Ani Lochen’s spiritual expertise.

Ani Lochen’s outward appearance When introduced to the yogic practice of producing inner heat (gtum mo) in the Himalayas as an adolescent, Ani Lochen dressed in the outfit of the yoginī. Her mother made meditation trousers (ang rag) and a meditation belt (sgom thag) from their bedding for her and bought her a meditation shawl (gzan a ti) to wear around her shoulders.29 According to the Rongphu yogin, the meditation belt symbolizes the ultimate sphere of reality and should be worn like a garland of cakras around the three yogic channels believed to circulate in the body: dbu ma, ro ma, and rkyang ma (Skt. avadhūtī, rasanā, and lalanā).30 When Ani Lochen and her companions arrived in Lhasa in the 1890s, people were amazed at their aberrant behavior and appearance, and she had to borrow a woman’s dress to be admitted in an audience with the thirteenth Dalai Lama. We hear about the highly unconventional behavior of some of her companions; once they practiced in their underwear, and Ani Lochen’s female friend did ritual prostrations naked. Ani Lochen was even told by one of her yogin teachers, Thrulshig Rinpoche (’Khrul zhig Rin po che, 1862–1922), who was also known to be a crazy yogin (smyon pa), to tie her hair on top of her head and walk naked around the Jokhang (Jo khang) temple in Lhasa. Thrulshig Rinpoche himself is known, on one occasion, to have meditated in a woman’s sheepskin dress (gos log) and hair ornament (spa lung), offered to him for performing rituals for the diseased woman by her family.31 We learn that Ani Lochen felt drawn toward her crazy yogin teachers, but gradually came to settle for a more conventional monastic life. As a sign of her allegiance to the lifestyle of the wandering mountain hermit she did, however, keep her hair long also after she was ordained a

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Buddhist nun in her late twenties. Several of Ani Lochen’s female disciples kept their hair long throughout their lives, wearing either monastic robes or lay clothes.

Nyingma chöd A famous chödpa from eastern Tibet, Dharma Senge (Dharma Seng ge) or “the Madman from Kham” (Khams smyon), was one of Ani Lochen’s main chöd masters who imparted to her the root lineage of chöd. Ani Lochen was also an adept in the highest teachings of the Nyingmapa school, called dzogchen (rdzogs chen), in which chöd is an integral part. One of the most widespread ritual texts on chöd, mKha’ ’gro gad rgyangs “The Laughter of the D̩ākinīs” in the Klong chen snying thig collection by Jigme Lingpa (’Jigs med Gling pa, 1729–98), is an esoteric teaching cycle classified as dzogchen.32 The mKha’ ’gro gad rgyangs is identified as the Yeshe Tsogyal tradition of chöd. While both Yeshe Tsogyal and Guru Rinpoche are important in Nyingmapa chöd, Ani Lochen’s favorite meditational deity was Machig Labdron, who is considered an emanation of Yeshe Tsogyal. Ani Lochen received the sNying thig teachings from her root lamas, and sNying thig was, throughout her life, the core of her religious practice. The hermit, poet, philosopher, and “treasure revealer” Longchen Rabjampa (Klong chen Rab ’byams pa, 1308–63), one of the greatest scholars and nonsectarian religious masters the Nyingmapa tradition has produced prepared the ground for the

Figure 11.2 A mural of Ani Lochen’s lineage in Longchen Rabjampa’s cave at Gangri Thökar. Ani Lochen, bottom right. (Photo: Havnevik 2001).

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Klong chen snying thig teachings later revealed by Jigme Lingpa. The institution Ani Lochen built, Shugseb Nunnery, is located just below Longchen Rabjampa’s cave on the sacred mountain Gangri Thökar (Gangs ri Thod dkar), located south of Lhasa. Vajravārāhī or Dorje Phagmo (rDo rje Phag mo), one of the principal meditational deities of chöd, was also one of Longchen Rabjampa’s main meditational deities. The sacralized landscape of Gangri Thökar is conceived as the body of Vajravārāhī laying on her back, with milky water streaming from her breasts and a major stream from her yoni. Shugseb Nunnery is believed to be located on Vajravārāhī’s left knee.33

Ani Lochen, the emanation of Machig Labdron Female meditational deities like Vajravārāhī (Dorje Phagmo) and her various forms, as well as the deified Yeshe Tsogyal and Machig Labdron, are prominent in chöd, and some female practitioners are seen as their emanations. The abbesses of Samding (bSam lding) Monastery by Yamdrok (Yar ’brog) Lake were recognized by the Tibetan State as emanations of Dorje Phagmo. Machig Labdron looms large in Ani Lochen’s autobiography, and elements in her life tend to correspond to those of Machig Labdron’s, as told in her biographies. Ani Lochen had intimate knowledge of Ma cig rnam bshad, the most famous hagiography of Machig Labdron, and gave oral transmissions of it on several occasions.34 Gradually she became recognized as an emanation of Machig Labdron by her disciples: both women were born as remarkable children with sacred signs on their bodies; both had revelations in Sanskrit; both were trained in the fast reading of the Prajñāpāramitā scriptures and engaged as house lamas; and both had visions and attained miraculous powers. Moreover, both were challenged by monks who wanted to test their knowledge.

Figure 11.3 New mural at Samding with portrayals of Machig Labdron (top left) and some of the Dorje Phagmo reincarnations. (Photo: Havnevik 2010).

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Ani Lochen says that once, when she was practicing chöd, two monks came up to her to refute her views, whereupon she blew the thighbone trumpet, making the monks’ legs lame. The next day the monks’ teacher had to plead on their behalf, whereupon Ani Lochen released them from the paralysis. Machig Labdron and Ani Lochen were both yoginīs and nuns, but while Machig’s sexual relationship with men is explicit—she was married for twelve years and a mother of three sons—Ani Lochen was never married. Ani Lochen’s practice of sexual yoga is, however, implicit, but kept secret as part of the highly esoteric inner practices of chöd and dzogchen.

Connection with Machig Labdron During the last decades of the nineteenth century, Ani Lochen went to Sangi Kharmar (Zangs ri mkhar dmar) in southern Tibet to practice chöd. This was Machig Labdron’s residence for about sixty years, from her late thirties until her death. Ani Lochen says she could feel a special relation with the place, and she miraculously moved to a large rock in the middle of the Brahmaputra River which, she says, had auspicious signs of being Machig’s residence. Ani Lochen was inspired by visions and stayed in meditation retreat during the day, but at night she practiced chöd at a charnel ground and performed a chöd dance (gcod ’cham) with a dog in the middle of a field.35 She also danced chöd, the D̩ākinīs of the Five Directions (mKha’ ’gro sde lnga), at cemeteries.36 At Sangri Kharmar, a master of zhiche, the ritual cycle to which chöd is subsidiary,37 maintained that Ani Lochen was the wisdom d̩ākinī Machig Labdron, and as such she became known to everyone in the area. Sangri Kharmar was frequented both by Ani Lochen and her yogic companions for chöd meditational practices.38 Today, Sangri Kharmar is one of the religious institutions in Central Tibet, along with Shugseb and Terdrum (gTer sgrom), where chöd is practiced as a temple ritual, as we also find it in Red Tradition temples in contemporary Mongolia.

Chöd at Shugseb Chöd continued to be a core of Ani Lochen’s religious practice and teaching after she settled at Shugseb in 1904. When Ani Lochen in her mid-sixties ended a long secluded meditation retreat in a cave on the mountain behind her nunnery, the first religious teaching she imparted to her nuns was the Hundred Empowerments of Chöd (gCod dbang brgya rtsa), and she sent them to “fearful places” (gnyan sa) and to the One Hundred and Eight Springs to practice the meditation. Villagers from settlements below Shugseb came to ask Ani Lochen for chöd rituals such as “the transference of consciousness” (’pho ba). When dead bodies were brought to Shugseb for funerary services, four to ten nuns performed the chöd dance around the bodies at a platform by the local charnel ground.

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Figure 11.4 Statue of Ani Lochen at Shugseb Nunnery. (Photo: Havnevik 2004).

Emanation of Machig Labdron Ani Lochen’s strong dedication to the practice of chöd and the numerous parallels in Ani Lochen’s and Machig Labdron’s lives led to speculation that Ani Lochen was the emanation of the so-called Founding Mother of Chöd. Already as a young girl, religious masters, through clairvoyance and by prophesies, indicated that Ani Lochen was indeed the emanation of Machig Labdron. Gangshar Rinpoche (Gang shar Rin po che) once came to see Ani Lochen at Shugseb with a prophecy in his hand from their common root lama, Taklung Matrul Rinpoche (sTag lung Ma sprul Rin po che), saying that in a previous life Ani Lochen had been Machig Labdron and Gangshar Rinpoche her son Tonyon Samdrup (sTod smyon bSam grub). The physical relationship of mother and son in the eleventh century called for a spiritual mother-and-son relationship in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Therefore Gangshar Rinpoche requested that Ani Lochen should teach him chöd and assist him in reaching Enlightenment in one life. When Ani Lochen became sick and old, Gangshar Rinpoche came to Shugseb to perform rituals to turn back obstacles (bsun bzlog) and prolong her life.39 He made a

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prophecy saying that if a life-size statue of Machig Labdron was installed at Shugseb, Ani Lochen would live as long, and be of equal significance, as Machig Labdron.40 The statue was made in Lhasa, and numerous miracles were said to accompany it when it was brought to Shugseb Nunnery. The statue was destroyed during the Cultural Revolution, but a new one can today be seen in the assembly hall at Shugseb, along with one of Ani Lochen, both portrayed when performing chöd. During the last days of her life, Ani Lochen finally believed that she was indeed an emanation of Machig Labdron.

Conclusion In the first part of her religious career, Ani Lochen followed the path of the wandering and unconventional yoga practitioner and participated in advanced esoteric chöd and dzogchen rituals. At the end of her twenties she took ordination as a Buddhist nun and later advised her disciples to follow her example.41 A few female adepts continued, however, to engage as consorts of visiting yogins, and thus the combined monastic and yogic path was maintained at Shugseb. Chöd is a living tradition in contemporary Tibet as well as among Buddhist practitioners in the Himalayas, Mongolia, and Buryatia. After she met her root lama at the age of thirteen, Ani Lochen made chöd a main focus of her meditational practice, and as her fame spread throughout Central Tibet she contributed to the popularity of the tradition, particularly among female practitioners.

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Vedic Chanting as a Householder’s Meditation Practice in the Tamil Śaiva Siddhānta Tradition M. D. Muthukumaraswamy

The Tamil Śaiva Siddhānta tradition Śaiva Siddhānta is an important Indian medieval system of theologies written in Sanskrit and Tamil. It centers on the God Śiva, one of the trinities of classical Hindu religion. The adherents of Śaiva Siddhānta, the Śaivites, are the worshippers of Śiva, and they hail from different caste groups, including Brahmins. The name “Śaiva Siddhānta” translates to “the end of Knowledge of Śiva” in the sense of “culmination.”1 Although it is in Tamil lands that Śaiva Siddhānta developed into a school of philosophy with canonical texts in Tamil and Sanskrit, it shares its tenets, principles, and practices with the Kashmir Śaivite school, which has only texts in Sanskrit. The five-syllabled pañcākṣara mantra (na ma śi va ya) became central to the Śaiva Siddhānta ritual practice, and it became the connecting thread between Tamil and Sanskrit canonical texts. In the twelfth century, Tamil Nadu saw the proliferation of Śaiva Āgama texts that detail the organization of temple worship of Śiva, from ritual procedures and architectural guidelines on how to construct Śiva temples to instructions for daily worship and conduct of festivals.2 Vedic chanting as a householder’s meditation practice in the Tamil Śaiva Siddhānta tradition thus has a long and complex history of negotiations between Sanskrit and Tamil, Āgamas and Vedas, temple and household, self and God, cosmos and human body, and sound and meaning. As philosophical systems differed in their interpretations of the relationships between these binaries, so did the practices, their acceptance, popularity, secrecy, and beliefs in their efficacy. While the manifold complexities of contradictory and often competitive factions make the unilinear history of this meditation practice difficult to encompass, the survival of the practice in contemporary Tamil Nadu through oral transmission points in the direction of a maze of interwoven texts, temples, oral discourses, and family practices.3 Central to this heritage is the Kriṣṇa Yajur Veda in the passages of which the pañcākṣara mantra, the holiest of the holy mantras for the adherents of the Śaiva Siddhānta tradition, occurs

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for the first time. Yajur Veda is one of the four ancient sacred Sanskrit scriptures of Hinduism.

Chanting as meditation The fourth chapter of Yajur Veda, Taittria Saṃhita, known by the names Srirudram, Śatarudriya, or Rudraoupaniṣad, is not the exclusive claim of the adherents of Tamil Śaiva Siddhānta.4 In fact on the one hand Srirudram is considered to be one of the canonical texts on par with Bhagavad Gītā for all Hindus, and on the other hand many of the monolingual Tamil adherents of Śaiva Siddhānta may not even know that there exists a vibrant tradition of chanting Srirudram as the householder’s meditation practice. Srirudram is also the popular chant that is used in daily rituals of Śiva temples, in Vedic Homas, and Yajñas. I use the word “meditation” to designate this householder’s practice in preference to the use of the word “ritual” because the tradition emphasizes the internal worship (“Ātmārta pūjā”) in contrast to the external worship (“parārtha pūjā”) carried out in the form of rituals and festivals in temples. The other reason for considering this householder’s practice as meditation is that the tradition evaluates the advancement in the practice as the gradual abandonment of the ritual elements and prayer components of the practice and gaining proficiency in Ajapa japa, non-utterance of the mantra yet listening and being one with the sacred sound. While Samādhi is the commonplace word used to describe the ultimate goal of the meditation practice, Tamil Śaiva Siddhānta uses the phrase Turīya Turîyaṃ to describe the final goal and state of the consciousness which is beyond the three known states of sleeping, waking, and dreaming. The gradual growing in silence is also equating and merging the self of the practitioner with the God meditated upon. It is a process of realizing the self as God. While this is the ultimate goal of this complex meditation practice, the differing philosophical foundations and their consequent interpretations have given rise to differences in the daily practices.

Monism and pluralism in Śaiva Siddhānta Recent scholarship5 dates the integration of Sanskrit and Tamil, Āgamas and Vedas, temple worship and householder’s practice in Tamil Nadu to the twelfth century, when Aghoraśiva, the proverbial author of the authoritative Āgama text Kriyakramadyotikā, took up the task of amalgamating Sanskrit and Tamil Siddhānta. Strongly refuting Śaṅkara’s heritage of monist interpretations of Siddhānta, Aghoraśiva brought a change in the understanding of the Godhood by reclassifying the first five principles of Śaiva Siddhānta, namely Nāda (sound), Bindu (the bodily mystical point where the fluid of immortality flows), Sadāśiva (the ever revealing grace of the primal soul), Īsvara (Supreme God), and Suddhavidya (pure knowledge), into the category of pācam (bondage), stating they were effects of a cause and inherently unconscious substances, a departure from the traditional Vedāntic teaching in which these five were part of the divine nature of God.

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Aghoraśiva was successful in preserving the Sanskrit rituals of the ancient Āgamic tradition. To this day, Aghoraśiva’s Siddhānta philosophy is followed by almost all of the hereditary temple priests (Śivācāryas), and his texts on the Āgamas have become the standard ritual manuals. His Kriyakramadyotikā is a vast work covering nearly all aspects of Śaiva Siddhānta ritual, including initiation, worldly duties, householder’s meditation and worship, and installation of deities. In the thirteenth century Meykaṇṭatēvar and his student Aruḷnandi Śivācārya further spread Tamil Śaiva Siddhānta. Meykaṇṭatēvar wrote Civa-ñāṉa-pōtam (“Understanding of the Knowledge of Śiva”), and Aruḷnandi Śivācārya wrote Śivajñāna-siddhiyār (“Attainment of the Knowledge of Śiva”). In the fourteenth century Umāpati’s Śivaprakāśam (“Lights on Śiva”) as well as Śrīkaṇṭha’s and Appaya Dīkṣita’s commentaries on the Vedānta-sūtras established the continuity of the tradition. These works laid the foundation of Meykaṇṭatēvar’s Tamil tradition, which propounds a pluralistic realism wherein God, souls, and world are coexistent and without beginning. Śiva is an efficient but not material cause. They view the soul’s merging in Śiva as comparable to the dissolution of salt in water, an eternal oneness that is also twoness. The source literature of the Śaiva-siddhānta school consists of the Āgamas and Tamil devotional hymns written by Śaiva saints but collected by Nambi (c. 1000 CE) in a volume known as Tirumurai. From the turn of the twentieth century to the mid-twentieth century a vast corpus of Tamil texts with Sanskrit originals were published in Tamil Nadu by the various adherents of Tamil Śaiva Siddhānta. The publishers were independent religious practitioners, Śaivite monasteries, scholars, and landlords. Journals and books were also published as part of the celebrations of life cycle ceremonies such as marriages and on the occasions of temple festivals. These publications had a very profound impact on the way the householder’s meditation practice charted its course through the twentieth century. Smārta Brahmins, hereditary temple priests of Śiva temples, and Śaiva Siddhāntins belonging to the non-Brahmin caste groups of Caiva Veḷaḷar, Caiva Mutaliyār, and Caiva Cetṭiyar are the prominent practitioners and inheritors of the tradition of chanting Srirudram as their household meditation practice in contemporary Tamil Nadu today. While Smārta Brahmins adhere to the monism of the Śankara school of Vedānta, hereditary Śivācāryas and the non-Brahmin Śaiva Siddhāntins owe allegiance to a pluralistic view of the world. It is generally considered6 that the Vedāntin’s practice of Vedic chanting consists of hearing scripture (śravaṇa), reflection (manana), and contemplation or meditation (nididhyāsana). However Śankara in his commentary of Bṛhadāraṇyakaoupaniṣad7 clearly states that allocating three separate categories for hearing, reflecting, and meditating is meaningless. This is because this commentary is also where Śankara develops his main themes of philosophical monism, such as the oneness of the self and God, the world of name and form, and the sufficiency of knowledge alone for release. As a consequence the Vedāntin’s way of Vedic chanting foregrounds the knowledge that the self and God are one and the same, and so the act of Vedic chanting or the meditation on the sacred sound is to demonstrate the oneness rather than it being the means to achieve it. So the Smārta Brahmin who chants Kriṣṇa Yajur Veda in his household first of all has to ask

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the permission of Śiva to worship Him outside himself on any sacred object such as Liṅga or the statue of the deity.

Vedānta versus Śaiva Siddhānta In variance to the Vedāntin’s view that the knowledge alone is enough for the realization of the self, the Śaiva Siddhāntin believes that proper action needs to be initiated in order to realize the self as God. Chanting Kriṣṇa Yajur Veda is an important act in the life of the Śaiva Siddhāntin, where he enters into the processes of reabsorption of the self into God. The five divine manifestations of God are said to be the five faces of Śiva, where the face looking upward is Īśāna, “ruler” (the power of revelation), the one facing east is Tatpuruṣa, “supreme soul” (the power of obscuration), westward looking is Sadyojata, “quickly giving birth” (the power of creation), northward is Vāmadeva, “lovely, pleasing” (the power of preservation), and southward is Aghora, “nonterrifying” (the power of reabsorption). Attributing meaning to directionality is the contribution of the Āgamic tradition, and the householder’s practice of Vedic chanting is no different from the chanting that is done in the temple rituals. As Śaiva Āgamas accord importance to the placements of deities and their directionality in the temples, a parallel is always drawn between the cosmos, temple, and the human body, all of which are believed to share the same internal architecture. The all-pervasive sound as the mediator and the unifying feature help elevate consciousness to a different level of shimmering luminosity, where the practitioner realizes his own self as the God.

