True cultivation and realization of the Dharma is a process in which we allow our minds to grow, elevate, and undergo a complete transformation; it makes our hearts truly mature, so that we become tolerant, compassionate, and universally loving toward all things in this world. Otherwise, we may grow up in body and age, yet our hearts will forever remain those of a very young child — quibbling over trifles in this world, unable to put down our favorite big toys, and clinging to the men and women we love just as we clung to our parents in childhood — crying, fussing, unwilling to bear even a moment’s separation. A heart that has truly grown up and matured can face any storm in this world with equanimity and can always maintain a humble, peaceful, positive and optimistic outlook. Whether ordinary or great, it remains unperturbed by favor or disgrace.
The Buddha is also called the Great Tamer; with his mature and perfect wisdom, he can adjust his state of mind to its optimal condition at every moment. We grow older and our bodies mature, but our wisdom has not grown at all; instead, we have only accumulated defilements of the six sense faculties and attachment to worldly affairs. We appear shrewd and capable, never deceived or taken advantage of, yet this shrewdness and capability only bring us more disappointment and vexation. We are doing things that harm ourselves almost every day.
The growth of the mind is the true opening of wisdom, and it requires cultivation. Cultivation means correcting our erroneous behavior and views; practice methods such as sitting meditation and Buddha-recitation are only tools to help us adjust the arising and movement of our thoughts.
The growth of the mind sometimes closely resembles the growth of a person, with an early childhood stage, a rebellious stage, adolescence, a maturity stage, and a culmination stage.
For example, when I first encountered the Dharma, the states I experienced in sitting meditation, spiritual powers, my master, and the Buddhist scriptures all attracted and tempted my mind like glittering toys. I had entered the early childhood stage of cultivating and realizing the Dharma. Curiosity drew me in step by step, as I ventured deeper and deeper as if at play. I felt I had entered an entirely new world, where everything was miraculous, beyond anything I could have imagined before. I began to reject myself and the rules of the game of life. Standing before this realm, the entire world seemed to me to be on the verge of collapse. In my excitement, I cast aside all my former assumptions about life, my values, and my outlook on life. I had discovered a treasure that was mine; I plunged into it headfirst, ready to give up everything I had in exchange for this treasure, and I would not listen to anyone’s advice. Everything in this world meant nothing to me; all the words of the mundane world sounded hollow and powerless to me, as pale as wallpaper. The greater the resistance, the more driven I felt, and the greater my resolve to cultivate. I quickly crossed into the second stage of cultivation: the rebellious stage. I would not allow anyone to disparage my choice.
As my cultivation went deeper day by day, I unknowingly entered the adolescent stage of my practice. I began to feel lost, and my confusion came mainly from the anguish of “loss.” Watching love, career, friendship, the fame and gain that had once been within easy reach, vanity, face, self-esteem, and so on recede little by little as I devoted myself to cultivation, panic and a sense of loss arose in my heart. I told myself I was not afraid of losing everything, but I was not ready for it; it turned out that there was much I simply could not bear to give up, truly could not let go of. I began to doubt whether my choice was worth the losses. I even doubted the reality of attaining enlightenment.
Cultivating and realizing the Dharma consumed almost all of my energy, time, and money. I began to feel that more often than not I needed bread and milk, needed to solve the problem of my children’s schooling, needed to give my husband more care and love, needed to be filial to my parents and think about how to help them enjoy their old age in peace . . . . The various difficulties of life closed in on me like a net, and I was living in the crack between the mundane world and cultivation. At this point, I could not experience any benefit that the Dharma could bring me, and I was ready to give up.
But the little faith in the Dharma that I had just begun to develop, my shallow knowledge and views, and the faint taste of meditative joy I had occasionally savored kept me from being able to stop. Faced with the various vexations of life, I wanted to shave my head and escape; faced with temptations, my mind stirred restlessly . . . . Habitual tendencies and desires revealed themselves at every moment, and yet in my heart I knew that all things are impermanent and illusory, and that it was I who was clinging—unable to take things up, unable to put them down. Every day I indulged myself, then reflected, and the next day I committed the same mistakes again . . . . In front of many friends, I wore the face of a cultivator, so that whenever I wanted an excuse to be irresponsible about worldly matters, I could add a fashionable reason: I was cultivating. Truly, I was deceiving both others and myself!
