Mindfulness: A Practical Guide to Awakening

by Joseph Goldstein

Look at all the things we become attached to, whether they are people or possessions or feelings or conditions of the body. Nothing we have, no one in our lives, no state of mind is exempt from change. Nothing at all can prevent the universal process of birth, growth, decay, and death. When we don’t deeply understand the truth of impermanence, we devote ourselves, our lives, and even our meditation practice to seeking and wanting other people, possessions, experiences. We get caught up in all the appearances of saṃsāra, the rounds of birth and death, and solidify our sense of self in the process. There is no peace.

flower born in a meadow, I enjoy perfect happiness With my brightly colored petals in full bloom. Surrounded by an eager cloud of bees, I dance gaily, swaying gently with the wind. When a fine rain falls, my petals warp around me; When the sun shines I open like a smile. Right now I look well enough, But I won’t last long. Not at all. Unwelcome frost will dull the vivid colors, Till turning brown I wither. Thinking of this, I am disturbed. Later still, winds — violent and merciless — will tear me apart until I turn to dust. . . .

Whatever is born will die; Whatever is joined will come apart; Whatever is gathered will disperse; Whatever is high will fall.

“In this way, in regard to the body [feelings, mind, dhammas] one abides contemplating the body [feelings, mind, dhammas] internally, or one abides contemplating externally, or one abides contemplating both internally and externally. One abides contemplating the nature of arising in the body [feelings, mind, dhammas] . . . the nature of passing away in . . . or the nature of both arising and passing away in. Mindfulness that ‘there is a body’ [feelings, mind, dhammas] is established in one to the extent necessary for bare knowledge and continuous mindfulness. And one abides independent, not clinging to anything in the world. . . .”

Through the repetition of the refrain, the Buddha reminds us again and again what are the essential aspects of the practice: • Contemplating our experience internally, externally, and both; • Contemplating the nature of impermanence—the arising, the passing away, and both the arising and passing away in regard to our experience; • Establishing enough mindfulness to recognize simply what is unfolding moment to moment — without mental commentary—and to remain mindful of what’s happening; • Abiding without clinging to anything that enters our realm of experience.

INTERNALLY AND EXTERNALLY Contemplating the body internally seems obvious; it is mostly how we practice. It is the present-moment awareness of what arises in the body — it might be the sensations of the breath or of different sensations arising throughout the body, such as heat or cold, tightness or pressure. But what does contemplating the body externally mean? There are some interesting aspects here that meditation practitioners don’t often make explicit. Contemplating the body externally can mean being mindful of the bodily actions of others when they draw our attention. Instead of our usual tendency to judge or react when we see other people doing something, we can rest in the simple mindfulness of what the other person is doing. We can be mindful that they are walking or eating, without getting lost in our own thoughts of how fast or slow, mindful or careless they might be. An ironic and useless pattern that I’ve noticed on my own retreats is that my mind comments on someone not being mindful—or at least not appearing to be in my eyes—all the while being oblivious to the fact that in that very moment I’m doing exactly what it is I have a judgment about: namely, not being mindful! It usually doesn’t take me long to see the absurdity of this pattern and then just to smile at these habits of mind. It’s always helpful to have a sense of humor about one’s own mental foibles. By practicing this simple external mindfulness, we protect our own minds from the various defilemen...

The last part of this instruction is to contemplate both internally and externally. Anālayo suggests that this is not just a simple repetition, but rather reflects a more profound understanding that we should contemplate experience without considering it to be part of one’s own experience or that of another, but just as an objective experience in itself. Being mindful internally, externally, and both reminds us of the comprehensive nature of mindfulness practice—to be aware of whatever there is, whether it is within us or without. And, in the end, to go beyond this division altogether.

“Bhikkhus, when the perception of impermanence is developed and cultivated, it eliminates all sensual lust, all lust for existence, it eliminates all ignorance, it uproots the conceit, ‘I am.’”

Understanding deeply the truth of impermanence—not as a concept, but in direct experience—opens the doorway to ever-deepening insight. In the Buddha’s first teaching on selflessness to the group of five ascetics, he goes through each of the five aggregates — material elements, feelings, perceptions, formations, and consciousness — pointing out the impermanence of each and how that which is impermanent is inherently unreliable and unsatisfying. And that which is unreliable and unsatisfying cannot truly be considered to be “I” or “mine.” In just hearing this teaching, all five ascetics became enlightened.