Designating sacred sounds on the bodily parts Of all the Vedic chants Srirudram is the one which has the most elaborate ways of distributing and designating sounds on the bodily parts.8 Mahā Nyāsa, the big or the great way of designating sounds on the bodily parts, and Laghu Nyāsa, the easy or the quick way of assigning sounds, are the two ways in which the Srirudram is distributed prior to the beginning of the actual chanting. While Mahā Nyāsa is done mainly on occasions such as Mahā Rudrā yajña, the great Rudrā Vedic sacrifice, Laghu Nyāsa is mainly practiced by the householders. The Nyāsa component of the Vedic chanting correlates and establishes equivalences between sounds, deities, and bodily parts. This preparation toward the chanting is believed to embody, capture, and facilitate the process of reabsorption elaborated in Śaiva Siddhānta, and the practice is believed to have its roots in Purvamīmāṃsā and tantric texts. Immediately after invoking the grace of the particular deities on the bodily parts, Srirudram’s Laghu Nyāsa celebrates the self as the God and how the rhythm of the self and cosmos composed of the five elements (fire, air, earth, sky, and water) are interrelated. Body, mind, energy or breath, senses, and awareness are said to be in a rhythm, and while praying for their mutual nourishment, the Laghu Nyāsa also brings their interrelationship to the attention of the practitioner. Generally for all chanting the Nyāsa component serves the function of

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purification9 of the body and makes it ready for the ritual process. As the Laghu Nyāsa process plays a very important role in the meditation practice of this tradition, it is important to read through the verses associated with it and relate them subsequently to verses of the main chanting. In this section of chanting there are two parts. In the first part of the Laghu Nyāsa the chant aids the meditator to visualize himself as Rudrā, the worshipful form of Śiva. The mental movement from the first section of the Laghu Nyāsa to the second section can be described as the meditator moving from the deities to elements of nature embedded in the human body. The visualization starts with the chant describing Rudrā as having a crystal clear color, three eyes, five faces, the river Ganges on his matted hair, a snake as his sacred thread, a tiger skin as his clothes, a bluish black neck, having Uma as his half body, and a body bathed with nectar. Immediately after the visualization the chant moves toward invoking deities on the bodily parts of the meditator, who is visualizing himself as Rudrā, the Śiva. “On the breath is Brahma, on the feet is Viṣṇu, on the hands are hara”—is the progression of the chant, which ends with praying to all the deities to bless the meditator. Since the second part is considered to be very important in this tradition, it is given in full below10: agnirmē vāci śritaḥ, vāg-hṛdayē, hṛdāyaṃ mayī, aham amṛtē, amṛtaṃ brahmaṇi may fire nourish speech, speech nourish the heart, heart nourish my self, let my self nourish what is eternal/nectar (God) in me, the eternal in me nourish the eternal everywhere, vāyur-mē prāṇe śritah, prāṇo hṛdayē, hṛdayaṃ mayī, aham- amṛtē, amṛtaṃ brahmaṇi may air nourish the vital breath, vital breath nourish heart, heart nourish my self, my self nourish that which is eternal in me, the eternal in me nourish the eternal everywhere sūryomē cakṣuṣi śritaḥ, cakṣur-hṛdayē, hṛdayaṃ mayī, aham amṛtē, amṛtaṃ brahmaṇi (may sun nourish sight, sight nourish heart, heart nourish my self, my self nourish that which is eternal in me, the eternal in my self nourish the eternal everywhere) candra-mā me manasi śritaḥ, mano hṛdayē, hṛdayaṃ mayī, aham-amṛtē, amṛtaṃ brahmaṇi may moon nourish mind, mind nourish heart, heart nourish my self, my self nourish that which is eternal in me, the eternal in me nourish the eternal everywhere, diśo mēśrotre śritāḥ, śro-tragṃ hṛdayē, hṛdayaṃ mayī, aham-amṛtre, amṛtaṃ brahmaṇi may space nourish hearing, hearing nourish heart, heart nourish my self, my self nourish that which is eternal in me, the eternal in me nourish the eternal everywhere āpo me retasi śritāḥ, reto hṛdayē, hṛdayaṃ mayī, aham amṛtē, amṛtaṃ brahmaṇi may water nourish creation, creation nourish heart, heart nourish my self, my self nourish that which is eternal in me, the eternal in me nourish the eternal everywhere

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pṛthi-vī me śarīre śritā, śarī-ragṃ hṛdayē, hṛdayaṃ mayī, aham amṛtē, amṛtaṃ brahmaṇi may earth nourish the body, body nourish the heart, heart nourish my self, my self nourish that which is eternal in me, the eternal in me nourish the eternal everywhere oṣadhi-vanaspa-tāyo me lomāsu śritāḥ, lomāni hṛdayē, hṛdayaṃ mayī, aham amṛte, amṛtaṃ brahmaṇi may herbs nourish the hair, hair nourish the heart, heart nourish my self, my self nourish that is which eternal in me, the eternal in me nourish the eternal everywhere indrō me balēśritaḥ, ba-lagṃ hṛdayē, hṛdayaṃ mayī, aham amṛte, amṛtaṃ brahmaṇi may power nourish strength, strength nourish the heart, heart nourish my self, my self nourish that which is eternal in me, the eternal in me nourish the eternal everywhere punārma ātmā puna-rāyu-rāgāt finally the atman which is omnipresent is invoked as the source of everything punā-prāna-puna-rākūta-māgāt we beseech the atman to bestow long life, to let the prana stay within, to let the mind be controlled vai-śvānaro raśmi-bhirvā-vṛ-dhānaḥ to let the fire and the light grow, to let the digestion be well anta-stiṣṭha-tvamṛtāsya gopāḥ that the protector of wisdom may be well established in us

The heart as the center that connects the individual to God The Laghu Nyāsa hymn establishes for the Śaiva Siddhāntin that the individual soul of a person is identical with Śiva; recognition of this identity is essential to liberation. The process of arriving at the identical nature of the individual soul with that of Śiva is through a conception of the human body which has the natural elements such as sun, moon, earth, and air constituting bodily parts and influencing their functionalities. The Laghu Nyāsa hymn also confirms the Śaiva Siddhāntin’s view that the heart is the most important place in the human body for the sacred sounds to vibrate and create a channel for Śiva, the Brahman, to reveal himself and dissolve the individual soul with himself. While the centrality of the heart in the Nyāsa process is not unique to this tradition—it is common to the anga (body) and kara (hand) Nyāsa processes of all Vedic chanting11—it assumes great importance within the Śaiva Siddhānta tradition, because here Śiva is seen as the most graceful, loving, and all-giving God.12 Through His grace and love He reabsorbs the soul into His fold. The several schools of Śaiva thought, ranging from pluralistic realism to absolute monism agree in recognizing

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Figure 12.1 Tantric painting of sound and deities on the bodily parts. (Photo: M. D. Muthukumaraswamy). three principles: pati, Śiva, the Lord; paśu, the individual soul; and pāśa, the bonds that confine the soul to earthly existence. The goal set for the soul is to get rid of its bonds and gain śivatva (“the nature of Śiva”). The paths leading to this goal are caryā (external acts of worship), kriyā (acts of intimate service to God), yoga (meditation), and jñāna (knowledge). The householder’s Vedic chanting is at once an act of external worship and an internal meditation.

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The second step in chanting Srirudram is to pay tribute to the sages who composed the chants and to distribute the primal sounds (bījākṣara) on the body. The difference between the first part of the Laghu Nyāsa distribution of sounds and this part is that in Laghu Nyāsa one is to mentally concentrate and focus on the bodily parts while saying the names of the deities invoked on that particular part, here in this section the meditator has to touch the body while chanting the verses. Designating primal sounds of the chant on the fingers and on the bodily parts is also known by the name Viniyogaḥ Yoga (Yoga of distribution). For Srirudram sage Aghora is said to be the author and the chant begins by touching the head with the middle and ring finger of the right hand while mentioning his name. When the cadence of the chant (in this case the meter is anuṣṭubh) is uttered, the meditator has to touch the tip of the nose, and when Rudrā’s name is uttered, the meditator has to touch the middle of his heart to establish him firmly there. The distribution of the bījākṣara mantra recognizes the “na ma śi va ya” as the base sacred sounds on which the entire chant is constructed. While recognizing the base sacred sounds of the chant the practitioner has to touch the right-hand shoulder with the closure of right ring finger and the thumb. Similarly while recognizing “śivatharayeti” (the grace of Śiva) as the power of the chant the practitioner has to touch the left-hand shoulder with the closure of the right ring finger and the thumb. An imaginary inverted triangle is drawn and completed when the recognition process completes with the touching of the navel when uttering the name “mahā devā” (great god). The distribution continues on the five fingers of the hands and the touching of the chest, head, nape, eyes, finally again establishing Śiva in the heart, and creating a firm relationship with him. Going beyond the initial function of a purification process, this distribution of mantras on the fingers and body spreads out the grace of Śiva on the body of the practitioner. Immediately after the distribution of both the sounds and the grace, the practice calls for the visualization on the all-pervasive quality of Śiva. This portion of the chant is called dhyāna13 (meditation), the intense quality of it will determine the flow of the entire chanting of Srirudram which is to follow it. The visualization is complemented by offerings of sacred primal sounds that signify primordial elements of nature. The primal sounds14 “lam” (signifying earth), “ham” (sky), “yam” (air), “ram” (fire), “v‘f ’ ” (nectar), and “saṃ” (all-pervasive) are submitted along with flowers, lighting of lamps and incense sticks, and food items. If the meditator is to be imagining himself to be Śto, one might legitimately ask how he is offering and submitting the sounds and the other materials. This interplay of outside and inside is one of the qualities of this meditation process, as the meditator becomes aware of both the all-pervasive nature of Śas and at the same times his uniqueness within the omnipresence. As already indicated, the One not subsuming the other is one of the important philosophical positions of Śthe Siddhhne, in contrast to the Vedāntin’s position of absolute monism. After these preparations toward the chanting, what follows is the customary invocation of Ganapati and a passage from the second part of Srirudram known by the name “Chamakam.” The purpose of chanting the third stanza from Chamakam is believed to be for invoking peace. The third stanza of Chamakam prominently asks for all the worldly successes and benefits from the grace of Śiva. For the adherents of Śaiva

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Siddhānta this world is not to be denied and dismissed as illusory but to be accepted as a facet of godliness. So the long life, material prosperity, friendships, mornings filled with thoughts on god, ability to extract work from the servants, and healthy life are all within the scope of achieving communion with Śiva. With this preparation, the actual chanting of Srirudram begins.

Chanting Srirudram Srirudram is in two parts. The first part, Chapter 16 of the Yajur Veda, is known as Namakam because of the repeated use of the word “Namo” in it. The second part, Chapter  18 of the Yajur Veda, is known as Chamakam because of the repeated use of the word “Chame.” Rudram is divided into eleven sections called Anuvākas. Both Namakam and Chamakam have great rhythmic sounds, and chanting them appropriately is believed to create auspicious vibrations in the house. Many householders approach the chanting of Srirudram merely as sacred sound, and many practitioners do not even know the meaning of all the verses contained therein.15 Many do not have formal training, knowledge, or education in Sanskrit. Their way of learning Vedic chanting is either partly as a family tradition or from publications that transliterate Sanskrit verses in Tamil. With the Sanskrit verses written in Tamil the practitioners memorize the verses completely, and over the years of daily practice in the early morning hours the chanting becomes an everyday routine for many of them. Because the fidelity of the sound is more important than the meaning of the word chanted, the practitioners take real efforts to pronounce Sanskrit words accurately.

Roles of sound and meaning in chanting Very few practitioners begin to reflect on the meaning of the chant at their advanced ages, and even then the correctness of the pronunciation assumes more importance than the meaning. Taittria Upaniṣad, which teaches the science of pronunciation (śikṣā), is very much part of the tradition of practicing Vedic chanting at home. It deals with sound, pitch, quantity, force, modulation, and the combination of sounds. The teachings of Taittria Upaniṣad are preserved in the practices in such a way that the practitioners who approach Vedic chants as pure sacred sounds believe that they affect the breath (prāṇa), and since it affects the regulation of the breath, the meditating practitioner automatically benefits from the everyday chanting, and as the practice matures, one begins to enjoy physical and mental health. For the practice to mature, it is often prescribed that one chants from the throat rather than from the mouth. The cadence, pitch, and force need to be learned from an experienced teacher, or from a father or maternal uncle who is a practitioner. While it is common for fathers to initiate their male children into Vedic chanting when they reach seven years of age, many also prefer to employ proficient teachers for their children’s initiation and subsequent training. When Vedic chanting is taught as a householder’s ritual, prayer,

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and meditation technique to the child, it is taught as a sixteen-step process, plus in some versions Namakam and Chamakam. The sixteen steps are:

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

the purification of the body through water the purification of the body and mind through the bodily designation of sounds prayer to Ganapati for the removal of obstacles in the process declaration of the intention to complete the chanting and its objectives inviting benign forces inviting Śiva to present himself visualizing self as Śiva while chanting paying obeisance to Śiva offering incense offering food offering sacred leaves offering flowers offering light submitting sacred primal sounds asking for boons bidding farewell

For those adherents who approach Srirudram as pure sacred sounds, Namakam, the first part, is meant to elevate consciousness and transport the practitioner to another world, while Chamakam, the second part, is to bring the practitioner back to the normal everyday world. In other words, these two parts are believed to be complementary auditory systems that may bring about a healthy equilibrium to the body and the mind of the practitioner. Further peace and rhythm between body and the cosmos are achieved by supplementing the Srirudram with five sacred Vedic hymns (Puruṣa sūktaṃ, Narayana sūktaṃ, Viṣṇu sūktaṃ, Durga sūktaṃ, and Sri sūktaṃ) and ending with the auspicious chant of Mantra puṣpaṃ. While this sequencing of Vedic chants is common to the Srirudram chanting in the Śiva temples and the households, in the household practice the practitioner is at the liberty to skip the supplementary hymns and go directly to Mantra Puṣpaṃ. Whatever the choice of the practitioners, it is mandatory for them to sing a Tamil hymn from Tirumurai before completing the sequence with Mantra puṣpaṃ. For those who approach Srirudram only as a set of sacred sounds, the Tamil hymn provides the comfort of meaning. Even adherents who meditate on the meaning of Srirudram go through the process of mastering the chant with perfect pronunciation. It is believed that one is capable of meditating on the meaning of Srirudram only after years of practicing the chant on a daily basis. When the practitioner reaches his middle age, his teacher further initiates him into the meaning of Srirudram. It is believed that the meaning of Srirudram will reveal itself to the practitioner only through the grace of the teacher. For those who were initiated into the Vedic chanting through their fathers or maternal uncles, the families guide them to seek a guru at the appropriate time of necessity in their lives. Alternatively the families adhere themselves to Śaivite monasteries which act as seats of the guru and guide the practitioners in understanding the meaning of Srirudram. The practitioners are not encouraged to seek the literal

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Figure 12.2 A page from Sanskrit Srirudram in Tamil script used by practitioners. (Photo: M. D. Muthukumaraswamy).

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translated meaning of the text of Srirudram in the first place; instead they are asked to read all texts of the Tamil Tirumurai, go to Śiva temples regularly, participate in the temple rituals and festivals, learn about the different temple myths, attend discourses on Śaiva Siddhānta, involve themselves in charitable activities, and consult their gurus periodically. The guru assesses the progress of the practitioner by judging changes in the quality of voice of the practitioner, his attitudes, the acuteness of his need to realize God, and his growing capacity for love. When the guru decides that the practitioner has reached the appropriate stage of reception, he will ask him first of all to reflect on the interconnectedness of natural elements and life forms on earth and see the interconnectedness as the rhythm of the cosmos. In the second stage of the guidance the guru will ask the practitioner whether he can recognize the rhythm of the cosmos as the love and grace of Śiva. Simultaneously the practitioner will be asked to abandon physical ritual activities such as bathing the Śivaliṅga, or showing the lamp to the deity while chanting and instead to visualize such activities mentally. The practitioner should be able to do all the sixteen ritual activities while chanting Srirudram purely by imagining or visualizing them before he can be considered for the next stage of instruction. When the guru is satisfied with the capacity of the practitioner to visualize all activities, he will ask him to reflect on the meaning of Srirudram along with the worldly benefits he may acquire by the chanting of each of the stanzas. In the following, I will give a synthesis of the standard English translation of Srirudram available to the practitioners in Tamil.16 In the first Anuvāka (stanza) Rudrā is asked to turn away his Ghōra rūpa (fierce appearance) and to keep his and his followers’ weapons at bay. Having been pacified, Rudrā is requested to destroy the sins of those for whom it is being chanted. Apart from being a hymn devoted to the Lord, Srirudram also may contain hidden secrets in coded format. For example, the verses contain coded instructions for preparing various ayurvedic medicines. This first stanza is chanted to destroy all sins, obtain leadership and divine benevolence, protection from famine, freedom from fear, obtain food, and protect cows, for deliverance from untimely fear of death, of tigers, thieves, from monsters, devils, and demons. It is also chanted as a protection (kavacha) against virulent fever, diseases, fetal disorders, absolution from evil stars and bad karma, for the fulfillment of one’s desires, sumptuous rainfall, family protection, blessings with good children, fulfillment of all material desires, and the destruction of enemies. In the second stanza Rudrā is prayed to as one who pervades the earth and as the green foliage and heritage of medicinal herbs. He is asked to loosen the bonds of Saṃsāra (illusion). This stanza is chanted for the destruction of enemies, possession of wealth, getting kingdom, and the sharpening of intelligence. In the third stanza Rudrā is described as the Lord of thieves who exists in everything. He is Sarvatma; the self of all. In this context, we who are unenlightened have stolen the immortal status of the Self and replaced it with our own limited conception of ego. And in turn it is Rudrā who will come and steal our ignorance from us, restoring us to our natural status of enlightenment. In the fourth stanza Rudrā is described as the creator of everything in the universe, and in the fifth Rudrā’s existence in running waters is praised and his five activities

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are described (creation of the universe, preservation of it, destruction at the time of Pralaya [deluge], bonding human beings in ignorance, and the ability to grant the boon of release or mokṣa). In the sixth stanza Rudrā is identified with time (Kalarūpa). He is described as the source of the different worlds, Śrutis (Vedas) and its essence. The fifth and sixth stanzas are chanted for the expansion of one’s own assets, victory against enemies, blessings for a son with the stature of Rudrā, avoidance of a miscarriage and easy childbirth, and protection of one’s own progeny. In the seventh stanza Rudrā’s all-pervading presence in waters, rains, clouds, storms, and its various forms are described. This stanza is chanted for the sharpening of intelligence, improvements in health, wealth, progeny, clothes, cows, sons, education, lands, longevity, and the move toward liberation. In the eighth stanza Rudrā is described as He who illumines other Gods and confers powers on them. He is seen as ever present in holy rivers and He who can absolve all sins. In the ninth stanza the strength and power of his attendants are celebrated because they illumine the gods and the world and control the forces of the universe. In the tenth stanza Rudrā is again asked to shed his fury and shower benevolence by displaying his bow without arrows and to gracefully appear with his tiger skin on his body with pleasing countenance ready to shower boons upon his devotees. In the eleventh stanza Rudrā’s accomplishments are profusely praised and his benevolence is invoked with unconditional salutations. After praying and identifying Rudrā with everything in the Namakam, the Chamakam is recited, in which the devotee identifies himself with Śiva and asks him to grant a variety of worldly successes. Adherents of Śaiva Siddhānta interpret the Chamakam portion of the chant to mean that the creator makes no distinction between the things of the world and the other world. Both belong to him and desire born out of Virtue is really manifestation of divinity and Dharma. Chamakam furnishes completely the ideal of human happiness and defines it in the highest degree possible. The idea of dharma is the focus of the meaning-based meditation on Srirudram. The third stanza of Namakam describes Śiva as the chief of thieves. While the benign interpretation has been to make Śiva the thief of hearts, literal interpretation would say that as an all-pervasive God Śiva is everywhere, including amid men and things considered evil. For the practitioners the third stanza of Namakam is to recognize that the dharma is distributed in both good and evil for meanings to emerge in life. By meditating over this it is believed that evil can be won over and overcome in real life. The worldview is very similar to Yudhiṣṭhira’s famous saying in Mahābhārata: “Disasters have neither limit (maryāda) nor cause; dharma distributes meaning to good and evil” (dharmas tu vibhaiaty artham ubhayoḥ puṇya-pāpayoḥ, c3.312.1). When the practitioner has reached the stage where he can do the complete visualization mentally and has the ability to grasp the meaning of the all-pervasiveness of Śiva, the guru may initiate the practitioner into the final stage of the meditation practice. As per the folklore surrounding this stage, the guru may ask the practitioner to chant the entire Srirudram mentally while visualizing all of the eighteen components of Śiva pūjā. To gain proficiency in this practice, the meditator has to sit in a comfortable position, close his eyes, lock the upper part of the mouth with his tongue

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(sambhavi mudrā), grit his teeth, and chant Srirudram mentally. The advancement in the practice will lead the practitioner to listen to the chanting unconsciously, without any effort on his part, and when he is completely silent. This stage of the meditator’s heart involuntarily chanting Srirudram in its entirety is known by the name Ajapa-japa which also signifies the dance of Śiva. For the meditator then every breath becomes na ma śi va ya, every act becomes an act of Śiva pūjā, and the mind becomes the world of all auspicious Śiva. That is bliss.

13

Spontaneous Thoughts in Meditative Traditions Halvor Eifring

The spontaneous flow of seemingly random thoughts is a basic feature of the human psyche,1 and mind wandering has recently become a hot topic in neuroscience, because it has been linked to areas in the brain that become more rather than less active when the person is at rest.2 The nature and function of this stream of consciousness have been vehemently debated. On the one hand, it has been argued that “a wandering mind is an unhappy mind,” and that mind wandering is a source of unhealthy distraction and negative rumination, which in turn may lead to depression and anxiety—in short mental garbage that needs to be properly disposed of.3 On the other hand, it has also been argued that since mind wandering takes up almost half of our waking time, it would not have survived the evolutionary struggle if it had no positive function, and it has been suggested that the wandering mind helps the person to process emotions and past memories, prepare for future challenges, perceive present reality more fully, improve self-understanding as well as empathy with others, and increase his or her creative potential.4 Meditation has become a significant part of this debate. Some have attempted to show that meditation reduces mind wandering,5 while others have argued the opposite, that at least some forms of meditation actually increase the activities of the wandering mind.6 These contrasting views largely reflect different opinions about the positive and negative functions of mind wandering. In addition, they also partly reflect attitudes that have a long history in the various contemplative traditions of Europe and Asia. The most immediate historical background of such debates lies in the rise of modern psychology—in William James’s theoretical notion of the “stream of consciousness” and Sigmund Freud’s technical uses of “free association,” as well as Jerome L. Singer’s more recent but less well-known research into “daydreaming.” Long before the advent of modern psychology, however, discussions concerning spontaneous thoughts and mind wandering had been taking place for at least a couple of thousand years in large parts of the Eurasian continent, in the contexts of prayer, meditation, and contemplation. While psychoanalysis looks upon free association as a key to the discovery of inner conflicts and an important tool for the treatment of psychological ailments,

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contemplative traditions tend to see mind wandering as an obstacle to meditative progress, as a problem that needs to be overcome. The skepticism toward spontaneous thoughts is found in contemplative traditions with widely different geographical and cultural origins. Each of these must be seen and explained within its own historical context. At the same time, these various traditions should also be discussed in relation to each other. This chapter is a preliminary attempt to explore the parallels and contrasts between the ways different traditions relate to the constant flow of spontaneous thoughts. It will take a brief look at representative works of four traditions: classical Yoga, Christian mysticism, early Daoism, and Buddhist Pure Land practices. After a summary of the findings, it will then make an initial attempt at linking this historical study to the modern attitudes described above. The chapter looks at material that belongs not only to different cultures, but also to different historical periods. Although early cultural contacts did exist between India and Europe and may or may not have existed between India and China even before the spread of Buddhism, whatever parallels are found between the different traditions can hardly be fully explained as the results of cultural influence. They seem to suggest crosscultural similarities that may have their roots in physiological, psychological, or more widely existential similarities between human beings. Such similarities pose important questions concerning the universality of the phenomena in question, which is often contrasted with their historical and cultural situatedness. This chapter, however, will simply point out some of the parallels (as well as the contrasts), without venturing too far into their possible explanations. In each case, two basic questions will be posed. First, what is the doctrinal background for the often skeptical assessment of spontaneous thoughts? And second, since ridding the mind of spontaneous thoughts, or at least reducing their impact, is in most cases no mean challenge, what are the recommended approaches to the problem? In addition, we shall see that in all of the traditions, the skepticism toward mind wandering is tempered by more accepting views.