My wisdom had not yet opened, my view was not yet complete and integrated, and I could not integrate the Dharma with life. I was also practicing ascetic austerities. Practicing austerities in the mountains was fine, but amid the mundane world I was unwilling to endure hardship, unwilling to exhaust myself with work, unwilling to bear any pressure or take on any responsibility, so that the austerities became a contrived, clung-to choice—a way to satisfy the urge to perform. Because my view lacked this integration, even my austerities were consuming my own merit, no different from indulging in pleasures amid the mundane world, and the merit of the austerities could not arise.
I was also living a life of giving and frugality, but my greed had not been reduced by even a fraction. So my giving became giving with expectations, and my frugality became stinginess and pettiness—merit was minuscule indeed.
Because I so often performed these superficial gestures while my mind had not truly changed, I could not accumulate merit more quickly, and I could not experience the help and blessing of the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, or the benefit that merit brings. If in the infant and rebellious phases I felt I was a favorite child of the Dharma, then in adolescence I felt I had become an abandoned child of life. At this time my mind was tossed between gain and loss, and most of the time my cultivation was like going through the motions, putting on a sanctimonious air.
With my attachment to the Dharma, as my cultivation and realization deepened — especially as my concentration grew stronger — stray thoughts grew fewer and fewer, and my state of mind began to grow clear and pure. My heart opened wide, and I became more tolerant and accommodating. I began to focus on doing one thing at a time, and occasionally I could even experience the joy of living in the present moment. Gradually I tasted the sweetness of cultivation and realization — that is, personally savoring the flavor of the Dharma. Although I could not yet use the wisdom of the Dharma to resolve every problem in life, most of the time when I went astray it was because of the impurity of habitual tendencies and desires, and I could quickly rescue myself from confusion and affliction. I saw with ever greater clarity the illusory nature of this world. My aspirations became lofty and grand, and I could not be bothered to discuss many of my thoughts and views with the “fools” around me. I had the feeling that all the world was drunk while I alone remained sober: body and mind pure, my moral resolve unwavering, no longer bowing down for three meals a day or to satisfy the desires of this stinking bag of skin. I regarded money, fame, and profit as dung, and could not be bothered to distinguish good food from bad or to fuss over dress and grooming. Going hungry now and then was nothing unusual; I did not feel that life held any suffering, and I no longer had much attachment left for this world… I gradually entered the stage of maturity.
During this period, my habitual tendencies and desires had not yet been removed. My greed for and attachment to attaining the Way was no holier than greed in the mundane world. Moreover, I craved purity and did not want to get overly involved in worldly affairs. With fellow practitioners I liked, I loved to hold forth at length; my views and theories were profound and unfathomable, and I carried myself as if I were a Buddha or Bodhisattva returned to this world. Self-conceit followed me like a shadow…
Gradually, I would come to feel that all of this was unreliable. There were still many contradictions in the mundane world that I could not face with a pure mind or handle harmoniously; sometimes desire and habitual tendencies still led me by the nose, and I still cared about others’ evaluations and opinions of me. It was just that on certain issues I no longer made distinctions or fussed over things — but my ego-clinging had not yet been broken. A “self” kept obstructing me all along, keeping me from truly becoming one with the universe, nature, and all sentient beings — that is, from “becoming one with the Way.” If we cannot become one with all sentient beings and reach the state of no mark of self, no mark of others, and no mark of sentient beings, then in truth we can never fully penetrate the source of all dharmas or thoroughly and clearly understand the essence and true reality of all things. “I cannot see the true face of Mount Lu, only because I am myself within this mountain.” And to break ego-clinging, we must practice universal love and compassion. If we wish to reach perfection, only those “fools” you are unwilling to talk with can help you; only sentient beings can bring you to fulfillment. We begin to enter the period of perfection. Awareness shines bright and clear; I thoroughly correct every arising and movement of my thoughts — it feels something like scraping poison from the bone, or laying down one’s life for righteousness. If the self does not die, the great Way will not appear. We return to the mundane world, and the journey of the mind begins anew; we become plain and ordinary, and begin to perceive greatness within the ordinary, beginning to become a bodhisattva who can truly and selflessly benefit sentient beings — the great compassion of oneness and the loving-kindness without conditions arising in every single detail of the mundane world.
Only at this time can true merit arise, and the benefits of merit manifest in an instant.
Water flows, flowers bloom.
Yang Ning