It’s telling that in English, the words disenchanted, disillusioned, and dispassionate often have negative connotations. But looking more closely at their meaning reveals their connection to freedom. Becoming disenchanted means breaking the spell of enchantment, waking up into a fuller and greater reality. It is the happy ending of so many great myths and fairy tales. Disillusioned is not the same as being discouraged or disappointed. It is a reconnection with what is true, free of illusion. And dispassionate does not mean “indifferent” or “apathetic.” Rather, it is the mind of great openness and equanimity, free of grasping.

We can be mindful of impermanence on many levels. Wisdom arises when we pay attention to impermanence in ways we may already know but often overlook. There are the very obvious changes in nature: climate change, daily weather patterns, evolution and extinction of species. On the collective level, there are large-scale changes in society: the rise and fall of civilizations and cultures. On the personal level, people are born, and they die. Walking through the woods in New England, we often come across miles of stone walls and old stone foundations, with trees now growing up through them. What stories took place here? What lives as vivid as our own? What is left? We see the changing experience of our relationships or work, and most intimately, of our bodies and minds.

Given all these examples of change that are before us all the time, it is striking that we often still find the changes in our lives surprising. Somehow we count on things staying a certain way, or at least, if they are going to change, they will change to our liking.

When we pay careful attention, we see that everything is disappearing and new things are arising not only each day or hour but in every moment. When we leave our house, or simply walk from one room to another, can we notice this flow of changing experience — the flow of visual forms as we move, different sounds, changing sensations in the body, fleeting thoughts of images? What happens to each of these experiences? Do...

“Mindfulness that ‘there is a body’ is established in one to the extent necessary for bare knowledge and continuous mindfulness.” As Anālayo notes, bare knowledge here means observing objectively without getting lost in associations and reactions. It’s the simple and direct knowing of what’s present without making up stories about experience. This “seeing clearly” is, in fact, the meaning of the Pali word vipassanā, usually translated as “insight meditation.” We often miss the simplicity of bare knowledge because we look through it—or over it—for something special, or we look forward in expectation and miss what is right in front of us.

Sometimes we obscure the experience of bare knowing because we are conflating simple awareness with some unnoticed attachment or aversion to what is happening. This can happen when the various hindrances are strong or when there are subtler attachments to pleasant meditative states.

There is an early insight into the nature of the mind-body process that both comes from this continuity of mindfulness and also strengthens it: it is the understanding through one’s own experience that in every moment knowing and its object arise simultaneously. There is the in-breath and the simultaneous knowing of it, the out-breath and the knowing of it. A visual object arises, and in that very moment there is the knowing of it. This is true of every aspect of our experience. This insight is the first doorway into the understanding of selflessness, and in the stages of insight, it is called Purification of View. We begin to see that everything that we call self is simply this pairwise progression of knowing and object, arising and passing moment after moment. And we also see that the knowing in each moment arises due to impersonal causes and not because there is some abiding “knower.” So we can say that knowing (consciousness) arises spontaneously when the appropriate causes and conditions are present. Going even deeper, we see that the knowing faculty is not altered or affected by what is known, and this realization has liberating consequences for both our meditation practice and our lives. In meditation, as we go from painful sensations to pleasant ones, we see that the basic quality of knowing is not altered—it is simply aware of what is arising.

We build this momentum of mindfulness very simply. We can start with some primary object of attention, such as mindfulness of the breath or the sitting posture.

When the mind has settled a bit, we can then begin paying attention to any other object that becomes more predominant. It might be sensations in the body, or sounds, or different thoughts and images arising in the mind. And as the mindfulness gains strength, we sometimes let go of the primary object altogether and practice a more choiceless awareness, simply being aware of whatever arises moment to moment. At this point, as the awareness becomes more panoramic, we move from emphasis on the content of the particular experience to its more general characteristics—namely, the impermanence, unreliability, and selflessness of all that arises.

we hear a sound. Consciousness simply knows the sound; perception recognizes it, names it “bird,” and then remembers this concept for the next time we hear that kind of sound. It’s not that the word bird will always come to mind when we hear the sound, but there will still be a preverbal recognition that the sound is the call of a bird.