Yoga Sūtra: Undisturbed flow The Indian work known as Yoga Sūtra may have been put together by Patañjali around the second century CE, though many of its spiritual practices and metaphysical assumptions had by then already been around for centuries, some would argue millennia. The work contains 195 short and often quite cryptic aphorisms concerning meditative practice. Their interpretation often depends on a number of commentaries written several centuries later.7 The single most famous statement in the work is sūtra I.2: Yoga is the stilling of the fluctuations of the mind. yogaś citta-vṛtti-nirodhaḥ

Although citta-vṛtti “the fluctuations of the mind” is a wider and at the same time more technical term than the English phrases “spontaneous thoughts” and “mind wandering,” this sentence is usually understood to imply that Yoga will lead to a state

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of consciousness without any disturbance from spontaneous thoughts and mind wandering. On closer look, the implications of this statement are quite complex. First of all, all states of mind are understood to belong to one of the five fluctuations listed in sūtra I.6 and further elaborated upon in I.7-I.11: right knowledge (pramāṇa), error (viparyaya), imagination (vikalpa), sleep (nidrā), and memory (smṛtayaḥ). Thus, it is not only mind wandering in the narrow sense that needs to be stilled, but all mental activity. The negative attitude toward spontaneous thoughts in the Yoga Sūtra is often explained with reference to the strong duality between puruṣa (the transcendent self) and prakṛti (objective or material reality) underlying Yoga philosophy. This duality differs sharply from the Cartesian distinction between mind/spirit (res cogitans) and body/matter (res extensa), since yoga places spontaneous thoughts in the same category as bodily and material objects, the category of prakṛti. This category includes all phenomena, whether bodily/material or mental/spiritual, its opposite being puruṣa, a transcendent, non-phenomenal consciousness underlying all existence, in particular human selfhood. Simply speaking, spontaneous thoughts must be stilled because they come in the way of the realization of puruṣa. As we shall see, similar dualities exist in a number of different contemplative traditions, and though the terminologies and cultural conceptualizations surrounding them differ widely, the human—and meditative—experiences underlying such dualities may have much in common. When the stilling of the fluctuations of the mind is accomplished, “the seer abides in its own true nature” (draṣṭuḥ svarūpe ‘vasthānam, I.3), that is, in the puruṣa, while in the opposite case, the seer “is absorbed in the fluctuations” (vṛtti-sārūpyam, I.4), that is in prakṛti. In itself, however, the duality between puruṣa and prakṛti is hardly enough to justify a skeptical attitude toward spontaneous thoughts or mental states. From the Yogic point of view, apart from puruṣa itself, everything belongs to prakṛti, not only spontaneous thoughts or other mental activities. So what is it about “the fluctuations of the mind” that needs to be stilled, when there are other aspects of prakṛti that are not dealt with in the same way? The simple answer is that the fluctuations of the mind are seen as particularly detrimental to Yogic realization. The mind, citta, is of prime importance for such realization, but its constant fluctuation is seen as a hindrance. The Yoga Sūtra, like many Indian scriptures, and similar to other contemplative traditions, excels in providing terms for and lists of conditions that are seen as conducive to Yogic realization, as well as conditions that are seen as detrimental. The latter includes: ●

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the five impediments (kleśa): ignorance (avidyā), ego (asmitā), attachment (rāga), aversion (dveṣa), clinging to life (abhiniveśāḥ) (sūtra II.3-II.9) the nine disturbances (or interruptions, antarāya): disease (vyādhi), idleness (styāna), doubt (saṁśaya), carelessness (pramāda), sloth (ālasya), lack of detachment (avirati), misapprehension (bhrānti-darśana), failure to attain a base [for concentration] (alabda-bhūmikatva), and instability (anavasthitatva) (sūtra I.30) five secondary disturbances: suffering (duḥkha), dejection (daurmanasya), trembling (aṅgam-ejayatva), inhalation (śvāsa), exhalation (praśvāsāḥ) (sūtra I.31)

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The nine disturbances are explicitly said to constitute “distractions for the mind” (cittavikṣepāḥ), and the five secondary disturbances are said to “accompany the distractions” (vikṣepa-saha-bhuvaḥ). The first and arguably greatest commentary on the Yoga Sūtra, the fifth-century Vyāsa commentary, suggests that the fluctuations of the mind would cease to exist if the nine disturbances were removed (Bryant 2009: 118), thus paving the way for the (self-)realization of the puruṣa. The five impediments are clearly also closely connected to the fluctuations of the mind. However, not all fluctuations of the mind are seen as impediments, at least not always. On the contrary, the five types of fluctuations are explicitly said to be either associated with impediments or not (kliṣṭākliṣṭāḥ, sūtra I.5). Although the duality between puruṣa and prakṛti is absolute, therefore, some aspects of prakṛti are seen as more conducive to the realization of puruṣa than others, and this includes some aspects of the fluctuations of the mind. (As we shall see, similar ideas exist in other contemplative traditions.) Thus, the negative assessment of the fluctuations of the mind is not all-pervasive. The distinction between “outgoing” and “restraining” karmic imprints (saṁskāra) made in sūtra III.9 possibly points in the same direction. The fluctuations of the mind are at the same time seen as products of karmic imprints from the past and producers of karmic imprints deciding the future, keeping us in the wheel of life. However, while the stilling of the fluctuations of the mind leads to the disappearance of the outgoing imprints, it also leads to the appearance of restraining imprints and thereby, according to sūtra III.10, to the “undisturbed flow” (praśānta-vāhitā) of the mind. This “flow” still belongs to prakṛti, and to the mind, but rather than the fluctuating sequence of different and often disturbing elements, we get “an ongoing sequence of similar saṁskāras, like a movie reel of identical stills,” and thus come closer to the core or essence of prakṛti, “an eternal and constant self that is not metaphysically dependent on or interdependent with anything else,” though functionally dependent on puruṣa.8 The distinction between the three qualities of existence (the guṇas, including the largely detrimental rajas and tamas and the more benign sattva; the distinction is not made explicit in the Yoga Sūtra but often referred to in the commentaries) is a similar case; Yoga reduces the influence of rajas and tamas and manifests the potential of sattva; are perhaps the non-detrimental states of mind sattvic? Whether this more positive assessment of some aspects of prakṛti may be extended to what we would call “spontaneous thoughts” or “mind wandering” is not clear. If the goal of Yoga is to still the fluctuations of the mind, large parts of the Yoga Sūtra may be read as a manual on how to attain this goal. At a general level, the stilling of thoughts is achieved by “practice” (abhyāsa) and “dispassion” (vairāgyābhyām), as stated in sūtra I.12 and further elaborated in the following aphorisms. While dispassion is explained as “the controlled consciousness of one who is without craving for sense objects” (viṣaya-vitṛṣṇasya vaśīkāra-saṁjñā), the primary commentator Vyāsa adds that this implies an indifference to the sense objects (as a result of long-term practice), not an active rejection of them and even less their disappearance.9 If the same way of thinking is applied to spontaneous thoughts, the implication would be that while Yoga may eventually lead to a state in which such thoughts are stilled, this is an effect of the practice and is not due to the practitioner’s driving away or suppressing the thoughts.

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It even allows for a reading where the thoughts are still present, only in a quieter and less disturbing form, as “restraining” rather than “outgoing” karmic imprints, and as “sattvic” rather than “tamasic” or “rajasic” elements. In the Yoga Sūtra, the most basic means of stilling the fluctuations of the mind lies in various forms of attentional “one-pointedness” (ekāgrya or ekāgratā), mostly through the successive stages of dhāraṇā “concentration,” dhyāna “meditation,” and several levels of samādhi “absorption,” as in sūtra II.11: The states of mind produced by these [impediments] are eliminated by meditation. dhyāna-heyās tad-vṛttayaḥ

However, the practical implications of this are not clear. Are concentration, meditation, absorption, and other forms of “one-pointedness” to be understood as the effects of a practice or as technical elements involved in that practice? In the Yoga Sūtra, this distinction is often blurred. In sūtra I.20, for instance, samādhi is listed along with other qualities more or less as a means to achieve a certain state, while in sūtra II.2 we are told that samādhi is a state that Yoga may help us bring about. In sūtra I.32, ekatattvābhyāsaḥ “practice [of fixing the mind] on one object” is described as a method to eliminate disturbances, while in sūtra II.41, ekāgrya “one-pointedness” is mentioned in a list of effects of the purification of the mind. Although the emphasis on meditative concentration is traditionally interpreted as an injunction to actively dispel spontaneous thoughts when they arise, it may just as well be seen as focusing on the mentally absorbing effects of yogic practice, not as technical elements of the practice itself. Only in sūtra II.33 does the Yoga Sūtra express a concrete approach to counter unwanted spontaneous thoughts: Upon being harassed by negative thoughts, one should cultivate counteracting thoughts. vitarka-bādhane pratipakṣa-bhāvanam

The following sūtra indicates that cultivating counteracting thoughts is not to be understood as suppression or “positive thinking,” but rather as thinking about the consequences of entertaining negative thoughts, namely, that “the end results [of negative thoughts] are ongoing suffering and ignorance” (duḥkhājñānānanta-phalā). Again, there is no indication that spontaneous thoughts should be actively dispelled, only that they should be seen in their proper context, in what Bryant calls “a type of mindfulness meditation for yogīs.”10 Note, finally, that the Yoga Sūtra, in spite of its emphasis on individual practice and technique, is also theistic, recommending “submission to God” (Īśvara-praṇidhānāt) as a means, arguably even the prime means, to achieve “the perfection of samādhi” (samādhi-siddhiḥ II.45) and, by repetition and contemplation of the mantra designating him (the praṇavaḥ [oṁ] I.27), to achieve “freedom from all disturbances” (antarāyābhāvaḥ I.29). By extension, submission to God may also be seen as a way, and maybe the best way, of stilling the fluctuations of the mind. Such theistic approaches often build on grace and come in several variants in a number of different contemplative traditions, from the most insistently monotheistic

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attitudes of Islam and Sikhism, via the more ambiguously monotheistic perspective of trinitarian Christianity, to the plethora of gods in much of devotional Hinduism, the visualization and corporeal integration of gods in some forms of Daoist mysticism, and the pseudo-theistic approaches of Pure Land Buddhism. The Yoga Sūtra differs from most of these, including the bhakti-oriented Hindu schools though not perhaps Daoist mysticism, in placing comparatively little focus on the emotional element of devotion. The Sanskrit term for devotion, bhakti, is not even mentioned in the work, in sharp contrast to many other Hindu schools, including the Bhagavad Gītā, as well as Sikhism.

The Cloud of Unknowing: Hard work The Cloud of Unknowing is a fourteenth-century anonymous work of Christian mysticism, written in Middle English. Its immediate historical context includes other Late Medieval English mystics, such as the almost contemporaneous Richard Rolle (d. 1349), Walter Hilton (d. 1396), and Julian of Norwich (b. 1342), some of whom it indirectly argues against. In a wider sense, its history also includes the via negativa of the Desert Fathers and Neo-Platonism, to which it sometimes makes reference.11 Like its Christian predecessors, as well as the Yoga Sūtra, The Cloud of Unknowing is also based on a duality that differs radically from Cartesian body-mind thinking. While it sometimes does refer to the familiar distinction between the physical (bodily or flesch[e]ly) and the spiritual (goostli or gostely), and between body (body) and soul (soule), the fundamental distinction is not between body and soul, or matter and spirit, but between “created things” (creat[u]res) and “God himself ” (God . . . hymself) (ch. 3). The former category is by no means limited to the physical realm, but also includes the spiritual: Whenever I say “the whole created world” I always mean not only the individual creatures therein, but everything connected with them. There is no exception whatever, whether you think of them as physical or spiritual beings, or of their states or actions, or of their goodness or badness. (ch. 5) As ofte as I sey “alle þe creatures þat ever ben maad,” as ofte I mene, not only þe self creatures, bot also alle þe werkes & þe condicions of þe same creatures. I oute-take not o creature, wheþer þei ben bodily creatures or goostly, ne ȝit any condicion or werk of any creature, wheþer þei be good or iuel.

All thoughts, spontaneous or not, belong to the realm of “created things” and may disturb the direct contemplation of “God himself ”: Everything you think about, all the time you think about it, is “above” you, between you and God. And you are that much farther from God if anything but God is in your mind. (ch. 5) alle þing þat þou þinkest apon is abouen þee for þe tyme, & bitwix þee & þi God. & in so mochel þou arte þe ferþer fro God, þat ouȝt is in þi mynde bot only God.

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This must be seen as an argument against a widespread tendency within Late Medieval Christian mysticism to approach God through intellectual approaches. The distinction between created and uncreated and the relegation of thoughts to the realm of creation have a long history within Christianity. As an early example, Evagrios Pontikos (345–99) argues that even “dispassionate” thoughts keep us far from God, since they are directed toward “created things,” while God is “beyond sense-perception and beyond concept.”12 Both in Evagrios and in The Cloud of Unknowing, the thoughts discussed clearly include what we would call spontaneous thoughts or mind wandering. While admitting that such thoughts can be both angelic and demonic, or even plainly human, Evagrios strongly tends to link thoughts to passion and to demonize them: “[The demon] is always using our memory to stir up thoughts of various things and our flesh to arouse the passions, in order to obstruct our way of ascent to God.”13 He classifies such thoughts (logismoi) into lists of eight (gluttony, unchastity, avarice, anger, dejection, listlessness, self-esteem, and pride), much like the lists of detrimental factors we saw in the Yoga Sūtra. His list is further refined by the Church and ends up as the famous idea of the Seven Deadly Sins. Though arguing that thoughts keep the contemplative away from God, The Cloud of Unknowing seems to have a much more accepting view of them than Evagrios. Thoughts are “the expression of your normal mind,”14 and “[a]ll the while a soul lives in this mortal body . . . he will always see and feel some of God’s creatures, or their deeds, pressing in upon his mind between him and God.”15 Therefore, “a spontaneous thought, springing to mind unsought and unwittingly, cannot be reckoned to be sin,” whether it is “something you like, a thing that pleases you, or has pleased you in the past,” or is “a grouse over something that grieves you, or has grieved you.”16 The author adds, almost as an afterthought, that spontaneous thoughts may be “the result[s] of original sin” (þe pyne of þe original sinne), but since “you were cleansed from the guilt of that when you were baptized” (of þe whiche sinne þou arte clensid in þi baptyme), they cannot really be called sinful any more (ch. 10). Note the similarity with the Yoga Sūtra’s view of spontaneous thoughts as resulting from past karmic imprints, which is perhaps the closest Yogic equivalent to the Christian notion of sin. In both cases, spontaneous thoughts are seen as residuals from the past. However normal and unsinful, such thoughts or impulses nevertheless need to be “quickly put down” (smetyn sone doun): If you allow houseroom to this thing that you naturally like or grouse about, and make no attempt to rebuke it, ultimately it will take root in your inmost being, in your will, and with the consent of your will. Then it is deadly sin. (ch. 10) ȝif it so be þat þis likyng or gruching fastnyng in þi fleschly herte & þeires be suffred so longe to abide vnreproued, þat þan at þe last it is fastnid to þe goostly herte (þat is to sey þe wile) wiþ a ful consent: þan it is deedly synne.

The practical implication of this often sounds like brutal suppression, actually much more obviously so than the attentiveness (prosochi), watchfulness (nipsis), and guarding of one’s heart (phylaki kardias) advocated by Evagrios and other Desert Fathers. The practitioner must “crush all knowledge and experience of all forms of

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created things,”17 “trample them down under foot,”18 and “suppress all this in the cloud of forgetting,”19 “stamping out all remembrance of God’s creation.”20 “[A]s often as they come up, push them down.”21 This is “very hard work indeed,”22 the aim of which is to achieve “the single-minded intention of our spirit directed to God himself alone.”23 In The Cloud of Unknowing, therefore, there is hardly any doubt that the practitioner is asked to forcefully drive away all thoughts. Various techniques or stratagems are devised to help him on the way. First of all, he may “take a short word . . . of one syllable,” “[a] word like ‘god’ or ‘love’,” “or perhaps some other, so long as it is of one syllable,” and use it to “hammer the cloud and the darkness above you” (the cloud of unknowing separating him from God) and to “suppress all thought under the cloud of forgetting.”24 If this does not help him get rid of the thoughts, two other “schemes” (sleiȝtes) are proposed. The first suggests that you should “[d]o everything you can to act as if you did not know that they [thoughts, impulses and memories] were so strongly pushing in between you and God,”25 as if denying their presence. The second scheme is perhaps more interesting, since it seems to imply giving up the aim of dispelling spontaneous thoughts: “Cower down before them like some cringing captive overcome in battle, and reckon that it is ridiculous to fight against them any longer,” so that you “surrender yourself to God while you are in the hands of your enemies.”26 The implication seems to be that sometimes, the fight against thoughts may in the end be just as much an obstacle to the contemplation of God as the thoughts themselves. It is also interesting to note that the “hard work” involved in the fight against spontaneous thoughts is gradually made easier, both because “one has got used to it over a long period” and because “devotion has come,” after which “[y]ou even may have little effort to make, or none,” because “sometimes God will do it all himself.”27 In addition to habituation, therefore, the increasing proximity to God will reduce the effort required to drive away the thoughts. In the end, we are told, you should “not overstrain yourself emotionally or beyond your strength,” and “[w]ork with eager enjoyment rather than with brute force.”28 In contrast to the rather sparing theistic references in the Yoga Sūtra, the longing love for God is the main theme in The Cloud of Unknowing. Even here, however, there are also examples of depersonalized and nontheistic references to a transcendent realm described in paradoxical language. In chapter 68, the practitioner is told that he should be “nowhere” (noȝwhere) and be tied to “nothing” (nouȝt), but that it is only his “outer self ” (vtter man) that is calling this “nothing,” while his inner “self calls” it “All” (Al), and “when you are ‘nowhere’ physically, you are ‘everywhere’ spiritually” (whi noȝwhere bodely is euerywhere goodly). To the neophyte, this realm appears “completely dark and hidden” (ful blynde & ful derk), but it is actually “overwhelming spiritual light that blinds the soul that is experiencing it” (a soule is . . . bleendid in felyng of it for habundaunce of goostly liȝt). Furthermore, the longing love for God is described as a “quiet, eager joy, at rest in body and soul.”29 The author warns against “the violence of emotional reaction”30 and against “behaving wildly like some animal.”31

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Inward Training: Measured harmony Inward Training 內業 may be “the oldest mystical text in China,”32 and also the oldest among the texts discussed in this chapter, arguably dating from the fourth century BCE.33 Very early, it was included as one of only four proto-Daoist texts in the collection Guǎnzǐ 管子, which contains seventy-six anonymous texts mostly on political and economic topics.34 Partly because of its hidden existence in this compilation, it is much less well known than the classical works of Daoism, in particular the Lǎozǐ 老子 and the Zhuāngzǐ 莊子, both of which it possibly precedes. Inward Training differs from both the Yoga Sūtra and The Cloud of Unknowing in being consistently nontheistic and non-devotional. It does refer to shén 神, a term that is sometimes translated as “god,” but Roth (1999) thinks its meaning in Inward Training is translatable as a completely depersonalized “(the) numinous.” Rickett (1998) uses the more ambiguous term “spirit,” which of course may be either personal or impersonal. Even if Roth should turn out to be wrong in a few cases, and a collocation such as guǐshén 鬼神 should be translated as “ghosts and gods” or “ghosts and spirits” rather than Roth’s “the ghostly and the numinous,” these gods or spirits do not have the central role of the God of Yoga Sūtra or, in particular, The Cloud of Unknowing and other Christian works. On the contrary, they are portrayed as not being particularly efficacious, as when we are told that the final penetration of a difficult problem “is not due to the power of the ghosts and the gods, but to the perfection of essence and energy” (see below). The single term that comes closest in meaning to God is the completely impersonal dào (道) “the Way.” The Way is beyond language and beyond the senses, without form, without place, even exhausting the placeless, it cannot be fixed, it leaves without returning and comes without staying, and, using plant metaphors, it has no root and no stalk, no leaves and no flowers. Still, it infuses the body, coexists with man, is never far away and never takes leave, and we can perceive its accomplishments.35 While often characterized as monistic, due to the omnipresence of the Way and its insistence on the One (一), this worldview may also be seen as representing a nonCartesian duality reminiscent of the Yoga Sūtra and The Cloud of Unknowing, since the Way occupies a unique position vis-à-vis all other forms of existence, including spontaneous thoughts and impulses. There exists, however, a hierarchy of elements that belong to our worldly existence but are, as it were, particularly close to the Way: energy (qì 氣), essence (jīng 精), spirit (shén 神), and to some extent even the human mind (or, literally, heart, xīn 心). The mind is the prime human gateway to the Way, often by way of energy, essence, and spirit. However, it needs to be properly cultivated (修心). It must be made tranquil (靜), calm (安), stable (定), aligned (正), orderly (治), complete (全), and concentrated (摶). Only then can one grasp the mind that exists within the mind,36 and the Way can be halted and attained.37 Both Rickett and Roth argue that the text describes meditation techniques with this aim. Conversely, a number of conditions of the mind are detrimental to the attempts at attaining the Way, and this is where spontaneous thoughts, as well as desires, emotions, sensory impressions, and other spontaneous impulses, come into the picture. Worries and pleasures, joy and anger, desires, and profit-seeking all make us lose our proper

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state of mind.38 With worries and sadness, joy and anger, there is no place for the Way.39 Agitation is harmful and also makes us lose the Way.40 We should not let external things disrupt our senses, and not let our senses disrupt our minds.41 And while thinking is part of life, it leads to knowledge, and excessive knowledge may be fatal, or at least make you lose your vitality.42 Not being able to let go of your thoughts makes you distressed inside and weak outside,43 though even thinking that reaches a dead end may eventually, by help of external spiritual forces, reach a positive breakthrough: Think about it, think about it, and think about it again. When thinking about it provides no way through, ghosts and spirits will provide a way through, though not due to the power of the ghosts and the spirits, but to the perfection of essence and energy. 思之思之， 又重思之。 思之而不通， 鬼神將通之， 非鬼神之力也， 精氣之 極也。(Roth 1999: 83)

How, then, do these meditative techniques deal with the various spontaneous impulses that are seen as detrimental to the attainment of the Way? Some passages propose getting rid of (去) or stopping (止) them, or, in a metaphor, diligently cleaning out the lodging place of the numinous (敬除其舍). In general, however, the text is more interested in creating harmony (和) than in ridding the mind entirely of its spontaneous impulses. The problem is not the impulses in themselves, which are as natural to man as the four seasons are to heaven: Spring and autumn, winter and summer are the seasons of the heavens, . . . Pleasure and anger, accepting and rejecting are the devices of human beings. 春秋冬夏，天之時也……喜怒取予，人之謀也。(Roth 1999: 59)

The problem is their excessiveness (淫) and loss of measure (失度). The solution is to regulate (節) them and limit them to the appropriate degree (節適之齊), not to pull and push them (勿引勿推) or use force (力). Then the results will come spontaneously (自來, 自至, 自歸), and the Way will of itself become stable (道將自定). The regulation of spontaneous thoughts and impulses seems to be driven by a strong concern with gain (得) and loss (失). Depending on one’s ability to harmonize the mind properly, one can either gain the Way or lose it, and this is not only a matter of gaining or losing the guiding thread (紀), the basic point (端), or the proper measure (度), but is portrayed as a question of worldly success (成) or failure (敗), order (治) or chaos (亂), and even life (生) or death (死). It is also what makes or breaks a ruler’s ability to make the world listen (天下聽) and submit (天下服). Whatever one has gained, therefore, must be diligently guarded against loss (敬守勿失). In spite of the emphasis on the basic spontaneity of the Way, the diligent regulation of thoughts and impulses seems to represent a clear restriction of their spontaneous flow. As in the Yoga Sūtra, many formulations in Inward Training are ambiguous with regard to method and effect. Terms like “collect the mind” (摶心), “hold on to the one” (執一), and “guard the one and discard the myriad particularities” (守一棄萬苛) may be read as injunctions to concentrate on one thing and suppress everything else, and posterity has often read them this way. But they may also, and just as likely, be

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read as expressions of a unifying vision of the Way that includes but is not limited by all particular detail, including thoughts and impulses. The open awareness implied by terms such as “enlarge the mind” (大心) and “widen the energies” (寬氣) seems to point in the latter direction. This vision is primarily an effect of meditative practice, and it is unclear to what extent it has technical implications for the practice itself.

Pure Land: Between opposites The text called Casual Teachings on the Pure Land (淨土隨學) has in common with the Yoga Sūtra that its way of thinking ultimately originates in India, and with Inward Training that it is written in Chinese.44 It differs from both in being relatively recent, relatively unknown, and in having an identifiable author, the monk Yùfēng Gǔkūn (玉峯古崑), who died in 1892, and who associated himself with the Pure Land School of Buddhism.45 The text is a collection of poems, prefaces, and other brief writings on the virtues of this school, often in contrast to the more complex teachings of Chán (Zen) Buddhism or other Buddhist practices, even other Pure Land teachings. While most Buddhist practices ultimately aim to bring the practitioner out of the wheel of life and death, the more immediate goal of the Pure Land practices is to be reborn in the Pure Land of the West, presided over by Amitābha Buddha. Gǔkūn’s recommended practice focuses on the verbal recitation of Amitābha Buddha’s name (Nāmó Āmítuó fó 南無阿彌陀佛) accompanied by the use of a rosary to help counting the number of repetitions, usually recommending 60,000 repetitions as a daily assignment, increasing it to 100,000 repetitions a day during seven-day meditation retreats. This form of devotional recitation has much in common with the theistic practices of the Yoga Sūtra and The Cloud of Unknowing. Still, Buddhism has neither a personal god resembling the god of Christianity or Yoga, nor an impersonal core corresponding to the Way of Daoism. Amitābha Buddha is identified as an awakened person, not a god, though his omnipresence and supernatural powers are such that the difference is far from clear-cut, and his humanity by no means decreases his value as an object of devotion. The strong focus on rebirth in the Pure Land is reminiscent of Christian ideas of Paradise, and it actually plays a much more central role in the Pure Land texts than Paradise does in The Cloud of Unknowing. The ripe fruit of one’s practice will be had at the moment of death. In contrast to the other texts we have looked at, and most other Buddhist texts as well, Casual Teachings on the Pure Land is highly critical of those who actively seek to rid the mind of spontaneous (or, in Buddhist parlance, “deluded” 妄) thoughts. They are just as obsessed, we are told, as those who seek Chán awakening: Ever since I encountered the Pure School, I have often seen people reciting the name of the Buddha while either being obsessed with reaching awakening and thus blocking their mind or detesting deluded thoughts and thus filling their mind with worries. (p. 431c) 崑自學淨宗以來， 每見念佛之人， 或執著悟門， 意不開暢， 或惡嫌妄想， 心生憂愁。

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Gǔkūn insists that “even a multitude of digressive thoughts are no hindrance,”46 and that “you do not need to dispel deluded thoughts.”47 He encourages the practitioner to “stop detesting deluded thoughts as if they were thieves,”48 and to “give free rein to the thousands and ten thousands of thoughts.”49 He even presents a poem of twelve stanzas in which each stanza begins with the line “reciting the name in a messy way is full of effects,”50 indicating that digressions are no hindrance, and another poem of eight stanzas in which each stanza begins with the line “there is no need to be concerned about deluded thoughts.”51 In the latter poem, he suggests a mindful approach to such thoughts: “Just see what it [the thought] is.”52 While Gǔkūn is not the only Buddhist who criticizes the goal-orientation implied in ridding the mind of thoughts, he goes further than most in insisting that the presence of mind wandering is no obstacle to spiritual progress. Paradoxically, however, we also see in his text, as in almost all Buddhist texts on the subject, a strong concern with the assumed negative effects of mind wandering, as well as its connection with bad karma from previous lives. Gǔkūn complains that “the multitude of digressive thoughts is really lamentable, and thousands of schemes do not help to get rid of them,”53 and that “the mind is chaotic and in urgent need of smoothing out.”54 He repeatedly uses the image of the wandering mind as an untamed and seemingly untamable horse or monkey, bemoaning the fact that “the monkey of the mind and the horse of consciousness are utterly hard to stop.”55 The notion of mind wandering as a detrimental factor in the quest for spiritual progress is by no means absent from Gǔkūn’s way of thinking. This paradox in Gǔkūn’s ideas on mind wandering is made explicit in one of his poems. The first two stanzas deal with the negative effects of deluded thoughts, insisting that they are “the deep roots of calamity” (禍根深), which “often make practitioners fall into the river of love” (常害行人落愛河) and “lose their good karma” (失正因). The last two stanzas, however, hail deluded thoughts as an aspect of the “true mind” (真心), full of “glorious merit” (奇勳). While this ambiguity is in line with the philosophical nondualism typical of Mahāyāna Buddhism, Gǔkūn’s thinking is more practical. It is the recitation of the buddha’s name, we are told in the same poem, that has the power of “assimilating the deluded (thoughts) within the true (mind)” (攝妄歸真) (p. 433). As in other traditions, therefore, the key lies in the efficacy of the meditation object. We are told that “only the Amitābha phrase can restrain the mind,”56 that “uninterrupted recitation is the cause, and undistracted mental absorption is the effect,”57 and that even “lax recitation” (散稱) will make “the deluded thoughts lighter and lighter, and the sinful defilements fewer and fewer.”58 From this point of view, the mistake of many practitioners lies not so much in seeking mental absorption without digressive thoughts as in trying to do so by controlling the mind, and in thinking that such mental absorption is a precondition for proper practice rather than its result. Gǔkūn urges practitioners “not to seek mental absorption intentionally but to let it come spontaneously.” “How can you reach mental absorption by means of control? The mind cannot be controlled.”59 The solution lies in reciting the name of the buddha without interruption. Gǔkūn acknowledges that even proper practice does not always make the thoughts go away, that “even with the silent recitation of Amitābha Buddha they still do not

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cease,”60 and that “while one recites the name of the Buddha, the mind keeps thinking of other things, not stopping for a moment even after all kinds of suppression.”61 On a practical level, he meets this challenge by using a rosary to count the number of recitations (記數), with the additional effect of keeping the mind on the task without interruptions. In terms of doctrine, Gǔkūn repeatedly refers to his own version of a quote from the Lotus Sūtra, stating that “when the Buddha’s name is thrust into a chaotic mind, the chaotic mind becomes a buddha.”62 In other words, such recitation makes it possible to “enter the seed of buddhahood without cutting off the deluded mind.”63 This is what makes Pure Land practices superior to other practices, especially in our degenerated times: In our times, with few great practitioners and much karmic affliction, how many people are able to reach awakening and not give rise to deluded thoughts? (p. 432a) 當今之世，知識愈少，業障愈多，能開悟門，不起妄想，又能有幾人？

Gǔkūn thinks the ideal of emptying the mind of thoughts is unrealistic and therefore destructive: If I rely on undistracted mental absorption for a good rebirth, I have no way of achieving it in this life. If I rely on engendering faith and resolution, that seems more encouraging. Therefore, on seven-day retreats I always give myself the daily assignment of 100,000 repetitions of Amitābha as a basis for inspiring resolution, and I definitely avoid seeking undistracted mental absorption. (p. 442c) 要仗一心不亂， 方得往生， 今生決定不能。 若仗信願能生， 似可勉力。 是 故凡建七期，定十萬彌陀為日課，以作發願之本，決不求一心不亂。

There are signs that he hopes this will eventually reduce or remove the wandering mind if not earlier, then at least at the moment of death: At the moment of death, when the buddha-name is recited, and the rosary buds counted, all karmic afflictions disappear, pent-up impulses become smooth and clear, and great merit is achieved. (p. 434c) 畢命為期，佛一出音，珠一記數，塵累每銷，滯情融朗，功愈勝矣。

Even for Gǔkūn, therefore, freedom from thoughts seems to remain an ideal. However, in contrast to the suppression of thoughts in The Cloud of Unknowing and some Yoga traditions and the harmonization of thoughts in Inward Training, Gǔkūn tells the practitioner to let the thoughts pass freely, at most restraining them by counting the buds on a rosary, and to be unconcerned with the results of one’s practice, with whether or not the thoughts eventually go away.

Conclusion In all the four cases we have studied, there exist dualities in which spontaneous thoughts come out on the “wrong” side with regard to the meditative or contemplative

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project. The four cases differ from each other in what they are seeking, whether it be a personal deity like the Christian or Yogic god, an impersonal force like the Daoist Way, a higher self like the Yogic puruṣa, or rebirth in a paradisiacal realm like the Buddhist Pure Land of the West. The four cases also differ from each other regarding the nature and status of the dualities, from the strict dualism of the Christian tradition and Yoga to the so-called monistic views of early Daoism and the nondualism of Pure Land Buddhism. In all four cases, however, meditation is most often seen as a way of eventually putting the stream of thoughts to rest, and the constant flow of digressive thoughts is mostly viewed as an obstacle that must be overcome. The practical approaches to spontaneous thoughts differ both between the four cases and within each case. The tendency to fight or suppress the emergence of such thoughts is found in all four traditions, most pronounced in the Christian case and least so in the Pure Land thinking of Gǔkūn, though even in his case, the use of the rosary points in the direction of subtle suppression. However, suppression is not the only solution in any of the traditions. In the Christian case, the “scheme” of pretending that the thoughts are not there might perhaps qualify as a weak case of psychological denial, while the other “scheme,” whereby the meditator gives up the fight against the thoughts, seems to involve a reluctant acceptance of the presence of mind wandering. The Daoist approach is also semi-accepting of spontaneous thoughts and impulses, but insists on their moderation and regulation. More clearly accepting of spontaneous thoughts are the attempts at meeting them with various forms of mindful observation and analysis (in Buddhism and Yoga), with an open awareness that transforms the thoughts by including them in the field of awareness or simply without attempting what is seen as the futile and counterproductive endeavor of suppressing them. In all four traditions, there is a tendency to assume that the ideal state of mind has no mind wandering, and that the acceptance of thoughts is a preliminary tactic rather than the end point. There are, however, also voices insisting that the presence or absence of thoughts is not decisive, and that true liberation involves nonattachment both to thoughts and to the absence of thoughts. Note that Neo-Confucian meditation, which has not been discussed in this chapter, is sometimes explicit in not seeking a state without thoughts, reflecting its opposition to what it conceives as the Buddhist and Daoist tendencies to turn their back on the world.64 The comparison between these four traditions raises the question of the sources of the various cross-cultural similarities. The phenomenon of mind wandering is itself no doubt universal and may be linked to neurological and psychological features that are common to mankind. It is less easy, however, to pin down the sources of the skeptical attitudes toward mind wandering, as well as to the dualities between a phenomenal dimension to which mind wandering belongs and a non-phenomenal dimension situated at the core of the meditative quest in widely different traditions. Cultural constructivists may see these similarities as superficial and point to the significant differences between theistic and nontheistic approaches, between monistic, nondualistic, and dualistic views, and between different explanations for the emergence of mind wandering. Perennialists, on the other hand, may insist that it is the differences that are superficial, that all contemplative traditions (in contrast to some modern meditative approaches) ultimately attempt to get closer to a dimension beyond all

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phenomena, and that this accounts for the cross-cultural parallels in attitudes and methodology. By combining an interest in similarities and differences, I have tried to balance these two positions. From a modern psychological point of view, some of the various approaches to spontaneous thoughts in meditation may involve the suppression and possibly denial of psychological impulses. However, the absence of or nonattachment to thoughts aimed for by all four traditions may in no case be fully accounted for by psychological terminology related to defense mechanisms like suppression and denial. Though some of the contemplative methodologies involve much effort to start with, they have in common an assumption that once you have been through a certain inner transformation, no effort is necessary to keep thoughts (or the attachment to thoughts) away. This kind of transformation seems to belong to a realm not readily describable in standard psychological terms, perhaps relating to the non-phenomenal dimension discussed by perennialists. This is not to say, however, that there are not also points of convergence between psychology and meditation. Both Freudian or later psychodynamic schools and many meditative traditions see spontaneous thoughts and mind wandering as an expression of residuals from a past that still exercises its limiting influence on us. In our case, all the sources except perhaps Inward Training build at least partly on such a view. The treatment of neurotic traits in psychodynamic therapy may also be seen as an untying of knots that produce attachment. The use of free association to discover and release such knots may have things in common with meditation techniques that allow the passing of spontaneous thoughts rather than attempting to drive them away. In our material, such techniques are most obviously present in many a Pure Land Buddhism. The types of meditation that have been most popular in the West since the 1960s generally have a more accepting attitude toward mind wandering than what has been common in the various meditative traditions. This applies to Transcendental Meditation and the many other mantra- or sound-based techniques that became hugely popular at the beginning of this wave and which are still influential. It also applies to the breathand body-based techniques that are now most often associated with mindfulness meditation, but also with Zen, Vipassana, and various other Buddhist-inspired labels. As we have seen, this more accepting attitude has long roots in the traditions themselves, where it has coexisted with more unequivocally negative and suppressive attitudes for centuries or even millennia. Moreover, to judge by the Pure Land text, the increasing acceptance of mind wandering was already well on its way even before the twentieth-century modernized versions of meditation were developed and disseminated. Further studies of the late premodern development of other practices are necessary to determine whether or not this is a general tendency. Some of the differences in attitude that exist within the traditions continue to make their influence felt in modern discourses on meditation. In general, the mantra- and sound-based techniques tend to be most unequivocally accepting of mind wandering. While aiming to bring the practitioner to the “source of thought,” Transcendental Meditation allows spontaneous thoughts and impulses during meditation.65 Most other modern mantra- and sound-based techniques, including the biologically oriented Relaxation Response66 and the Christian practice of Centering Prayer,67 are

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also practiced with a high degree of acceptance of mind wandering, though without any explicit attempt at reaching the “source of thought.” In the psychologically oriented practice of Acem Meditation, mind wandering is not only accepted, but is seen as a resource helping the practitioner to release inner tension and set inner resources in motion.68 In contrast, the modern Buddhist-inspired breath- and body-based techniques tend to see the acceptance of mind wandering as a provisional means to ultimately enable the practitioner to “let go” of the impulses, hence keeping up the traditional aim of reducing the impact of distractive thoughts. To some extent, the neuroscientific discourse on mind wandering reflects these differences. The most skeptical views of mind wandering, related to its negative impact on mood and concentration, are often associated with studies on Mindfulness Meditation, sometimes in combination with cognitive psychology, and some of these studies argue that meditation reduces mind wandering and the corresponding brain activity. The more positive views of mind wandering, related to its beneficial impact on relaxation, heart function, and the processing of memories and emotions, are most often associated with sound-based forms of meditation, primarily Transcendental Meditation and Acem Meditation.69 This chapter has primarily focused on the traditional approaches to spontaneous thoughts in meditative practice. By doing so, however, I also hope to suggest that the modern discourses on mind wandering and its corresponding brain networks partly reflect issues with deep historical roots, and that these roots deserve much more thorough research.

Notes Chapter 1 1 On self-transformation, see Shulman and Stroumsa (2002). The ideas behind the notions moi social and moi profond (though not the terms themselves) are developed in Bergson (1888). 2 For a summary of trends that break with social, cultural, and linguistic constructivism, see Ferrer and Sherman (2008). 3 Kapstein (2004) carefully weighs the arguments concerning constructivism and its opposites in the study of religion, including issues like perennialism (which he rejects) and psychobiological factors (which he does not outright reject). While Kapstein focuses on religious experience, this volume focuses on meditative practice. 4 Cf. Eifring (2016b). 5 For a fascinating view of the long history of meditative modernity, see Baier (2009), which, however, has little to say about developments after 1960. Baier’s discussion of Buddhist practices focuses on Zen rather than the more recent interest in Vipassana and Mindfulness, and his treatment of popular sound-based forms of meditation is limited to very brief presentations of Transcendental Meditation, Ananda Marga, and Clinically Standardized Meditation, with no reference to Acem Meditation, the Relaxation Response, or other variants. 6 On multiple modernities, see Eisenstadt (2000). 7 On the problematic distinction between tradition and modernity, see Gusfield (1967).

Chapter 2 1 This is the definition in my book, Meditation Works (Kohn 2008a). There is no overall consensus on a working definition of meditation that is applicable to the multiplicity of heterogeneous practices called by this name. Scholars and scientists tentatively agree that meditation in general is a self-induced state that utilizes a clearly defined technique with a specific anchor of concentration and invokes muscles relaxation as well as the easing of logic and preconceived assumptions (Cardoso et al. 2004; Ospina et al. 2007: 9). Some also define it as a “family of self-regulating practices that aim to bring mental processes under voluntary control through focusing attention and awareness” (Walsh and Shapiro 2006). 2 See Begley (2007: 9, 151–52). In visualization the brain uses the same regions as in physical actions; it recreates the experience as if done physically (Ratey 2002: 147). For more details, see Epstein (1989), Korn and Johnson (1983), Samuels and Samuels (1975).

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3 On these methods, see Kohn (1989b). For more on the Five Sprouts, see Jackowicz (2006), Kohn (2008b: 155–57), Robinet (1989: 165–66, 1993: 176–78). 4 On this important text and its body vision, see Homann (1971), Kohn (1993: 181–88), Kroll (1996), Robinet (1993: 55–96). 5 Texts in the Daoist Canon are cited using the numbers in Komjathy (2002), Schipper, and Verellen (2004). 6 This is a variant version of the meditation on the Three Ones. See Andersen (1980), Kohn (1993: 204–14), Robinet (1993, ch. 4).

Chapter 3 1 Exx = Spiritual Exercises, no. 1 (with reference to the paragraph numbers found in most modern editions). There are different translations in English: Mullan (1914) (used here); Ganss (1992), Ivens (2004). 2 Exercitia spiritualia, Roma: Apud Antonium Bladum, 1548. This is the so-called versio Vulgata, the most commonly used Latin version. It was preceded by a first Latin translation (versio Prima), and by the Spanish original text (the Autograph, copy of 1544, but with additions until 1548). For the different early editions, especially of the Latin and Spanish, see Ignatius de Loyola (1919), p. 701 ff. and (1969), p. 721 ff. 3 For a good overview of this history, including modern meanings, see the article “Méditation” in the well-known Dictionnaire de spiritualité, vol. X, cols. 906–34. 4 Cf. Roth (2016). 5 Cf. Frohlich (2013). 6 See Eifring and Holen (2014: 1), Eifring (2016a). 7 There is a large literature on Nadal’s work, including several modern reprints: see Fabre (1992), Smith (2002), and Melion (2003, 2005). 8 Venturi (1913: 284). 9 The version of the Roman Archives of the Society of Jesus (ARSI, Jap. Sin. I, 187), which contains fifty-three illustrations, was reprinted in Standaert and Dudink (2002, vol. 3, pp. 527–82). 10 The illustrations of Nadal were also partly used as a model for another life of Christ, Adam Schall von Bell S. J. 湯若望 (1592–1666) Jìnchéng shūxiàng 進呈書像 (1640); see Standaert (2007a). 11 The Flemish translation of the Exercises has a note to this effect: cf. Rotsaert (1994). 12 Standaert (2007b). This article is strongly inspired by de Certeau (1973), Freedberg (1989), Fabre (1992), Melion (2003 and 2005). 13 Shin (2009). 14 The version of the Roman Archives of the Society of Jesus (ARSI, Jap. Sin. I, 81) was reprinted in Standaert and Dudink (2002, vol. 7, pp. 1–594). For the Chinese text and an annotated English translation, see Zürcher (2007). 15 Kǒuduó rìchāo, VI.9 (pp. 6a–b; Standaert and Dudink (2002: 397–98); Zürcher (2007, vol. 1, p. 486)). 16 Cf. Ganss (1992: 154–55); Dictionnaire de spiritualité, vol. X, cols. 919–20. 17 Kǒuduó rìchāo, IV.6 (p. 9a; Standaert and Dudink (2002: 271); Zürcher (2007, vol. 1, p. 395)); on reading books see also: VII.37 (pp. 29b–30a; Standaert and Dudink (2002: 514–15); Zürcher (2007, vol. 1, p. 565)).