On the one hand, we want to establish mindfulness to the extent necessary for bare knowing, which somehow suggests a mind free from conceptual overlay. And on the other hand, the factor of perception, with its attendant concepts, is itself a proximate cause for mindfulness to arise. The resolution of these apparently contradictory perspectives lies in our deeper understanding of perception. Perception is a common factor, which means that it is arising in every moment of consciousness. When perception is operative without strong mindfulness — which is the usual way an untrained mind navigates the world — then we know and remember only the surface appearance of things. In the moment of recognition, we give a name or a concept to what arises, and then our experiences become limited, obscured, or colored by those very concepts.

But perception can also be in the service of greater mindfulness and awareness. Instead of concepts limiting our view of what’s arising, properly employed, they can frame the moment’s experience, enabling a deeper and more careful observation. It is like putting a frame around a painting in order to see it more clearly.

MENTAL NOTING The notion of rallying concepts for developing wisdom underlies the purpose of the meditative technique of mental noting. This technique uses a word—or sometimes a short phrase—to acknowledge what is arising. The mental note or label — such as “in,” “out,” “in,” “out,” “thinking,” “heaviness,” “in,” “out,” “restlessness”—supports clear recognition (perception), which itself strengthens both mindfulness in the moment and the momentum of continuity.

Noting can serve the practice in other ways as well. The very tone of the note in the mind can often illuminate unconscious attitudes. We may not be aware of impatience or frustration or delight as we experience different arising objects, but we may start to notice an agitated or enthusiastic tone of voice in the mind. Noting helps cut through our identification with experience, both when the hindrances are present and when our practice has become very subtle and refined. Mental noting also gives us important feedback: Are we really present or not, in a continuous or sustained way? Are we practicing to make our sittings — or the day — genuinely seamless? Do we understand the difference between being casual and relaxed in our application of mindfulness? We shouldn’t confuse this strong intention to be aware with grimness. We can practice continuity of mindfulness with the grace of tai chi or the Japanese tea ceremony, simply taking care even with the small daily activities of our lives.

It’s important to realize that this tool of mental noting is simply a skillful means for helping us to be mindful — it is not the essence of the practice itself, which is simply to be aware. There are many Buddhist traditions that do not use this technique. But it is worth experimenting with, even for short periods of time, to see whether it is indeed helpful for your practice or not. We should also understand its limitations. Noting is not used as an intellectual reflection and should be kept to a single, silent word. David Kalupahana, a renowned Buddhist scholar, wrote, “Concepts used for Satipaṭṭhāna are to be pursued only to the point where they produce knowledge, and not beyond, for conceptions carried beyond their limits can lead to substantialist metaphysics.”3 Taking concepts too far simply solidifies our view of reality, and we get boxed in by mental constructs of our own making. As mindfulness gets stronger, we might become aware of too many things to label, with objects changing so quickly that there’s not even time to note. In this situation, we are noticing more than we note, and the labels themselves start to fall away. When awareness is well established and mindfulness is happening by itself—what we could call effortless effort — then we can simply rest in the continuity of bare knowing. Ryokan, a nineteenth-century Zen master, poet, and wandering monk, expressed it this way: “Know your mind just as it is.”

our normal mode of perception, when we see, hear, smell, taste, or touch, or when we cognize things through the mind, there immediately arises a false sense of “I” and “mine”: “I’m seeing.” “I’m hearing.” Then we elaborate further: “I’m meditating,” with the corollaries “I’m a good (or bad) meditator” or “I’m a good or bad person.” We build a whole superstructure of self on top of momentary, changing conditions.

With this quality of bare knowing of whatever is seen, heard, felt, or cognized, we are not evaluating or proliferating different sense impressions. When we practice in this way, we understand the selfless nature of phenomena—with no “you” there—and we live abiding independent, not clinging to anything in the world.

In the midst of endless thought proliferation, of emotional storms, of energetic ups and downs, we can always come back to just this breath, just this step.

Mindfulness of body postures—just noticing as we move from one posture to the next throughout the day—helps strengthen the continuity of our awareness. This is not complicated; we don’t need to be in some heightened state of concentration, and we can practice this as easily outside of retreat as well as in seclusion.