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18 Kǒuduó rìchāo, VIII.21 (p. 22b; Standaert and Dudink (2002: 570); Zürcher (2007, vol. 1, p. 602)); see also VI.22 (p. 12b; Standaert and Dudink (2002: 410); Zürcher (2007, vol. 1, p. 496) where it is said that the words of Jesus can be savored: sī yǔ kěwèi yě 斯語可味也. 19 Kǒuduó rìchāo, IV.6 (pp. 9a–b; Standaert and Dudink (2002: 272); Zürcher (2007, vol. 1, pp. 395–96)); VIII.21 (p. 22b; Standaert and Dudink (2002: 570); Zürcher (2007, vol. 1, pp. 602)); Standaert (1999: 48–52). 20 In Lí Jìngdé (2007, vol. 1, pp. 181–89; vol. 2, pp. 434, 440, 501). 21 Kǒuduó rìchāo, VIII.35 (pp. 31a–34a; Standaert and Dudink (2002: 587–93); Zürcher (2007, vol. 1, pp. 613–14; with some changes); Hǎikǒu 海口, Monday, July 2, 1640. 22 Ganss (1992: 162). 23 Yēsū huìlì 耶穌會例 in Bibliothèque nationale de France: BnF, Chinois 7445; reprint in Standaert et al. (2009, vol. 22, pp. 1–186): see e.g. p. 95. 24 In Lí Jìngdé (2007, vol. 3, p. 800) (mòcún); vol. 5, 1649 (mòxiǎng). 25 Kohn (2008a, 128–29). See also the descriptions of cún and related terms, mostly by Kohn, in Pregadio (2008, 118–20, 287–89, 865, 902–03). See also on the Shàngqīng tradition in Robinet (1979, 81, 116, 163; Robinet translates cún as “to preserve,” “to maintain”, or “to fix”; English translation in Robinet 1993, 53, 74, 105). Cf. Komjathy (2007, 69, 190, 320). 26 See also Kohn (1987, 13 [introduction by I. Robinet], 152, 189). 27 On dhyāna, see Kohn (2008a, 40–43). 28 On jìngzuò, see Taylor (1979). 29 Kohn (2008a, 128). 30 Cf. Zürcher (2007, 487).

Chapter 4 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

Sedlmeier et al. (2012). Benson, Greenwood, and Klemchuk (1975). Cardoso et al. (2004) and Lutz et al. (2008). Davanger (2013), Nash and Newberg (2013), Thomas and Cohen (2014). Cahn and Polich (2006), Lutz et al. (2008), Xu et al. (2014). Eifring (2013), Eifring and Holen (2014). Cahn and Polich (2006), Ospina et al. (2007). Infante et al. (2001), Brook et al. (2013), Goyal et al. (2014), Park, Lyles, and Bauer-Wu (2014). Sood and Jones (2013), Josipovic (2014). Brook et al. (2013), Goyal et al. (2014). Segal, Williams, and Teasdale (2012). Eberth and Sedlmeier (2012). Khoury et al. (2013). Ospina et al. (2007). Cardoso et al. (2004). Ospina et al. (2007). Ospina et al. (2007). Craven (1989).

220 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35

36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61

Notes Cardoso et al. (2004). Cardoso et al. (2004). Xu et al. (2014). Eifring and Holen (2014). Killingsworth and Gilbert (2010). Josipovic (2014). Mason et al. (2007). Josipovic (2014). Buckner, Andrews-Hanna, and Schacter (2008). Killingsworth and Gilbert (2010). Berman et al. (2011). Ospina et al. (2007). Brewer et al. (2011), Sood and Jones (2013), Taylor et al. (2013). Josipovic (2013). Josipovic (2013). Josipovic (2014). Benson, Greenwood, and Klemchuk (1975), Carrington et al. (1980), Carrington (1998), Ospina et al. (2007), Davanger et al. (2010), Travis and Shear (2010), and Xu et al. (2014). Ellingsen and Holen (2008), Lutz et al. (2008), Davidson (2010), Xu et al. (2014). McMillan, Kaufman, and Singer (2013), Ottaviani, Shapiro, and Couyoumdjian (2013), and Josipovic (2014). Eifring and Holen (2014). Manocha et al. (2011). Benson, Greenwood, and Klemchuk (1975), Carrington et al. (1980), Carrington (1998), Ospina et al. (2007), Davanger et al. (2010), Travis and Shear (2010). Xu et al. (2014). Xu et al. (2014). Lutz et al. (2008). Manna et al. (2010), Brewer et al. (2011). Manna et al. (2010). Brewer et al. (2011). Hasenkamp et al. (2012). Lutz et al. (2008). Brewer et al. (2011). Manna et al. (2010), Brewer et al. (2011). Manna et al. (2010). Brewer et al. (2011). Lazar et al. (2000), Hölzel et al. (2007), Engström et al. (2010), Manna et al. (2010), Travis et al. (2010), Brewer et al. (2011), Sood and Jones (2013), Xu et al. (2014). Nash and Newberg (2013). Davidson (1977). Lutz et al. (2008). Cahn and Polich (2006), Davanger et al. (2010), Travis and Shear (2010), Josipovic (2010, 2013, 2014), and Xu et al. (2014). Travis and Shear (2010). Josipovic (2010). Xu et al. (2014). Lazar et al. (2000), Engström et al. (2010), Travis et al. (2010), and Xu et al. (2014).

Notes 62 63 64 65 66 67 68

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Davanger et al. (2013), Nash and Newberg (2013), Thomas and Cohen (2014). Ospina et al. (2007). Ospina et al. (2007). Brook et al. (2013), Goyal et al. (2014). Brook et al. (2013). Thomas and Cohen (2014). Nash and Newberg (2013).

Chapter 5 1 This chapter is dedicated to the memory of John McRae. It first appeared as an article in Philosophy East and West vol. 64 no. 4 (October 2014) pp. 933–64. Earlier drafts of this chapter were presented at the conference on “Cultural Histories of Meditation,” University of Oslo, May 12–16, 2010, and the conference on “Buddhism and Daoism,” Princeton University, October 8–10, 2010. My thanks to the participants of those conferences for their comments and suggestions. Thanks also to Carl Bielefeldt, Erik Braun, Jacob Dalton, Florin Deleanu, Alexander von Rospatt, Elizabeth Horton Sharf, and Alberto Todeschini for their astute suggestions and criticisms. Texts in the Taishō shinshū daizōkyō 大正新修大藏經, edited by Takakusu Junjirō 高楠順次郎 and Watanabe Kaigyoku 渡邊海旭 (Tokyo: Taishō Issaikyō Kankōkai, 1924–32), are indicated in the Notes below by the text number (“T. ———:”) followed by the volume, page, register (a, b, or c), and line number(s). 2 The literature is vast; on modern Japanese Zen and Korean Sŏn meditation practice in English see, for example, Buswell (1992) and Hori (2000, 2003). On the history of these practices see Bielefeldt (1988), Buswell (1987), Collcutt (1981), Foulk (1993), and Schlütter (2008). 3 Modern Chán training in China and Taiwan is no more reliable a witness to medieval practice. Chán monastic practice had to be reconstructed largely from scratch at several points in Chinese history, including the early Ming, the late Qing and the Republican Periods, and most recently following the Cultural Revolution. The practices of modern Korean Sŏn are shaped by recent renewal movements that reconstructed “authentic” Sŏn monastic life on the basis of Song dynasty monastic codes and living Japanese models. 4 By early Chán lineage texts I am thinking of the Record of the Transmission of the Dharma Treasure (Chuán fǎbǎo jì 傳法寶紀), the Record of Masters and Disciples of the Lankāvatāra (Léngqié shīzī jì 楞伽師資記), the Record of the Successive Generations of the Dharma Treasure (Lìdài fǎbǎo jì 歴代法寶記), and so on. 5 On Dàoxuān’s reports of the competing Chán lineages of his day see esp. Chen (2002) and Greene (2008). On Zōngmì see esp. Broughton (2009), and Jan (1972). 6 T.2015: 48.399a24. David Chappell noted this some time ago; see Chappell (1983: 99). 7 Among those who take this approach, see Donner (1977), Faure (1991), Foulk (1993), Gómez (1987: 119), and McRae (1986). 8 T.2015: 48.401b8-11; Kamata (1971: 59). 9 T.2015: 48.403c20-21; Kamata (1971: 116). 10 Yanagida (1971: 380); trans. McRae (1986: 262) with changes.

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11 T.2007: 48.345a21-25, Yampolsky (1967: 二十九); trans. Yampolsky (1967: 181–82) with changes. 12 T.2007: 48.338b23-29, Yampolsky (1967: 六); trans. Yampolsky (1967: 137) with changes. The quotation is from the Vimalakīrtinirdeśa-sūtra (Wéimójié suǒshuō jīng 維摩詰所說經), T.475: 14.539c19-25. 13 Hu Shi (1968: 116–17); see also idem 133–34, 136–37, and Gómez (1987: 80–81, 145 n. 52). The embedded quotation is from the apocryphal Dharmapada (Fǎjù jīng 法句經, T.2901: 85.1435a21-22), which is believed to date to the first half of the seventh century. The same passage is also cited in the Record of the Successive Generations of the Dharma Treasure (Lìdài fǎbǎo jì 歴代法寶記, T.2075:51.183a23; Yanagida 1976: 108), as well as in Zōngmì’s Introduction to a Collection of Materials on the Sources of Chán (T.2015: 48.405b29; Kamata 1971: 145). At first sight, the passage may seem ambiguous; but note that the phrase “the mind following the flow of objects” 心隨境界流 is found in the sixth fascicle of Śikṣānanda’s translation of the Laṅkāvatārasūtra (Dàshèng rù Léngqié jīng 大乘入楞伽經, T.672: 16.625a29): “The mind follows the flow of sense objects, like iron drawn to a lodestone” 心隨境 界流，如鐵於磁石. The valence of this term would seem to be negative, referring to the inability to control or discipline the mind, which is at the mercy of the senses. 14 See Bielefeldt (1988), Faure (1991), and McRae (1988). 15 On early Chinese meditation techniques, see Greene (2012) and Zacchetti (2003, 2008). 16 Pace Foulk, I am placing the origins of “large-C Chán” in the eighth century. This represents a compromise between those scholars who insist that Chán only takes institutional shape some two centuries later in the Song period, and those who would give some credence to the Bodhidharma legend, which would place the beginnings of Chán in the fifth or sixth century. The eight century is when the notion of Chán as a distinct lineage with its own unique approach to Buddhist literature and teaching is first clearly articulated in lineage texts such as the Record of Masters and Disciples of the Laṅkāvatāra, Record of the Successive Generations of the Dharma Treasure, and so on. The early Chán materials to be discussed below all date to this period. 17 Note the degree to which the influential Chán meditation manual Instructions for Seated Meditation (Zuòchán yí 坐禪儀) by Chánglú Zōngzé 長蘆宗賾 (appended to the Chányuàn qīngguī 禪苑淸規) was based on the widely disseminated Tiāntāi manual Shorter Calming and Discernment (Xiǎo zhǐguān 小止觀) by Tiāntāi Zhìyǐ 天台智顗 (538–97); see Bielefeldt (1988). 18 See, for example, T.2015: 48.405b21ff., where Zōngmì cites passages from Awakening of Faith, the Vajrasamādhi-sūtra, the [apocryphal] Dharmapada, the Vimalakīrti-sūtra, and so on. 19 See, for example, the Record of the Successive Generations of the Dharma Treasure: “The various Hīnayāna dhyānas and the sāmadhi methods are not the tenets of the school of the ancestral master [Bodhi]dharma. Examples of such practices are those called the white bone contemplation, counting breaths contemplation, nine visualizations contemplation, five cessations of the mind contemplation, sun contemplation, moon contemplation, tower contemplation, pond contemplation, and the buddha contemplation.” 諸小乘禪及諸三昧門。不是達摩祖師宗旨。列名如 後。白骨觀。數息觀。九相觀。五停觀。日觀。月觀。樓臺觀。池觀。佛觀 (T.2075:51.183a11-13; trans. Adamek 2007: 326 with changes). The Record goes on to explain that these Hīnayāna practices are mere expedients—antidotes to mundane

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problems encountered by practitioners—and that the visions that accompany such practices are “empty delusion.” As such, these practices are not authentic chán. The term shǒu xīn is believed to be related to shǒu yì 守意, shǒu yī 守一, and so on. There is a large literature on these practices; on the Buddhist usage, see, for example, Buswell (1989: 137–57), Faure (1986: 112–14), McRae (1986: 138–44), and Sharf (2002a, 182–84). For reasons that will become clear below, it is often difficult to discern precisely what these practices entailed or whether there were meaningful differences between them. The phrase wú suǒ niàn 無所念 is ambiguous; it could be read as “nothing on which to reflect,” “to reflect on the absence of an object,” “to reflect without a locus,” and so on. The actual quote in the scripture is “All buddha-tathāgatas are the bodies of the dharma realm. They enter into the minds of all living beings. Therefore when you contemplate the buddha, this very mind is identical with the thirty-two major marks and the eighty secondary attributes [of the buddha’s body]. This mind produces Buddha. This mind is Buddha.” 諸佛如來是法界身，遍入一切眾生心想中。是故 汝等心想佛時，是心即是三十二相、八十隨形好。是心作佛，是心是佛 (Guān Wúliàngshòufó jīng 觀無量壽佛經, T.365: 12.343a19-21). T.2837: 85.1287a-1288b; Yanagida (1971: 192–225); cf. Chappell (1983: 108 and 114–15). The Satipaṭṭhāna-sutta (Majjhima-nikāya 10) and Mahāsatipaṭṭhāna-sutta (Dīgha-nikāya 22); cf. the Chinese Niàn chù jīng 念處經 (T.26: 1.582b-584c). On Ledi Sayādaw see esp. Braun (2008); on Mingun Sayādaw see Houtman (1997: 311). On Mahāsī’s pivotal role in the Burmese lay meditation movement see Jordt (2007). Braun believes that the lay orientation can be traced back to Ledi who was influenced by, among others, his mentor Hpo Hlaing, a layperson working in the court environment. Hpo Hlaing wrote two books on meditation with a lay audience in mind: Taste of Liberation (Vimuttirasa, 1871) and the Meditation on the Body (Kāyanupassanā, 1874). According to Braun, these works “reveal specific developments in the use of meditation as a tool for dealing with the modern world and Western knowledge that connect to Ledi’s presentation of meditation, including a concern for a wide, lay readership and a concern to show meditation’s relevance to knowledge about the world” (Braun 2008: 64). Indeed, Ledi believed that laypersons were capable of advanced stages on the path, that enlightenment was possible in this very lifetime, and that a layperson who follows a pure life “can be called a bhikkhu, even though he is just a normal layperson” (Braun 2008: 338). Mingun Sayādaw may have established the first meditation center open to laypersons as well as monastics (Houtman 1997: 311). The secondary literature on the “Mahāsī method” is vast. On the complex doctrinal issues surrounding Mahāsī’s method see esp. Cousins (1996), as well as the references in note 28 below. On the influence of the Mahāsī method in contemporary Thai monastic and lay practice see Cook (2010); for its influence in Nepal see LeVine and Gellner (2005). In the brief discussion on the meaning of sati/smṛti that follows I am particularly indebted to Gethin (1992: 36–44); see also Anālayo (2003), Gyatso (1992), Kuan (2008), Nyanaponika (1976: 68–72), and Shulman (2010). The relationship between premodern versus modern notions of sati has recently become a subject of considerable discussion and debate; see, for example, the special 2011 issue

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Notes of Contemporary Buddhism on the topic “Mindfulness: diverse perspectives on its meaning, origins, and multiple applications at the intersection of science and dharma,” from which I found the articles by Bodhi, Dreyfus, Dunne, and Gethin particularly useful. Saṃyutta-nikāya, Feer (1898: 197–98); trans. Gethin (1992: 36). Milindapañha 37–38; trans. Gethin (1992: 37–38). Visuddhimagga XIV, 141; trans. Gethin (1992: 40). On the relationship between smṛti as memory and smṛti as mindfulness, see also Cox (1992). The notion of a nonconceptual state of consciousness was the subject of considerable discussion in the later scholastic tradition, as it was by no means easy to square with earlier systems of Buddhist thought (see Deleanu n.d.). One problem was how to disambiguate states of “non-conceptualization” from states in which there is simply no cognition whatsoever, such as nirodha-samāpatti and, perhaps, nirvāṇa (Sharf 2014). The complex relationship between direct sense perception (pratyakṣa) and conceptuality (vikalpa) was also a topic of debate among those interested in logic (pramāṇa); the notion of “self-awareness” (or “reflexive awareness,” svasaṃvedana, svasaṃvitti), which is usually traced back to Dignāga (but see Yao 2005), may have emerged in part as a strategy to link the two. The literature on the mature systems of Buddhist logic and epistemology—particularly the systems that trace back to Dignāga and Dharmakīrti—is vast, but see esp. Arnold (2005, 2012), Coseru (2012), Dreyfus (1997), Hattori (1968), Matilal (1986), and Williams (1998), and the excellent collection of articles in the Journal of Indian Philosophy 38, no. 2 (2010). Dunne (2011) includes an excellent discussion of the role of nonconceptual cognition in Dzogchen, along with reflections on its relationship with modern notions of mindfulness. Some recent findings in cognitive neuroscience seem to resonate with classical Buddhist “intentional” models; see Varela, Thompson, and Rosch (1991). The closest thing in early Buddhist psychology to a “raw feel” might be sparśa or “contact” (Pali: phassa, chù 觸), but properly speaking sparśa is not a conscious event so much as a subliminal or preconscious stage in the temporal emergence of a moment of cognition. Some have argued that the emphasis on bare or nonjudgmental awareness should be understood pragmatically; in other words, it is part of an instruction set intended to bring about a particular cognitive state, and does not entail commitment to a theoretical or epistemological position (Bodhi 2011). However, while those trained in Theravāda Abhidharma may subscribe to such a distinction, I suspect that most lay teachers and practitioners, particularly in the West, understand the practice in decidedly “perennialist” terms. In other words, they believe the goal of mindfulness practice is a “state of consciousness” that is unmediated and unconstructed and thus universal (transcultural and transhistorical). This universality is needed to underwrite the claim that the practice of mindfulness is not sectarian or indeed even “religious” (Sharf 1995). For traditionalist critiques see the overview and bibliography in Sharf (1995: 262–65). The appropriateness of “bare attention” as a way to understand sati is the subject of a dialogue between Alan Wallace and Bhikkhu Bodhi (Wallace and Bodhi 2006).

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39 On the rather obscure figure Fù Xī 傅翕 (a.k.a. Fù Dàshì 傅大士, 497–569) see Hsiao (1995: 50–224), Yanagida (1971: 236), and Zhang (2000). A text attributed to him, the Shànhuì Dàshì lù 善慧大士錄 (edited 1143; Dai nippon zokuzōkyō 大日本續藏經 no. 1335 [vol. 69 in the 1968 Taipei reprint edition]), while celebrating Fù Xī’s meditative achievements, contains little with regard to actual meditation technique. 40 Elsewhere I have argued that to do so would be to misconstrue the rhetorical import of “subjective experience”; see Sharf (1998). 41 The notion that Fù Xī invented the revolving bookcase is no doubt apocryphal, but still conveys something about the popular perceptions of this famous layman. On the origins of the revolving bookcase see Goodrich (1942), Guo (1999), Hsiao (1995: 110–11), and Schopen (2005). 42 Much has been written on these terms. The phrase “the mind is in essence free of reflection” (xīn tǐ lí niàn 心體離念) is found in the Awakening of Faith (T.1666: 32.576b12). The term líniàn is used in a variety of materials associated with Northern Chán, including the Dàshèng wúshēng fāngbiàn mén 大乘無生方便門 (T.2834, T.2839); see Zeuschner (1983: 146 n. 2). Note that Northern School texts prefer líniàn, while the texts associated with the Southern School prefer wúniàn. 43 Attributed to Bodhidharma (Stein no. 5619; Giles no. 5847); this has been reproduced in the Taishō canon: T.2831: 85.1269a17-1270a28; for a recent critical edition see App (1995) (cf. the earlier edition in Suzuki 1968–71:2.216-19). An overview of contemporary scholarship on the Wúxīn lùn can be found in Shinohara and Tanaka (1980: 193–98); see also the Japanese translation and study in Yanagida (1978: 64–66, 80–91). 44 The Ox-head lineage was closely associated with Chinese traditions of Mādhyamaka exegesis; see esp. McRae (1983). 45 T.2831: 85.1269a25-b13; trans. App (1995: 34–45) with changes. 46 T.2831: 85.1269b20-23; cf. App (1995: 44–45). 47 T.2831: 85.1269c16-19; cf. App (1995: 55–56). 48 Six manuscript copies of this text were recovered from Dūnhuáng. An edition of the Treatise on Cutting off Discernment, along with Japanese and English translations, can be found in Tokiwa and Yanagida (1973). See also the overview of the extensive scholarship on the text in McRae (1983: 171–75). 49 Tokiwa and Yanagida (1973: 八七a-b). 50 Tokiwa and Yanagida (1973: 九四b). 51 Yampolsky (1967: 七-八); trans. Yampolsky (1967: 139–40) with changes. 52 Edition from McRae (1986: 十四), cf. McRae (1986: 130–31). There are nine different manuscripts and one printed Korean edition of this text. For textual information see the detailed analysis in McRae (1986: 309–12 n. 36). 53 The mirror analogy has been explored in depth by a number of scholars, rendering it unnecessary to rehearse their findings here. See, for example, Demiéville (1987), McRae (1986: 144–47), Gómez (1987), and Wayman (1974).