Being mindful of how the various postures manifest during the day also reveals a lot about our states of mind. For example, as we walk, do we sometimes find ourselves rushing to go someplace or to do something? Rushing doesn’t necessarily have to do with speed; it indicates some state of anticipation, wanting, energetically toppling forward, even slightly, rather than being settled back in the moment with just what there is. One of the most helpful instructions for walking meditation is, “When walking, just walk.” This simple reminder can cut through the energy of rushing and the perhaps unnoticed desire for some meditative state.

Impermanence, or anicca, is obvious as we move from one posture to another. This is true not only in the big changes, such as when we go from sitting to standing or from standing to lying down, but also in all the innumerable changes that occur in the process of going from one posture to another. Especially when we slow down, we can feel the microsensations in every moment.

Mindfulness of the four postures illuminates the truth of dukkha, or unsatisfactoriness, in a very immediate way. This becomes clear when we investigate why it is that we move or change posture. When we pay close attention, we see that almost all movements are an attempt to alleviate some kind of pain or discomfort.

When we go to eat, we’re relieving the suffering of hunger. When we go to the bathroom, we’re alleviating a discomfort. We lie down to relieve tiredness. But even then, when we think we might finally enjoy some ease, after some time, the body needs to roll over or stretch. And after some number of hours, we need to stand up because the body is getting stiff from just lying down. All of this is summarized in the dharma statement, “Movement masks dukkha.”

As we walk, we can hold in our minds the unspoken question, “Who is walking, and who is standing?”

whatever is happening is simply the process of knowing and its object — the sensations of the body standing and the knowing of them, sensations of the body sitting and the knowing of them. We see that there’s no one behind this process to whom it is all happening, only the pairwise progression of knowing and object rolling on.

Continuity of mindfulness of changing postures ensures the continuity of our awareness of impermanence, which in turn helps free us from identifying with the body as being a permanent self. We start living the teaching the Buddha gave to his son, Rāhula: “You should see all phenomena with proper wisdom—this is not mine, this is not I, this is not myself.”

“May you have happiness and the causes of happiness. May you be free of suffering and the causes of suffering.”

In our everyday notion of the body, we might say, “I feel my leg.” But there is no sensation called “leg.” Rather, what we feel are certain sensations, like pressure, heaviness, and lightness, and then we create an image or concept: “leg.” In meditation, we move from the concept of body to the awareness of the body as a changing energy field. On this level, the sense of the body as being something solid and substantial disappears.

Notice how often this sense of “I am” arises in relation to our bodies, particularly when we are comparing our bodies, in one way or another, to other people’s. Notice, then, how many different thoughts and emotional patterns get triggered through these comparisons, how many projections we get lost in: “If we buy this product, we will be like, or look like, the perfectly beautiful beings advertising it.” Because the comparison is such an obvious ruse, the fact that it often conditions our behavior points to its appeal to some deeply rooted pattern in our psyche. In seeing the body as a collection of parts, none of which by themselves are particularly alluring, and then experiencing the body simply as an interplay of elements, the conceit of “I am” falls away. Feelings of either pride or unworthiness with regard to the body no longer make sense.

When we’re not mindful, pleasant feelings habitually condition desire and clinging, unpleasant feelings condition dislike and aversion, and neutral feelings condition delusion — that is, not really knowing what is going on. Yet when we are mindful, these very same feelings become the vehicle of our freedom.

When the uninstructed worldling is contacted by a painful feeling, he/she feels aversion to it, feels sorrow and grief, and becomes distraught. The Buddha uses the example of being struck by two kinds of darts. The painful feeling itself is the first dart, and when we’re not mindful, the unpleasant mental reaction to it is the second. Two darts, striking twice, with the second causing more suffering than the first.

We can also train in mindfulness of feelings with external situations. There is a story of Ajahn Chaa going on retreat by himself in a little hut in the forest, but not far from a village. One night, the villagers were having a celebration with loud music playing on loudspeakers. At first, Ajahn Chaa became annoyed, thinking, “Don’t they know I’m here on retreat?” But after a few moments of consideration, he realized the problem was in his own mind, not in the sound. He thought, “Well, they’re just having a good time down there. I’m making myself miserable up here. No matter how upset I get, my anger is just making more noise internally.” And then he had this insight: “Oh, the sound is just the sound. It’s me who is going out to annoy it. If I leave the sound alone, it won’t annoy me. It’s just doing what it has to do. That’s what sound does. It makes sound. This is its job. So if I don’t go out and bother the sound, it’s not going to bother me.”7

In our Western cultures, the idea of renunciation doesn’t always inspire us. We tend to think of it as deprivation, something that might be good for us in the end, but is not that much fun now. But another way of understanding renunciation is as nonaddictiveness to sense pleasures. From this perspective, renunciation holds out the possibility of happiness now. The less addicted we are to the seduction of sense pleasures, the less commotion there is in the mind. We experience greater ease and simplicity of living.

when we’re not mindful of pleasant worldly feelings when they arise, we’re unknowingly strengthening our habit of desire: “When one is touched by a pleasant feeling, if one delights in it, welcomes it, and remains holding to it, then the underlying tendency to lust lies within one.”1

Generosity We may not yet know the happiness of full enlightenment, but all along the path, we do experience clear times of nonsensual joy, the unworldly pleasant feelings. We experience them in times of generosity, when we are renouncing mind states of greed and stinginess. Think of times when you were generous with someone, giving something out of love or compassion, respect or gratitude. Practicing generosity is an easily accessible gateway to the happy, unworldly feelings based on renunciation, and it is the reason the Buddha usually begins his progressive teachings speaking of generosity.

Love and Compassion We feel nonsensual joy when we practice qualities like love and compassion. The great Zen master and poet Ryokan summed up the expression of this feeling when he wrote, “Oh that my monk’s robes were wide enough to gather up all the people in this floating world.” Sometimes we see the best qualities of humanity emerge in times of great disasters, where there is an outpouring of generosity from people all over the world. We can feel the purity of those mind states. People aren’t giving in order to get anything back for themselves, and they are often moved to give more than they might have under more normal circumstances. In this response to suffering, there is the purity of a spontaneous, compassionate response, which brings its own kind of happiness.

Renunciation We feel a nonsensual joy when we practice the renunciation involved with following the precepts. We renounce harmful actions, and this renunication brings the unworldly pleasant feeling of nonremorse. And even if we’ve done unskillful actions in the past—as we all have—there is a certain strength ...

Concentration We experience nonsensual joy of unworldly pleasant feelings in states of concentration, where the mind is secluded from unskillful states. At first our minds are often restless and agitated, jumping from one thing to another, reacting to the various pleasant and unpleasant feelings that arise. At a certain point, whether for short periods or sustained ones, the mind settles down, resting easily on the object of attention, carried on the current of mindfulness. There is an ease and pleasure here much greater than that of our usual sense delights. There’s a greater sense of unification.

Clear Seeing We experience an even higher nonsensual joy in the various stages of insight and awakening. Here it is not the absorption in the unworldly pleasant feelings of concentration, but the special happiness of clear seeing — that is, seeing deeply and vividly the changing, selfless nature of all that arises. And as insight practice matures in various ways, there is an even more refined kind of happiness.

APPLYING THE REFRAIN Just as after every other section of this discourse, the Buddha repeats the refrain. We are reminded to contemplate feelings internally, externally, and both, to contemplate the nature of arising and passing away and both the arising and passing away of feelings. The Buddha then completes this instruction by saying: “Mindfulness that ‘there is feeling’ is established to the extent necessary for bare knowledge and continuous mindfulness. And one abides independent, not clinging to anything in the world. That is how in regard to feelings, one abides contemplating feelings.”7 Mindfulness of feelings externally means that we are aware of feelings arising in others; mindfulness fosters empathetic joy when others experience pleasant feelings, and it fosters compassion when others are in pain. When we’re not mindful of feelings — pleasant, unpleasant, and neutral; worldly and unworldly—and we don’t contemplate them internally, externally, and both, then we easily become identified with these feelings, taking them to be self.

Through contemplating feelings as impersonal processes, arising out of contact with the six sense objects (mind is included as the sixth sense), we no longer take these feelings to be self. And in those moments we are practicing the Buddha’s essential teaching, “Nothing whatsoever is to be clung to as I or mine.”