Chapter 6 1 This chapter is closely related to an article in Chinese on the same topic (Yang 2012). The English version has been prepared by Ari Borrell, with some modifications by

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Notes the editor. The term zhǔ jìng, translated here as the “practice of reverence” has also been rendered into English as “holding fast to seriousness,” “residing in reverence,” “abiding in reverent-serious,” “inner mental attentiveness,” etc. A literal translation of the Chinese might be “making reverent-seriousness fundamental.” The term “practice of quietude” (主靜; also romanized zhǔ jìng) might also be translated as “holding to quietude,” “abiding in quietude,” “regarding quietude as fundamental.” In each case, the word “quietude” might be rendered by terms like “quiescence,” “tranquility,” or “stillness.” The term “quiet-sitting” (jìng-zuò) is commonly used to refer to meditative practice in the Neo-Confucian tradition but in some instances I have taken the liberty of translating it simply as “meditation.” The pre-Qin classics include Confucian and other classics written between the eighth century BCE and the unification of China by the Qin dynasty in 221 BCE. The phrase “preserving the mind and nourishing the nature” refers to a basic mode of Confucian self-cultivation and usually refers to cultivating the mind in its quiescent state. “Whenever Chéng Yí saw someone practicing quiet-sitting he would sigh and praise them as excellent students. The word ‘quietude’ (jìng) began with Zhōu Dūnyí’s notion of ‘taking quietude as fundamental.’ After Zhōu, the Chéng disciples transmitted the teaching of quiet-sitting. The Chéng school students Luó Cóngyán (羅從彥 1072–1135) and Lǐ Tóng (李侗 1093–1163) in particular recommended this practice and their students indeed benefitted from it.” Chén Báishā (1979, ch. 3, p. 539). Relevant texts are contained in Yang Rur-bin (ms) and will not be cited here. In Neo-Confucianism, “principle” is the “pattern,” “coherent order,” or “rationale” of the cosmos. It is present in everything including the mind, things, events, and human relationships. The English term “pattern” is sufficient to refer to lǐ as the principles underlying the natural order. However, in Neo-Confucianism, the term frequently carries a strong moral connotation and so, in some instances I have translated it as “moral principle” or “ethical principle.” There is no doubt that the teaching to “observe the state before the emotions of happiness, anger, sadness and joy arise” originated in the Chéng school. In my view, this method originated with Chéng Hào rather than Chéng Yí. At the very least, Chéng Yí’s mature thought emphasized the practice of reverence and the comprehension of principle (zhǔ jìng qióng lǐ 主敬窮理). So, while he continued to be concerned with the issues surrounding the unperturbed state of the mind and the arising of the emotions, his understanding of it had diverged from the approach that advocated the direct realization of the ground of the mind. On Chéng Yí’s views see Móu Zōngsān (1979, vol. 2, pp. 350–85). Zhū Xī (2000, vol. 8, ch. 85, p. 4203). Transl. Tsai (2009: 1). Zhū Xī (2000, vol. 5, ch. 51, p. 2367). On Zhū Xī’s method of quiet-sitting see Yanagawa (1717–18). Yanagawa was an Edo period scholar in the Zhū Xī school. “Xùn ménrén 8 訓門人八,” Lí Jìngdé (2007, ch. 120, p. 2885). See Azuma Jūji (2004: 416–43). Lí Jìngdé (2007), ch. 120, p. 2885. As a youth, Zhū’s approach to learning was one of intensive, unrelenting effort. Driving himself on in this fashion he commented that he had “developed a disease of the mind.” His teacher Lǐ Tóng 李侗 had advised him to “observe the [mind in its

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unperturbed] state before the emotions of happiness, anger, sadness and joy arise” in quiet-sitting. Zhū did not leave us a diary of his early years, but we know that he then had a strong interest in Buddhism and Daoism. It is possible that he had made attempts to practice meditation or follow Lǐ Tóng’s advice but with negative results. In actual experience the attempt to practice quiet-sitting may yield unexpected results. For instance, as youths, Itō Jinsai 伊藤仁齋 (1627–1705) and Yán Yuán 顏元 (1635–1704) had practiced quiet-sitting in accordance with Chéng-Zhū teachings. Yet both had negative experiences that resulted in a serious loss of mental and emotional composure. It is likely that both men had misunderstood the ChéngZhū instructions on quiet-sitting, but in the author’s view, any attempt to enhance the capabilities of the mind through quiet-sitting always has the danger of actually producing a disordered psychological condition. Successful or deleterious results will depend on the approach the student takes to the practice. Note the following observations by Hú Jūrén (1966, ch. 7, p. 9b): “What heterodox teachings [i.e., Buddhism or Daoism] call preserving the mind (cún xīn 存心) are of two types: One is to observe the mind as if there is a single, discrete object always present within it. The other is to eliminate thought, destroy all its contents, and make the mind empty so that it no longer interacts with the outside world.” In the first instance, Hú criticizes the Buddhist approach for splitting off the knowing subject from itself as object. The second criticism refers to the attempt to destroy the natural and vital operation of the mind. Similar critiques of Buddhist and Daoist techniques of meditation can be found throughout the writings of Chéng-Zhū scholars. “Reply to Fāng Bīnwáng 3” in Zhū Xī (2000, vol. 6, ch. 2687). Zhū Xī’s letters to Fāng Bīnwáng 方賓王 contain many criticisms of the doctrine of “knowing the mind.” This probably reflects Fāng’s strong attraction to the teachings of the Húnán school. The practice of cultivating the “sprouts” or “beginnings” [of moral virtue in human nature] (duānní 端倪) during quiet-sitting was later famously advocated by Chén Báishā, the founder of the Jiāngmén school. But Zhū had already used the term in his critique of the Húnán school: “There are those who speak of [sudden] ‘enlightenment’ and those who speak of the ‘sprouts.’ ” “Those who speak of enlightenment refers to the Lù Xiàngshān school; those who speak of the sprouts refers to the Húnán school.” See Lí Jìngdé (2007, ch. 124, p. 2895). The “southern transmission” refers to the transmission of the Chéng school teachings to Southern China after the invasion and occupation of the North by the Jurchen in 1126. On this exchange see Chan (1963: 565). From my readings, Móu Zōngsān has the clearest analysis of the Chéng-Lǚ exchange. But Móu’s analysis is strongly colored by his own intellectual style, and this should be taken into account. On Zhū’s views of Lǚ Dàlín and Yáng Shí see his “Zhōng yōng huò wèn 中庸或問,” in Zhào Shùnsūn (1972: 34, 36). Lí Jìngdé (2007, ch. 104, p. 2616). In some instances Zhū’s comments on Lǐ Tóng’s method of self-cultivation contained light criticisms as in the two following examples: 1. “[Zhū Xī’s student] Chún asked: ‘How is Lǐ Tóng’s attempt to “observe” the mind in its unperturbed state the same or different from Yáng Shí’s teaching to “experience directly” the unperturbed state?’ Zhū answered: ‘They are both flawed. The phrase “to experience directly” involves the thought process; this means that the mind has already entered its active phase. As to “observing” the mind, this involves an active effort of the will

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Notes and intention and so also refers to the active phase of the mind.’ [Chún] asked ‘Even if “to experience directly” requires an effort of the will to observe [the unperturbed state of the mind] can’t one find a sense of composure in this way?’ Zhū replied: ‘Then this would be to “observe” without observing.’ ” 2. “Someone asked Master Lǐ Tóng the purpose of seeking out ‘equilibrium’ by experiencing the state before the emotions of happiness, anger, sadness and joy have arisen. He replied: ‘It is in order to apprehend the prevailing spiritual condition [of the unperturbed state].’ [Lǐ] further explained: ‘If you hold on to it for a long time you will indeed see this spiritual condition.’ Zhū Xī commented: ‘These exchanges give the general sense of Lǐ Tóng’s approach. If you constantly practice like this nothing further will come of it.’ ” See Lǐ Tóng (1936: 38–39). Zhū Xī (2000, vol. 7, ch. 73, pp. 3703–05). Translation follows Chan (1963: 523). Translation follows Chan (1963: 531, sec. 13). For a discussion of “Zhū Xī’s charge that the Buddhists mistake the psycho-physical functions for the nature” see Gregory (1991: 297–311). Here, Neo-Confucians are criticizing the antinomian implications of what they understood to be the Chán Buddhist position: If all actions of the body and mind (function) were simply direct expressions of the intrinsically enlightened, trans-moral buddha-nature (nature), there would be no basis for placing moral and ethical restraints on conduct. For example Liú Zōngzhōu said: “To abide in quietude (zhǔ jìng) is reverence (jìng). When you say ‘abide in reverence’ (zhǔ jìng) the word ‘abide’ (zhǔ) is superfluous.” See Huáng Zōngxī (1974: 47); Lǐ Guāngdì (李光地 1642–1718) also commented: “The effort to abide in reverence is itself simply the practice of abiding in quietude.” (Lǐ Guāngdì 1983, ch. 19, p. 5). The [outward] expressions of the human body cannot possibly be purely physiological in nature since from its earliest stages it reflects the symbols that are part of all human interaction. It also manifests the standards of society. See discussions on this point in Mead (1992: 202–40, 262–76). Both quotes are from Lí Jìngdé (2007, ch. 12, p. 200). Both quotes are from Lí Jìngdé (2007, ch. 12, p. 201). Trans. Gardner (1990, 164/6:9). Lí Jìngdé (2007, ch. 12, p. 200). Lí Jìngdé (2007, ch. 12, p. 206). Lí Jìngdé (2007, ch. 12, p. 219). Lí Jìngdé (2007, ch. 116, p. 2788). Lí Jìngdé (2007, ch. 12, p. 211). Lí Jìngdé (2007, ch. 12, p. 211). Lí Jìngdé (2007, ch. 12, p. 208). Zhū Xī (2000, vol. 5, ch. 47, p. 2128). Zhū Xī (2000, vol. 5, ch. 50, p. 2316). Lí Jìngdé (2007, ch. 8, p. 133). Lí Jìngdé (2007, ch. 12, p. 206). Lí Jìngdé (2007, ch. 12, p. 213). Northrop (1972: 246–312). In this book Northrop makes many over-generalizations and his discussion of Buddhism and Daoism puts too much emphasis on the aesthetic component so that he is unable to address the issues surrounding selfcultivation practice. But his views on the holistic or organic aspect of the two religions are insightful.

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48 Zhuāngzǐ 莊子, “Dà zōng shī 大宗師.” 49 This phrase is found in Yǒngjiā chánshī zhèng dào gē 永嘉禪師證道歌 [The Song of Enlightenment by Chán master Yǒngjiā Xuánjué (永嘉玄覺 665–713)]. Such language is common in Buddhist texts in general and is even more common in Chán works but I will not pursue this in detail here. 50 With regard to the sentence “Consciousness is an aspect of the diffusion process of the transformation of qì,” this theory is heavily influenced by Daoism and NeoConfucianism. Neo-Confucians often discuss mind in terms of psychophysical energy or qì. A well-known example is Zhū Xī’s definition of the mind as the “qì in its most spiritually intelligent form.” Although Zhuāngzǐ never clarified the relationship between the mind and qì, his notions of the “free and liberated mind” (yóu xīn 遊心), the “free and flowing qi” (yóu qì 遊氣), and “allowing the mind to wander in simplicity” (yóu xīn yú dàn 遊心於淡) may be said to refer the state in which “one’s qì is blended with the vastness [of the cosmos]” (hé qì yú mò 合氣於漠). This theory of mind and its relationship to qì has yet to receive much scholarly attention and remains a topic awaiting further exploration. 51 From Zhū Xī’s commentary on the Analects 1:12. 52 See Yang Rur-bin (1996, ch. 1). 53 Zhāng Zǎi (1978, ch. 3, p. 44). Transl. Chan (1963: 516, sec. 62). 54 See “Xùn ménrén 6” in Lí Jìngdé (2007, ch. 118, p. 2847). 55 Literally “self-legislating moral knowledge.” 56 See Gǔ Qīngměi (2004) and Yang Rur-bin (2005). 57 The two forms of self-cultivation are similar in this respect. Both are concerned with a transcendent or quasi-transcendent realization (of the mind), but in the practice of reverence such a realization is not seen as actualizing the complete potentiality of the mind. 58 See Yang (2002). 59 Whitehead (1989: 12). 60 Transl. Jen (1970: 59). 61 Here I borrow the language of Wáng Yángmíng (chief exponent of the School of Mind during the Ming dynasty), except that, when he used it, he was criticizing the Chéng-Zhū tradition of “worldly Confucians.” My use of the phrase “incomplete” or “indirect” to represent the Chéng-Zhū critique of the School of Mind is thus the reverse of Wang’s usage. The translation of yǐ fèi zhuǎn shǒu 已費轉手 is taken from Julia Ching in Huáng Zōngxī (1987: 106). 62 Chan (1988) calls the substance—function doctrine the “intellectual paradigm” of Neo-Confucian thought. 63 Huáng Gàn (1983, ch. 36, p. 41), transl. Chan (1989: 4). 64 In my recent reading of materials pertaining to the poet, painter, and calligrapher Hé Shàojī (何紹基 1799–1873) one can find similar examples in the daily lives of two people to whom he was intimately related. One was his father, the calligrapher and painter Hé Línghàn (何凌漢 1772–1840), who is described as follows: “He is always dignified and reverent, sits upright, is never rushed or hurried, and always adopts a reverent demeanor when seated alone. Even when pressed upon to write calligraphy he will always stop and think it over, sit up straight, and only then begin to write. He painted portraits of Mr. Zhèng, Master Zhōu, the Masters Chéng, Master Zhāng, and Master Zhū and hung them on the walls of his study gazing at them with reverence morning and night. The solemn atmosphere of his home was praised throughout his time.” (Lǐ Yuándù [1965], vol. 3, ch. 24, p. 21a.) The second

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Notes example is the statesman, general, and scholar Zēng Guófān (曾國藩 1811–72) who set up a daily regimen for himself that read: 1. The practice of reverence: With rectitude and solemnity, at all times maintain a sense of trepidation. When not engaged with affairs the mind should be centred in the abdomen, when responding to affairs keep the mind concentrated and undistracted. 2. Quiet-sitting: In your daily practice you need not restrict yourself to any specific time. When the opportunity presents itself, sit in utmost quietude and embody the mind of benevolence as the yáng energies come to life and return to the origin. Make your posture correct and solemnly conform to the cosmic ordinances, like an upturned cauldron.

See Zēng Guófān (1995, ch. 4, p. 60). Neither Hé Línghàn nor Zēng Guófān can be considered Neo-Confucian philosophers in the strict sense but both men were mainstream intellectuals steeped in Neo-Confucian spiritual culture and its values. Their daily conduct is representative of a life lived in a world thoroughly permeated by the Neo-Confucian spirit.

Chapter 7 1 I am grateful to participants at the 1st International Conference on Ganhwa Seon at Dongguk University, Seoul, in August 2010, in particular Robert Buswell, Misan Sunim, and Ryan Bongseok Joo, for their useful comments on an early version of this chapter. I have also profited from responses at other similar occasions, including lectures at the Dharma Drum Buddhist College in Taiwan in 2010 and the biannual meeting of the European Association of Chinese Studies in 2012, as well as comments from Gunnar Sjøstedt. 2 Hānshān’s dharma talks constitute Chapters 2–12 of the Old Hānshān’s Sleepwalker Collection 憨山老人夢遊集; they are quoted here from tripitaka.cbeta.org. His dharma talks have received less scholarly attention than his autobiography, which has been discussed in detail by Hsu (1979), Bauer (1990: 407–21), Wu (1992: 142–62), Struve (2012), and Lu (1971). 3 On Dàhuì, see Levering (1978), Yü (1979), and Schlütter (2008); on Zhōngfēng, see Heller (2014). 4 On Zhūhóng, see Yü (1981); on Zhēnkě, see Cleary (1989); on Zhìxù, see Sheng Yen (2009a) and McGuire (2014); for a general overview, see Sheng Yan (2009b) and, for a slightly later period, Wu (2008). 5 絕他日妄想. 6 人人本具，各各現成，不欠毫髮; 無始劫來，愛根種子，妄想情慮，習染深厚; 障蔽妙明; 在身心世界妄想影子裏作活計; 流浪生死; 若妄念消融，本體自現. 7 See Eifring (2016a). 8 真心之塵垢; 淨除妄想習氣影子; 了脫生死. 9 以毒攻毒. 10 觀心; for early Chán uses of this term, see Sharf ’s contribution to this volume. 11 起無起處，滅無滅處; 起滅無從; 一念自孤; 前後不續; 一切心垢，亦無地可寄; 妙藥; 妄想病根自拔. 12 看他畢竟是何物; 畢竟是誰起滅. 13 貪欲; 瞋恚; 慈.

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From Zhìyǐ’s work Sì niàn chù 四念處, quoted here from tripitaka.cbeta.org. From Huìsī’s work Suí zìyì sānmèi 隨自意三昧, quoted here from tripitaka.cbeta.org. 色身; 從妄念心生. yatra yatra mano yāti bābye vābhyantare’pi vā; Lakshman Joo (2002: 137), Bäumer (2004: 173f.). St Hesychios the Priest, “On Watchfulness and Holiness: Written for Theodoulos,” translation quoted from Palmer, Sherrard, and Ware (1979–99, vol. 1, p. 164). 提一則公案為話頭. Alternatively, it may be interpreted as a coordinative compound meaning either “gōng’àn and huàtóu” or “gōng’àn or huàtóu.” (這)念佛的(畢竟)是誰. 誰字公案; 念佛審實公案; 念佛參禪公案; 念佛公案; 念佛審實的話頭. See further discussion in Schlütter (2008), Schlütter (2013), and Schlütter (2016). 念的畢竟是誰？ 重下疑情; 疑團; 扼塞; 心念不起; 於日用一切時，一切處，念念不移; 疑團迸裂; 從前生死，頓然了卻; 頓見本來面目. Cf. Eifring (2010). 大疑之下必有大悟. 破/拔/斷; 疑根. See Feuerstein (2006) and Linrothe (2006). yadavedyaṃ yadagrāhyaṃ yac-chūnyaṃ, tat-sarvaṃ bhairavaṃ bhāvyaṃ tadante bodha-sambhavaḥ; Lakshman Joo (2002: 150f.), Bäumer (2004: 185f.). 但由學人欣厭不同. Chí zhòu 持咒, also known as chí míng 持明; mantras are also referred to as zhēnyán  真言 or tuóluóní 陀羅尼, the latter from the Sanskrit term dhāraṇī, with slightly different meanings. 一切魔境從妄想生. 只教神鬼皆泣，滅跡潛蹤. On different aspects of Hānshān’s syncretism (or ecumenism, eclecticism, inclusivism, etc.), see Cài Jīnchāng (2006), Gāo Língfēn (2010), Lín Wénbīn (2001), Epstein (2006), Hsu (1975), Jäger (1999a, b), and Kieschnick (1992). Shih (1987: 1992). See Shì Yìnqiān (1999) and Schlütter (2013). While Dàhuì himself is certainly no syncretist, Levering (2013) sees his concern with the moment of death as an attempt to show that keyword investigation can deal with the same concerns as Pure Land Buddhism, with which it was in sharp competition. On Zhūhóng’s mixed Chán and Pure Land practice, see Schlütter (2013). On the contact between Hānshān and Zhūhóng, see Goodrich (1976: 1273). Brook (1993b), Yü (1981), and Lo (2008). Sharf (2002b). 邪; see Foulks (2008) and Yü (1981). Lǐ Zhì 李贄 (1527–1602) wrote an essay titled “On the notion that the three teachings converge in Confucianism” 三教歸儒說, see Lǐ Zhì (1974: 200). Cf. Brook (1993a: 72) and Brook (1993b). 故聖人設教，淺深不一，無非應機施設; 人乘; 天乘; 超人天; 超二乘; 超聖凡. Brook (1993b, 14). Yuán Liǎofán (2013). 尋常默照邪禪. 似老和尚.

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49 Hānshān also mentions the technique of visualizing oneself sitting in the middle of a big lotus flower illuminated by the buddha’s own radiance and then accompanied by the buddha Amitābha and the bodhisattvas Avalokiteśvara and Mahāsthāmaprāpta. This, however, is not treated as an independent form of meditation, but as a supplementary technique accompanying buddha invocation. 50 提/提撕/提起; 蘊 [or 橫] 在胸中; 默默參究; 塞斷意根. 51 Some late Ming Chán practitioners seem to have called out the buddha invocation and even the keyword aloud, see Schlütter (2016). 52 In Chinese, all nouns are usually preceded by classifiers with similar functions as English piece in a piece of music, and the semantics of the classifier often reflects the meaning content of the noun itself. 53 單單提起一聲阿彌陀佛，歷歷分明，心中不斷; 口說念佛，心地不淨. 54 密教; 心持神咒; 切切記心，時時在念. 55 密言; 密意. 56 因甚道無. 57 Hānshān says: “My mind is at the outset a secret mantra” 我心原是祕密咒. 58 若能如此持咒，與參禪豈有二法耶.

Chapter 8 1 See, for example, the Śvetāśvatara Upanishad. 2 Devotion to a formless Lord also stands at the center of Sikh religious and meditative practice, see Myrvold (2016). Historically, Sikhism is probably best viewed as a sant lineage that developed into a self-conscious religion within the cultural and political circumstances of premodern and colonial Punjab. Its founder Guru Nanak is contemporaneous with the early sants, and his verses are in the same vein as theirs, with frequent references to the guru and the sants’ multivalent śabda (“sound” or “word,” usually seen as sabad). The Sikh canon itself points to a connection to a broader sant tradition: it contains a section of verses of “devotees,” the majority of whom are sants, including Kabir. 3 The references to Kabir’s verses are from Tiwari (1961). 4 For a sound treatment of Kabirian textual scholarship and the historical background of the early sants see Vaudeville (1993). 5 On the relationship of the Naths to Kabir and the sants, see Offredi (2002). She emphasizes that Kabir was not simply under the influence of the Naths but responded to them creatively. 6 These include especially Sundar Das the younger and Rajab; on the latter see Callewaert (1978). 7 Dwivedi’s best-known work pertaining to sant tradition (1971) is devoted to Kabir. Although the book—entitled simply Kabir—has been highly influential, some of its major presuppositions have been disputed. Dr. Dharamvir (1999), understanding Dwivedi to have subsumed the low-caste and nominally Muslim Kabir too closely into brahminic Hinduism, has written a strong polemic in Hindi; for a more balanced critique in English, see Horstmann (2002b). 8 This volume contains selections from an extensive manuscript compiled by Maluk Das’ successors, of which I have seen a photocopy.

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9 For some twentieth-century interactions between a sant lineage and a Sufi tradition see Dahnhardt (2002). For possible Ismaili influence on the formation of the early modern esoteric santism, see Khan (1997). Although that book sometimes seems to overargue its case for Ismaili influence on fringe Indian traditions, that influence seems plausible in this case given esoteric santism’s unusual theological development; see, in particular, p. 144. 10 An edition of the Anurāg Sāgar was issued as part of the sant-bani granthamāla series of Belvedere Printing Works, Allahabad, which included inexpensive editions of most major and minor sants and served as a general scriptural collection for twentieth-century devotees. It was later translated into English by members of a Western Radhasoami group as The Ocean of Love (Bagga 1984). Contemporary Kabirpanthi commentaries continue to be published (Duhan 2007). 11 On Kabir’s Niranjan, see Dwivedi (1971: 65–80). 12 For this section I draw in part on a substantial Hindi biography of Malik Sahib (Miśra 1999). I also draw on my own memories: I spent considerable time with Malik Sahib in India while he was alive and recall his central teachings vividly. 13 The etymology of the Hindi term surat remains unclear, but it seems to derive either from the Sanskrit śruti (hearing) or smṛti (remembering). Dwivedi (1963: 73) prefers the latter. 14 See Elias (2013: 196ff.). 15 See Eskildsen (2014: 155).

Chapter 9 1 I intend this statement not only as an analogy, but as a strategy for interpreting the relevance of diverse influences in Javanese cultural history. See note 10 and the related discussion below. 2 Tjantrik Mataram (1950). Widespread postindependence movements are noted in Sartono Kartodirdjo (1973). One such movement is explored with rich local detail in Raharjo Suwandi (2000). 3 Observation during fieldwork in the vicinity of Salatiga, Central Java, in 1971. 4 Woodward (1989). 5 Geertz (1976). An alternative view, arguing that cultural divisions in Java have been primarily between Javanism and Islam, is that of Koentjaraningrat (1985). The best, but less seductive, discussion of village religion in Java is Beatty (1999). 6 I outline my understanding of this process in a paper drawing on some of the same examples I will use here in Stange (1986). A more recent summary of this shift in national policy is in Hefner (2000: 79–85). 7 A particularly intriguing recent demonstration of the continuing relevance of this distinction within even postmodern local Islam can be found in Headley (2004: 425–52). Its relevance to what I would call ‘new age Javanism’ is evident in a fascinating study by Rudnyickyj (2010). 8 I have highlighted Javanese focus on intuitive feeling (rasa) as distinct from mental cognition, in Stange (1984). Extended exploration of related themes is in Stange (1998). It is significant and unproblematic to comment that traditional Japanese spiritual culture emphasized the hara (navel). Within psychological anthropology there has been related emphasis on different cultural approaches

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Notes to “emotions.” Studies in this direction within the Malayo-Polynesian zone include Rosaldo (1980). Geertz (1968), Lutz (1988), and Karim (1990). Although it is an aside in the context of this essay, it is worth noting that in reaffirming this reading of the mythologies I am at odds with the mainstream of current writing. In Sears (1996) the accent is on ways in which colonizers created historical imaginations which minimized the significance of Islam. My argument with this view is elaborated in Stange (1991). Massignon (1982). The classical discussion of this archetype within Javanese literature is Zoetmulder (1995 [1935]). A more recent and beautifully nuanced exploration of the theme is in Florida (1995). Drewes (1966). Beatty (2009) is a powerful introduction to the continuing recent extension of this process. These practices are noted by Mulder (1998: 37–42) and described in more penetrating terms in Pemberton (1994: 269–310). Pemberton’s essentially Protestant imagination of how “spiritual” practices relate to “material” results warps his otherwise fruitful comments. The most relevant as background to the Sumarah case is covered in Van Bruinessen (1992). One of the best recent summaries (there are many Indonesian) is Simuh (1995). I am influenced by Gilsenan (1982) and, following him, am identifying “Islamic discourse” in anthropological terms which are not necessarily congenial to believers. The examples which I focus on in this paper are based on research during the 1980s as a follow-up to my PhD (Stange 1980). That thesis and these examples are subsumed within an updated and extended book, Stange (2009). There are many records of verbal expression during practice and some of them have been circulated widely within the organization. I have several thousand pages of such material. However none have been produced for “external” consumption and none have become “sacred scriptures” which are consistently referred to. The general view within the movement is that once turned into text and separated from experiential context the “recordings” make little sense; I find this to be the case. Versions of the Sesanggeman can be found in Epton (1974 [1956]: 212) and in Geertz (1976: 343–44). The issue of “revelation” and the meaning of the term “religion” here are only fully comprehensible within the context of the ways those notions have been defined by political and public discourse in the Indonesian context (e.g., I am not here referring to anthropological or comparative meanings of those terms). Stange (1986) explores these issues. They are also well outlined in the introduction Kipp and Rogers (1987: 1–31). Harun Hadiwijono (1967). Here my caveat is that globalized characterization of “Islamic or Indic” or typologies of techniques (such as those in Naranjo and Ornstein 1971 or Hollenback 1996) are highly problematic. Even the distinction between sudden and gradual approaches to enlightenment in Gregory (1987) proves extremely elusive. This is not just a matter of the “ineffability” of mystical experience but also of our scholarly difficulty in dealing with “levels of consciousness.” Ironies abound; as perhaps in all practices. Theoretical focus on “relaxation” means that practice is constituted by awareness of its opposite, “tension.” The ideal of

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“validating spiritual diversity” is propounded by individuals who usually appear to believe that their version of practice is “superior.” A key theme within my thesis (Stange 1980) is that dedication to a practice “not focused on personality” produced a history of struggle with the fact that every individual does in reality have “preferences” and individual leaders do get carried away with exaggerated imaginations of their personal significance. This is what the term dikir (dhikr) means, it does not refer only to outward chanting in circles, as is sometimes imagined. See Renard (1996, ch. 7, p. 299). At the deepest level of his imagination his position was non-dual, within a framework tracing to Ibn al-Arabi and through him to neo-Platonic and gnostic currents. Those hold a non-dual final point within a framework in which all “lower” levels are still characterized by dualisms (Chittick 1989). Related conceptualization of levels of consciousness is central in the works of the perennial philosophers for example see Perry (2000) and Wilber (2007) but virtually absent in postmodern philosophy or social science. Weber (1958 [1948]). See Hefner (2000). During this period I repeatedly interviewed him in his office and recall seeing a national map covering one wall of his large suite. On it arrows pointed to specific Islamic schools and detailed contributions from the discretionary funds (mostly sourced from Saudi Arabian funds). All through Suharto’s Presidency of Indonesia (1967–98) there was continuing gossip and speculation about his spiritual advisors. The most prominent statement concerning the political culture he grew up in is Anderson (1990). Evident in the summary statistics on pages 6–7 of Statistik Keagamaan 1981 (Badan Penelitian dan Pengembangan Agama, Departemen Agama R.I., Jakarta, 1983). In this listing no category for “other” exists, all citizens were recorded as being either Muslim, Protestant, Catholic, Hindu, or Buddhist. Evident in abundance in Woodward (2011).

Chapter 10 1 Yi Chongǔn (1988: 87–190). At the beginning of the Chosŏn dynasty, that temple was called the Sokyŏkchŏn but it was later downgraded to the Sokyŏksŏ. 2 For more on shin (Chinese shén) as that which allows human beings to understand, and therefore interact properly with, the world around them, see Adler (2004: 120–48), available at http://www2.kenyon.edu/Depts/Religion/Fac/Adler/Writings/ Spirituality.htm (accessed April 30, 2014). For more on the physiological factors involved in becoming a better human being, see Roth (1991: 599–650). 3 Hŏ Chun (1998, I: 72–77). An English translation of the Tongŭi pogam was recently published, see Hŏ Chun (2013, “Part I: Internal Bodily Elements,” 61–188). Also see Pak (1996: 341–67). 4 Kim Tujong (1981: 21–226), Yi (1999: 52–57). 5 Pregadio, “Cinnabar fields” and “An Introduction to Taoist Alchemy.” 6 Yi Nŭnghwa (1977: 214–28). Also see Kim Sisŭp (1973: 294) (17: 19b–20b). 7 Kim Nakp’il (2005: 67). 8 Kim Nakp’il (2005: 77).

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9 Kim Sisŭp (1973: 297) (17: 26b). “Dragon and tiger” refers to techniques intended to stimulate the fire believed to dwell in the heart to descend, and the water in the kidneys to ascend, reversing normal physiology and thereby reversing the process of aging. Kim Nakp’il (2005: 72). 10 Chŏng Nyŏm (1986: 275–78), Yi Nŭnghwa (1977: 229–44), and Yi Chinsu (2003: 97–142). 11 Kim Yungsik (2007: 99–131). 12 Kim Nakp’il (2005: 137–42). 13 Hŏ Chun (1998, I: 75–76) (cf. Hŏ Chun 2013, Part 1: Internal Bodily Elements, 29–30). 14 Hŏ Chun (1998, I: 75). A different English translation of this passage is available in Hŏ Chun (2013, Part 1: Internal Bodily Elements, 27). 15 For a Korean edition of that text, focusing on how T’oegye read it, see Yi Ch’ŏlwan (1993). Also see Yi Chinsu (1992: 81–142). 16 Yi Chinsu (1999: 316). 17 Yi Chinsu (1988: 244). 18 Yi Chinsu (1992: 136–37). 19 Yi Sugwang (1975: II, 608). 20 Yi Sugwang (1975: II, 608). 21 Yi Sugwang (1975: II, 606). 22 Hŏ Kyun (1972: 100–04). 23 Chŏng Yagyong (1970, I, 22: 9a). 24 “Tapchungssi” (A response to a letter from my older brother), Chŏng Yagyong (1970, I, 20, 27b–28a). 25 Chŏng Yagyong (1970, I, 17, 32b–33a). 26 Yi Kyugyŏng (1959, I, 700–01). 27 Yi Kyugyŏng (1959, I, 595–96). 28 Kim Chŏngbin (1984). 29 See, for example, Kwŏn T’aehun (1989: 411). 30 Lee Seung-heun (1998: 21). 31 Lee Seung-heun (1998: 23). 32 Chwasan (2004). 33 Chwasan (2004: 15).

Chapter 11 1 In 2001 a luijin ritual could be performed in Ulaanbaatar for around 50,000 Tugrug (USD 27). Also in the past luijin specialists were paid well. Interview anonymous, 2011. 2 Havnevik (1999). 3 See, for example, Gyatso (1985) and Martin (2005). 4 While mainstream chöd is supplementary to the zhiche cycle, each school of Tibetan Buddhism has its own chöd practices, and there are a number of scholastic works on chöd also in the Gelugpa tradition. The ninth Jebtsundampa (1932–2012) worked to revive Gelugpa chöd and has many followers in contemporary Ulaanbaatar, see Bernstein (2013: 161 n. 10) and Havnevik (forthcoming 2015).The philosophical contents of Mahāmudrā (Phyag rgya chen po), elaborated in the Kagyu tradition (bKa’ brgyud), and Prajñāpāramitā are closely compatible, see Gyatso (1985: 324–5).

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5 See also Gyatso (1985: 325) and Edou (1996). 6 Both Gyatso (1985: 322, 340) and Orofino (2000: 406–7) point to similarities with shamanistic techniques, and Chaoul (2010: 162–3) suggests that approaching chöd from several perspectives—shamanic, Mahāyāna sutric (Prajñāparamitā), Buddhist tantric and dzogchen—will give new understanding of the meditation practice. See also Bernstein (2013: 157–8). 7 See, for example, Kvaerne’s (2013: 16) criticism of the confusion of Bon practices in the West with New Age healing and shamanism. 8 The sādhanas, based on the tantras, give details for meditative realization of a specific mandala of deities, see, for example, Snellgrove (1987: part III). 9 Offering the body to four classes of guests (mgon po bzhi), see, for example, Ricard (1994: 12 n. 32). 10 See, for example, Orofino (2000: 405) and Bernstein (2013: 166). While studies of chöd have primarily been based on the textual tradition, the work of Bernstein is an exception. She carried out fieldwork on Buryats’ engagement with the ritual of chöd in Dharamsala (2013, chapters 5 and 6.) 11 One of the main figures in Gelugpa chöd lineage in the twentieth century was Ngawang Geleg Pelzang (Ngag dbang dGe legs dPal bzang), who was called E-lama after his native place, which is possibly the same location as where Machig Labdron was born. E-yul is situated to the east of the Yarlung Valley and was formerly the seat of the princes of Lhagyari (Lha rgya ri). According to Professor Lama Chinpa, E-lama’s consort was a Mongol woman who also practiced chöd (I thank Ganzorig Davaa-Ochir for this information). 12 Rønning (2005: 23). According to Gyatso (1985: 331), Ngawang Tenzin Norbu divides chöd transmissions into successive lineage (ring brgyud), direct lineage (nye brgyud), and very direct lineage (shin tu nye brgyud); the first is passed from Phadampa Sangye to Machig Labdron, the second is Machig’s revelations on Prajñāpāramitā and Vajravārāhī, the third is transmission from Jñānad̩ākinī to Machig. The latter would by some be identified as mo chöd (mo gcod), while elsewhere mo chöd is seen as Machig’s visionary teachings received from Tāra and Sukhasiddhi. 13 One of the root texts is attributed to Āryadeva, an uncle of Phadampa Sangye, one of four Indian streams, see Gyatso (1985: 325, 340). 14 Using transmissions of the teaching from Tibet, Mongolian masters also composed their own chöd melodies and ritual texts. See Havnevik et al. (2007). 15 Havnevik et al. (2007). 16 A mad yogin or yoginī (smyon pa, smyon ma) is also called zhig po, zhig mo, and is according to Martin “a person who has totally dissolved (zhig pa) ordinary clinging to the concept of self as well as the usual bonds of social life” (2005: 57). 17 NTN (2004b: 407–9). 18 NTN (2004b: 403–15). For a translation of part of the text, see Wangmo (2008: 104–10). 19 The symbolism of the d̩amaru is explained in NTN (2004b: 405–7) and Wangmo (2008: 105–7). 20 See NTN (2004b: 404–6) and Wangmo (2008: 104–5). 21 Both in Tibet and in Mongolia many chödpa, particularly inexperienced practitioners, wear masks (gcod pa’i dom ra) during ritual recitations as protection against demons. Other ritual objects are the thunderbolt (rdo rje), a painting of a mandala, a tent when traveling, a skin of an animal or a human being, a textile

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Notes ribbon, and human hair fastened to the drum or on a stick (kha tvam). See, for example, Orofino (2000: 404). Wangmo (2008: 103). David-Neel (2011 [1929]: 124–32) reports witnessing the chöd dance performed by a yogin near a dismembered corpse in northern Tibet. Jardz refers to the Tibetan [chu mig] brgya rtsa “one hundred [springs].” See Havnevik et al. (2007) and Bernstein (2013: 165). Ani Lochen told her life story to the nun Gen Thinley (rGan ’Phrin las), and Drubchen Dawa Dorje (Grub chen Zla ba rDo rje) edited the text. The autobiography was carved in wood blocks at Shugseb and then printed (281 folios). Some of Ani Lochen’s disciples are alive today, and where her autobiography is silent, they have provided bits and pieces about their teacher’s meditational practices. See Ani Lochen (1975) and Havnevik (1999). Shugseb was destroyed during the Cultural Revolution; it was rebuilt in the 1980s and is today one of the largest nunneries in Tibet (TAR). Ricard (1994: 547). Havnevik (1999: 83). The yogin at Rongphu describes a white skirt (sham thab dkar po) instead of meditation trousers. He says that the red color at the edges and the white in the center of the cotton shawl (ras gzan a ti) symbolize the indivisibility of the three bodies; the shawl further symbolizes the indivisibility of method (thabs) and wisdom (shes rab); see NTN (2004b: 408–9) and Wangmo (2008: 107). Wangmo (2008: 108). NTN (2004a: 194). Thulku Thondup (1996: xiii–xvi). Longchen Rabjampa is known as a great master of rNying thig. At Gangri Thökar he wrote the works that became the most treasured revelatory texts of the Nyingma tradition: Theg mchog mdzod (where he established dzogchen as a coherent doctrine), Tshig don mdzod, and Bla ma yang tig; see Karmay (1988: 211) and also Gyatso (1985: 338–9). Dowman (1988: 143). Havnevik (1999: 565, 571). Havnevik (1999: 371). Rønning (2005: 104) and Havnevik (1999: 247). See Kollmar-Paulenz 1993, 1998. Havnevik (1999: 252–63). Havnevik (1999: 574–5). Havnevik (1999: 611–17). Havnevik (1999: 357).

Chapter 12 1 See Prentiss (1996) for a detailed discussion on the complex relationships Śaiva Siddhānta brings to Sanskrit and Tamil, Northern schools, and Southern schools. 2 Arunachalam (1983). 3 Fuller (2001). 4 Subramanium (2003) and Suresh (2002). 5 Sanderson (2009) and Davis (2009). 6 Cf. Dasgupta (1922: 1: 490): 9 [He] should try to understand correctly the true purport of the Upanisads (called sravana), and by arguments in favor of the purport

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of the Upanisads to strengthen his conviction as stated in the Upanisads (called manana) and then by nididhyasana (meditation) which includes all the Yoga processes of concentration, try to realize the truth as one.” Hirst (1996) clearly establishes Śankara’s view that the three categories are meaningless. Designating the sacred sounds of a chant on the bodily parts (known as Nyāsa) as a preparation before the chant is common to many forms of devotional chanting of the Sahasranamas (one thousand names) of Viṣnu, Śiva, and Lalita. Purification of the body and mind through the designation of sound on the bodily parts is common to almost all chanting practices involving Sanskrit mantras. The first part commences with the invoking of deities to stay in different parts of the body and the second part is more about the universal rhythm. I have partly followed Paul Harvey’s translation of the hymn at http://www. dharmadownloads.info/page6/vedic_chant.html (accessed April 2007), though I have opted to use the word “self ” instead of “me” for the word “aham.” For instance the Vedic hymn Narayana sūktaṃ describes the heart as the location of God in the human body, and all Nyāsa processes invariably ask for establishing a relationship with the heart through the Gayatri mantra, a vehicle for transporting offerings. The Tamil Bhakti (devotional) tradition recognizes the importance of the intensity of love and related emotions as the means of achieving oneness with God, and that is why Śaiva Siddhānta accords the status of Tirumurai (sacred texts) to devotional literature on par with philosophical literature. Having a dhyāna slokā (a verse for meditation) is common for all hymns used in prayers and also for traditions such as traditional sculpting, painting, and icon making for temples. According to tantric texts and the beliefs attached to Śankara’s composition Soundarya Lahari, the primal sounds have the power to energize the chakras (vital points of energy) in the body. My informants are from the Caiva Veḷaḷar caste groups in the Tirunelveli region of Tamil Nadu. This translation is based on the Tamil texts of Srirudram published by the Ramakrishna mission. This book is used by most of the practitioners for memorizing Srirudram chanting through Tamil scripts.

Chapter 13 1 This chapter has profited much from comments by Guttorm Gundersen and Gunnar Sjøstedt. 2 Mason et al. (2007), Buckner, Andrews-Hanna, and Schacter (2008). 3 Killingsworth and Gilbert (2010). 4 Buckner, Andrews-Hanna, and Schacter (2008) and Andrews-Hanna (2012). 5 Brewer et al. (2011), Hofmann, Grossman, and Hinton (2011), and Holzel et al. (2007). 6 Xu et al. (2014), Jang et al. (2011), and Travis et al. (2010). 7 See Bryant (2009). This part of the chapter has profited from discussions with Edwin Bryant. Most of my references to the Yoga Sūtra, including its English translations,

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27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35

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Notes are to Bryant’s work, though the exact wording of the translations has sometimes been modified by me, in order to fit better with the present context. Bryant (2009: 317f. and 544 n. 33). Bryant (2009: 52). Bryant (2009: 256). All translations from The Cloud of Unknowing are from Wolters (1978), while the Middle English text is quoted from Hodgson (1958). Palmer et al. (1979–99, vol. 1, pp. 62 and 58). Palmer et al. (1979–99, vol. 1, p. 61). a clere beholding of þi kindely witte; ch. 8. þe whiles þat a soule is wonyng in þis deedly flesche, it schal euermore se & fele þis combros cloude of vnknowyng bitwix him & God; ch. 28. a nakyd sodein þouȝt of any of hem presing aȝens þi wile & þi wetyng, þof al it be no sinne arettid vnto þee; . . . with sum maner of likyng ȝif it be a þing þat pleseþ þee or haþ plesid þee bifore, or elles wiþ sum maner of gruching ȝif it be a þing þat þee þink greueþ þee or haþ greued þee before; ch. 10. breek doun alle wetyng & felyng of alle maner of creatures; ch. 43. treed hem down vnder þi fete; ch. 31. put it doune vnder þe cloude of forȝetyng; ch. 8. tredyng doun of þe mynde of alle þe creatures þat euer God maad; ch. 26. as ofte as þei rise, as ofte put þeim doun; ch. 31. a ful grete trauayle; ch. 26. nakid entente directe vnto God for him-self; ch. 24. take þee bot a litil worde of o silable, . . . & soche a worde is þis worde god or þis worde loue, . . . or anoþer as þe list: whiche þat þee likeþ best of o silable, . . . bete on þis cloude & þis derknes abouen þee, . . . smite doun al maner þouȝt vnder þe cloude of forȝeting; ch. 7. Do þat in þee is to lat as þou wist not þat þei prees so fast apon þee, bitwix þee & þi God; ch. 32. koure þou doun under hem as a cheitif & a coward ouercomen in batayle, & þink þat it is bot a foly to þee to stryue any lenger wiþ hem; & þerfore þou ȝeeldest þee to God in þe handes of þin enmyes; ch. 32. he haue of longe tyme vsid him þer-in; . . . þou haste douocion; . . . þou schalt haue ouþer litil trauaile or none; . . . þan wil God worche som-tyme al by him-self; ch. 26. streyne not þin hert in þi brest ouer-rudely, ne oute of mesure; . . . wirche more wiþ a list þen wiþ any liþer strengþe; ch. 46. listely wiþ a softe & a demure contenaunce, as wel in body as in soule; ch. 46. boistouste of bodely felyng; ch. 47. þis beestly ruednes; ch. 46. Graham (1989: 100). Roth (1999: 23–30). Rickett (1998). 口之所不能言也，目之所不能視也，耳之所不能聽也; 序其成; 不見其形; 無所; 窮無所; 人不能固; 其往不復，其來不舍; 無根無莖，無葉無榮; 充形; 與我俱生; 不遠; 不離; Roth (1999: 52–57). 心以藏心; 心之中又有心焉; 心之心; Roth (1999: 73). 道乃可止; 道乃可得; Roth (1999: 55). 其所以失 之，必以憂樂喜怒欲利; Roth (1999: 51). 憂悲喜怒，道乃無處; Roth (1999: 95).

Notes 40 41 42 43 44 45

46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69

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以躁為害; 躁則失之; Roth (1999: 95 and 97). 不以物亂官，不以官亂心; Roth (1999: 69). 生乃思，思乃知， 過知失生; Roth (1999: 61). 思之而不捨，內困外薄; Roth (1999: 85). The text is quoted from cbeta.org, with page numbers referring to Manji Shinsan Dainihon Zokuzōkyō. Translations are mine. In contrast to what Sharf (2002b) finds for earlier periods of Chinese history, Gǔkūn clearly identifies Pure Land Buddhism as a separate school, referring to it as the Pure School (淨宗). Other writers from the same period use the term Pure Land School (淨土之宗). 雜念紛紛也不妨, p. 427c. 不必除妄想, p. 431c. 休將妄想嫌如賊, p. 432c. 千思萬想總憑他, p. 433a. 散亂持名大有功, pp. 432b–c. 妄想不必問如何, pp. 433a–b. 只要看伊是甚麼, p. 433a. 雜念紛飛實可哀，千般計策莫能排, p. 427c. 內心亂亂急須平, p. 447a. 心猿意馬最難停, p. 428b. 一句彌陀纔繫念, p. 428a. 音聲不絕是因，一心不亂是果, p. 435a. 妄想時時而輕，罪垢時時而減, p. 434c. 不期心一而自一; 豈制之令一也？心不可制, p. 435a. 靜念彌陀尤不息, p. 428b. 正念佛時，心中偏想別事；種種壓捺，莫能暫停, p. 430b. 佛號投亂心，亂心即成佛, p. 426c. 不斷凡情人聖胎, p. 427c. See Shǐ Zhēntáo (2012). Yogi (1963). Benson, Greenwood, and Klemchuk (1975). Pennington (2001). Holen (2007). Nesvold et al. (2011), Xu et al. (2014), and Travis et al. (2010).

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Index absorption 18–19, 34, 63, 122, 125, 136, 139, 140, 204, 211–12, see also concentration, samādhi Acem Meditation 43–4, 48–9, 215 Āgamas 8, 13, 186, 188–9 Aghoraśiva 187–8 Aleni, Jesuit Giulio 26 Amitābha Buddha 112, 115, 118–20, 210–11 Ānāpānasati Sutta 12 Ani Lochen 179–83 Ān Shìgāo 12 Aruḷnandi Śivācārya 188 Arymurthy 156–9 attention modes, see modes of attention autohypnosis 4, see also self-hypnosis automatic self-transcending 48–9 autosuggestion 4 Baker, Don 5–7, 162 bare attention 63–7 bhakti yoga 131 bījākṣara mantra 193 biomedical perspective of meditation 37–8 Delphi-type consensus study 39–40 functional brain imaging 37 mindfulness-based stress reduction (MBSR) 38–9 operational definitions 39–40 Bly, Robert 134 breathing 12, 36–7, 39, 41, 44, 47–9, 59, 60, 72, 132, 163–71, see also prāṇayāma Buddhaghosa 63, 65 buddha-name 105, 112, 122, 124 Buddhism 7–8, 13, 18, 21, 25, 29, 34, 45, 64, 74, 80–4, 90–1, 103, 108, 110–11, 114, 116–17, 124, 126, 152, 162, 166, 171, 175–6, 201, 205, 210–11, 213–14

cakra, see chakra cāntóng qì 79, 166, 168 Casual Teachings on the Pure Land 210–12 celestial immortals 169, 170 cessation 11, 13, 21–2, 44, 66, 71–3, 139, see also concentration, śamatha chakra (or cakra) 7, 132–3, 135, 139–40, 142, 144–6, 149, 156, 180 Chamakam 193–5, 198 Chán 5–7, 53, 55–75, 81–4, 88, 90, 97, 99, 102, 105, 107–8, 110–11, 113–17, 119, 122–6, 210, see also Sǒn, Thiền, Zen Chand, Nanak 140–1, 146 Chéng Hào 76, 78–9, 83–4 Chéng Yí 76, 78–9, 82, 84, 87, 98–100 Chéng-Zhū theory of praxis 78, 80–1, 85–7, 89, 91, 97–9 Chöd 8, 173, 176–85 drum for 178 Nyingmapa school 181–2 outward appearance and ritual objects 177 philosophical background 175–6 ritual dance 179 ritual paraphernalia of 177 at Shugseb 183–4 texts and deities 177 thighbone trumpet 178–9 transmission lineages of 176 wandering chödpas 179 choiceless awareness 46 chŏng 163–5, 167–8 Chŏng Chak 167 Chŏng Nyŏm 165–7 Chŏng Yagyong 169 Christianity 5, 7, 8, 24–35, 103, 106, 114, 116, 126, 151, 152, 201, 205–8, 210, 213, 214 Chwasan 171 cinnabar-field breathing (Tanjŏn hohŭp) 164, 166, 170–1

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cinnabar-field meditation 5–7, 129, 162–71 cinnabar fields, significance of 164–5 Clinically Standardized Meditation 43–4, 48–9 Cloud of Unknowing 111, 205–8, 210, 212 duality principle 205 methods to get rid of spontaneous thoughts 206–7 cognitive therapy 38–9, 41 Collaert, Adrian 26 Collaert, Jan 26 concentration amidst affairs 89–90 concentration on oneness (or singleness, the one) 86, 89, 92, 101, see also concentrative unity concentration 11–12, 16, 18, 22, 25, 35, 44–5, 50, 63, 85, 86, 89, 92, 96–7, 101, 118, 136, 145, 151, 154, 165–6, 202, 204, 215, 217, see also absorption, cessation, dhāraṇā, dhyāna, śamatha, samādhi concentrative meditation 25, 34, 44, 47, 49, 105, see also śamatha concentrative unity 89, 97, 101, see also concentration on oneness cúnxiǎng 32–4 Dahn World 170–1 Dàhuì Zōnggǎo 102, 110–1, 117, 125–6 Daoism 5–23, 25, 33–5, 79–84, 88, 90–1, 94, 96–9, 103, 114–18, 124, 126, 129, 131, 145, 162–9, 201, 205, 208, 210, 213 Chinese forms of 162–7 cúnxiǎng 32–4 karma and rebirth 21 mysticism 201, 205 no-self 21 oblivion 13–14 qì 14–15 sitting in oblivion 13–14 time, importance of 80 visualization 15–16, 34–5 Dàoxìn 57–63, 67, 72 Dàoxuān 56 dar-al islam 147 Das, Maluk 139–40 Dayala, Guru Data 144

Retransformation of Self 144 dhāraṇā 139, 204, see also concentration dhyāna 18, 34, 55, 57, 59, 67, 75, 139, 193, 204, see also concentration, meditation Diary of Oral Exhortations, see Kǒuduó rìchāo Dìngguān jīng 17 doubt 18, 108–11, 121–5, 202 dualism 149–56 Dunhuang Chán manuscripts 56–7, 74 Dwivedi, Hazariprasad 138–9, 146 Dzogchen 8, 66, 224n. 34 Eifring, Halvor 6–8, 11, 25, 41, 102, 200 Ellingsen, Øyvind 5, 7, 25, 36 equilibrium-harmony problem 84–5 Evagrios Pontikos 206 Fiammeri S. J., Giovanni Battista 26 focused attention 36, 38, 41, 45–8, 50–1 Fújiàn community 29–35 Fundamental Expedient Teachings for Calming the Mind to Enter the Way 57, 61 Geertz, Clifford 147–8, 151 Gethin, Rupert 65–6 Gold, Daniel 5, 7, 131 Gómez, Luis 74 gōng’àn, see keyword gōngfū 30 guided meditation 41, 152, 156 Guīfēng Zōngmì 56–7, 59, 60, 73 Record of the Transmission of the Dharma Treasure 57 guru śabda 135 Hānshān Déqīng 7, 102–27 alternative methods for meditation 111–14 buddha names 105, 112, 122, 124 early experience of sūtra recitation, buddha invocation, and keyword investigation 117–19 encounter with the Confucian and Daoist classics 117–19 generation of doubt in Chán investigation 122–4

Index keywords as meditation objects 107–11 linguistic utterances for meditation 119–24 mantras 113–14 meditative methodology 124–7 ridding mind of thoughts 103–4 self-generated object, meditation using 125 spontaneous thoughts 104–7 sūtras 112–13 syncretism 114–17 hatha yoga (haṭhayoga) 131, 139, 146 Havnevik, Hanna 5, 8, 175 Heart of Buddhist Meditation, The 63–4 Hézé Shénhuì 59, 71, 75 Hindi sants 5, 7, 129, 131–46 Dwivedi’s views 138–9 growth of 137–44 Kabir 133–7 Lingayats 133 nāda practice 136 panth leaders 138 piety and worship 132 Hŏ Chun 163–4, 167 Holen, Are 5, 7, 25, 36, 41 Huáng Gàn 100–1 huàtou, see keyword Huìnéng 58–60, 71, 75 Hussein, Zahid 156–9 Ignatius of Loyola 24–35 imaginative gaze 27 immortals (shinsǒn) 163, 164, 170–1 impermanence 20–1, 23, 62 inner observation 16, 19–20, 23, see also insight meditation, open monitoring, Vipassana inner world 36–7, 145 insight meditation 7, 9, 11–23, 105 see also inner observation, open monitoring, Vipassana body, sensations, mind, and qualities in 12 Buddhist notions 20–2 in China 16–20 within Chinese Buddhism 13 inner observation 19–20 perfect observation 16–17 stability-cum-observation 17–19

265

Inward Training 208–10, 212, 214 Islam (or Muslim) 5, 7, 129, 132–3, 141, 147–61, 205 Islamization 148–9, 160, see also Sumarah Jaman Buda 147 Javanism 7, 129, 147, 160 Jñāna Parochi 140 Kabir 133–6, 138–42, 144–6 guru 135–6 Kāl/Niranjan 141–2 śabda 135 yogic terms 136–7 kalimah shahadat 148 karma 13, 16–17, 20–1, 23, 66, 68, 119, 149, 197, 211 karma yoga 131 karmic imprints (saṁskāra) 203–4, 206 kejawen 147, 149 keyword (huàtou, gōng’àn) 102, 105, 107–26, see also kōan ki 163–70, see also qì Kim Sisŭp, 165–6 knowing the mind 81–2 kōan 56, 75, 107, 170, see also keyword Kohn, Livia 5–7, 11, 34 Korean gods and spirits 162 Kǒuduó rìchāo 29, 31–3 Kriṣṇa Yajur Veda 186–9, 194 kuṇḍalinī 139, 144–6 Kushwah, Thakur Mansingh 144–6 Kwŏn Kŭkchung 166 Kwŏn T’aehun 170 Laghu Nyāsa 189–91, 193 Ledi Sayādaw 63 logic relaxation 25, 39–40 Lǚ Dàlín 82–3 Lù Xiàngshān 82–4, 87 Machig Labdron 175–7, 181–5 Madhuropāsanā 139 Mahā Nyāsa, 189–90 Mahāsī method, 63–4, 66–7, 223n. 27 Mahāsī Sayādaw 63–4, 67, 75, 223n. 26 Mahāyāna 58, 60, 66, 73, 75, 108, 175–6, 178, 211

266

Index

Malik Sahib, see Kushwant, Thakur Mansingh Mallery, Karel van 26 mantra 44–5, 47–9, 51, 62, 102, 111–4, 116–7, 119–21, 123–4, 126, 139–41, 149, 154, 186–7, 195, 204, 214 Matos, Bento de 30 meditation, see also biomedical perspective of meditation; Chán; Chöd; insight meditation; yoga biomedical classification 47 chanting as 25, 64, 120, 186–99 clinical effects 49–50 concentrative 25, 34, 44, 47, 49, 105 (see also śamatha, focused attention) dimensions for describing 48–9 focused attention 36, 38, 41, 45–8, 50–1 (see also concentrative meditation) guided 41, 152, 156 Jesuit practices 5–7, 9, 26–35 mindfulness 7, 12, 22, 25, 37–9, 41–2, 45–7, 49, 51, 53, 55–75, 171, 204, 214–15 in modern contexts 5–6, 36–50 modes of attention 37, 41, 43, 45, 47–50 monism and dualism 7, 149–56, 187–8, 191, 193 as a national practice in Java 158–9 negative valuation of 56 Neo-Confucian practices 6, 53, 76–101 nondirective 28, 37, 41, 43–51 pragmatic classification 49 recorded instructions 41 self-administered 40–1 spontaneous mental activity 41–2 (see also mind wandering) Meykaṇṭatēvar 188 Milindapañha 65 mindfulness 7, 12, 22, 25, 37–9, 41–2, 45–7, 49, 51, 53, 55–75, 171, 204, 214–15, see also sati/smṛti mindfulness-based cognitive therapy (MBCT) 38–9, 41, 47, 49 mindfulness-based stress reduction (MBSR) 38–9, 41, 47, 49 mindlessness 7, 55–75

mind wandering 37, 41–7, 50, 114, 200–3, 206, 211, 213–15, see also spontaneous mental activity/thoughts Míngběn, see Zhōngfēng Míngběn Mingun Jetavana Sayādaw 63 mòcún 33–4 modes of attention 37, 41, 43, 45, 47–50 modernity, meditation and, 5–6, 36–50 monism 7, 103, 144, 148–56, 187–8, 191, 193, 208, 213 mòxiǎng 30, 33–4 mòzhào, see silent illumination muscular relaxation 39 Muslim, see Islam Muthukumaraswamy, M. D. 4–5, 8, 186 Nadal, Jerome 26–9, 33 Annotations and Meditations on the Gospels 26, 28 Namakam 194–5, 198 Namgung Tu 168–9 Nanak, Yogiraj, see Chand, Nanak Nath, Gorakh 132 Nath yogis 7, 132, 136–7 Neo-Confucianism 6–7, 32, 53, 76–101 Niranjan 136, 141–2 nirguṇa bhakti 132, 138 nirodhasamāpatti 66 nirvikalpa samādhi 139 non-conceptual awareness 66, 224n. 33 nondirective meditation 28, 37, 41, 43–51 nondualism 43, 85, 103, 106, 153, 211, 213 no-self 4, 20–1, 23 Nyanaponika Thera 63–4, 66 oblivion, see sitting in oblivion, Zuòwàng lùn observing self 11 open monitoring 41, 45–8, 50–1, see also inner observation, insight meditation, Vipassana Ǒuyì Zhìxù 102, 116 Paltu Sahib of Ayodhya 143 pañcākṣara mantra 186 pamong 150, 152–3 Passeri, Bernardino 26 Path of Purification 63, 65

Index perfect observation 11, 16–17 Platform Scripture of the Sixth Patriarch 58–9, 70, 73, 113, see also Huìnéng pluralism 187–9, 191 Polanco, Juan 26 prāṇayāma 132, 139, 140, 144, 146, see also breathing pratyāhāra 139 Pure Land Buddhism 6, 8, 29, 114–17, 119, 126, 201, 205, 210–14 purification 18, 20, 144, 151, 155, 189–90, 193, 195, 204 qi

11, 14–16, 19, 21, 23, 80, 90–1, 163, see also ki Qi Gong 48–9 quiet-sitting/quietude 7, 11, 15, 18, 34, 53, 57, 59, 69, 76–101 alternative to 96–101 method for regulating the breath 79 sitting position 79 southern transmission 82 types 80–1 Radhasoamis 142–4 Relaxation Response 36, 43–4, 48–9, 214 relaxed meditation 152, 156 reverence 7, 53, 76–101 and examination of principles 92–6 quiet-sitting and 87 Ricci, Matteo 26 ridding the mind of thoughts 20, 103–4, 112–13, 165, 167, 207, 209–11 Rinzai 56, 75 Rocha, João da 27 Rorty, Richard 66, 74 Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature 74 śabda 135–6, 139–46 saguṇa bhakti 132, 137 Sahaj Sādhanā 138–9 Sahib, Malik, see Kushwah, Thakur Mansingh Sahib, Tulsi 138, 146 Śaiva Siddhānta 4–5, 8, 173, 186–99 adherents of 188 Ajapa japa 187, 199 connecting with God 191–4

267

designating sacred sounds on the bodily parts 189–91 monism and pluralism in 187–9 Namakam and Chamakam 194–5, 198 Nyāsa component of 189–94 pancākṣara mantra 186 principles of 187 ritual practice 186 roles of sound and meaning in chanting 194–9 sequence with Mantra puṣpaṃ 195 sixteen-step process 195 Srirudram, chanting 187–9, 194–9 Vedānta vs. 189 vedic chanting 186–7 śaktipāt practice 144, 146 samādhi 18, 22, 57, 59, 125, 139, 204, see also absorption, concentration śamatha (or samatha) 11, 22, 63, 67, 105, see also concentration, focused attention saṁskāra, see karmic imprints sants, see Hindi sants Sapta Darma movement 160 sati/smṛti 61, 63–7, 75, see also mindfulness satipaṭṭhāna 63, 65–6, 154 Satipaṭṭhāna Sutta 12–13, 65 savikalpa samādhi 139 Saxonia, Ludolphus de 28–30 Scripture on the Discernment of the Buddha of Immeasurable Life 61 self-cultivation 76, 78, 80–2, 84–5, 87–8, 93, 95–97, 99–100, 113, 118–19, 163 self-hypnosis 39, see also autohypnosis self-referential activity/processes 37, 42–3, 46–8, 50–1 self-transformation 1, 3–4 sexual yoga 143, 177, 183 shadow puppet drama (wayang kulit) 148 Sharf, Robert H. 5, 7, 55, 105 shén 90, 163, see also shin Shénhuì, see Hézé Shénhuì shikantaza 56, 75 shin 163–4, see also shén Shin, Junhyoung Michael 29 shinsǒn, see immortals Shuōwén jiězì 16 silent illumination (mòzhào) 56, 117

268

Index

Sīmǎ Chéngzhēn 16–17 Singh, Shiv Dayal 141, 144 sitting in oblivion (zuòwàng) 13–14, 16, 18, 23, see also Zuòwàng lùn six senses (six robbers) 22 Smārta Brahmins 188 Sòng niànzhū guīchéng 27–8 Sŏn 55, 74, see also Chán, Thiền, Zen Sōtō 56, 74–5, 175 Spiritual Exercises, see Ignatius of Loyola spontaneous mental activity/ thoughts 8, 41–3, 103–7, 124, 126, 173, 200–15, see also mind wandering psychoanalysis view 200 stability-cum-observation 11, 17–19, 23 Standaert, Nicolas 5, 7, 24 Stange, Paul D. 5, 7, 147 Subud 160 Sudarno Ong 152–6 sudden enlightenment 58–9, 82, 85, 99 suffering 20–1, 23, 118, 202, 204 Sufism 7, 129, 131–3, 145, 148–9, 151, 153–5 sujud 150, 153, 156, 160 Sukinohartono 150 Sumarah 5, 7, 129, 148–160 defined 151 followers 153 Solonese practices 156 Suwondo’s sessions 153–5 Sunan Bonan 148 Sunan Kalijaga 148, 149, 156, 158, 160 śūnya(ta) 73, 136 surat śabd yoga 144–6 Suprapto Suryodarmo 155 Suwondo Hardosaputra 152–6 syncretism 102, 114–17, 124, 126, 147, 152 Tai Chi 48–9 Taittria Saṃhita 187 Taittria Upaniṣad 194 Tan’gun 7, 170–1 Tantra 8, 74, 120, 138–9, 143, 148, 156, 160, 176–7, 180, 189, 192 tarekat 148–9 Theravāda 62–4, 66–7, 75, 152 Thiền 55, see also Chán, Sǒn, Zen Three Teachings 90, 114–17, 124, 152, 162

Tiāntāi Zhìyǐ 13, 105–6 Tiānzhǔ jiàngshēng chūxiàng jīngjiě 27–9 Tiānzhǔ jiàngshēng yánxíng jìlüè 28–9 T’oegye Yi Hwang 167–8 Tongŭi pogam 163 tradition, meditation and, 5–6 Transcendental Meditation 43–4, 48–9, 214–15 transformation of self 1, 3–4 Treatise on Cutting off Discernment 69–70 Treatise on No Mind 67–9 Treatise on the Essentials of Cultivating the Mind 71–3 Tridharma 152 Vedic chanting, see Śaiva Siddhānta Vijñāna Bhairava 106, 111 Vijnani, Yogendra 144 Vipassana (or vipassanā, vipaśyanā) 11, 22, 38, 45, 47, 49, 63, 67, 75, 105, 154, 214, see also inner observation, insight meditation, open awareness visual imagery 39 visualization 7, 9, 11, 15–16, 19, 22–3, 25, 29, 34–5, 40, 49, 62, 64, 176–7, 190, 193, 195, 197–8, 205 Visuddhimagga, see Path of Purification wayang mythology, 160 Wierix, Hieronymus 26 Wierix, Jan 26 Wierix II, Antoon 26 witness consciousness 11, 12, 16, 20, 22, 63 Won Buddhism 171 xīn-zhòu 121 Xūyún 102 Yajur Veda, see Kriṣṇa Yajur Veda Yang, Rur-bin 6–7, 76 Yáng Shí 82–3 Yi Kwangchŏng 171 Yi Kyugyŏng 170 Yi Sugwang 168 Yoga 7–8, 25, 38, 44, 47–9, 64–66, 103, 126, 131–3, 137–46, 149, 154, 177, 180, 183, 185, 192–3, 201–204, 210, 212–13 Yoga Sūtra 106, 201–10

Index attitude toward spontaneous thoughts in 202 duality between puruṣa and prakṛti 202 karmic imprints 203 means of stilling the fluctuations of the mind 204 qualities of existence 203 samādhi state 204 terms and conditions for Yogic realization 202–3 theistic approaches to meditation 204–5 Yuán Liaˇofán 102, 117, 126 Yùfēng Guˇkūn 210–13 Yúnqī Zhūhóng 102, 115–16 Yúnjí qīqiān 17

Zen

269

38, 47, 49, 55–6, 60, 74–5, 81, 166, 169, 210, 214, see also Chán, Soˇn, Thiền Zēng Guófān 230n. 64 Zhìyǐ, see Tiāntāi Zhìyǐ Zhōngfēng Míngběn 102, 111, 117–18, 121, 125–6 Zhōngguó jīběn gǔjí kù 33 Zhōu Dūnyí 77, 85–6, 93 Zhōuyì cāntóngqì, see Cāntóng qì Zǐbó Zhēnkě 102 Zhū Quán 168 Zhū Xī 32, 34, 76–7, 79–84, 87, 91, 93, 96–101, 166 Discussion on Observing the Mind 81 Zōngmì, see Guīfēng Zōngmì Zuòwàng lùn 16–18, see also sitting in oblivion