Mindfulness: A Practical Guide to Awakening

by Joseph Goldstein

For many people, it is an easy step from recognizing a particular mind state like greed or hatred as being unwholesome to the feeling that you’re a bad person for having it, or that somehow it’s wrong for the mind state to even arise. This pattern of reaction simply leads to more self-judgment, more aversion, and more suffering. It’s not a helpful cycle. It’s important to understand which mind states are skillful and which are unskillful, not in order to judge ourselves or be reactive to them, but in order to see which lead to happiness and should be cultivated in our lives, and which lead to suffering and should be abandoned.

As a simple experiment in meditation, when you’re sitting, you might ask the question, “What’s the attitude in the mind right now?” This question often illuminates whether the mind is holding on in some way or wanting some other state to occur, and is a direct application of mindfulness of mind. Often, just in asking the question, we can feel the mind relax from a clinging or aversion we hadn’t even realized was there.

First, during times of struggle, where for one reason or another we don’t quite know what is going on and there is a lack of ease or connection, where we have the feeling of efforting, striving, struggling, but without much success, then, at these times, it is helpful to sit back, open up the awareness, and simply ask the question, “What is happening?” Very often there’s a mind state present that we’re simply not acknowledging. Maybe it is a dullness we’re trying to fight our way through, or it might be a distracted, restless energy with a lot of thinking. Or it might be the angry mind caught up in a story. In each case, when we acknowledge and accept just what it is, the mind no longer struggles. We simply know with bare attention that this is what’s present.

Emotions and moods are often what we most personalize. When we identify with them, we build a superstructure of self on top of the shifting landscape of experience: “I’m angry,” “I’m sad,” “I’m happy.” But as we practice this mindfulness of mind, we notice more clearly what mood or emotion is present and how it is coloring or conditioning the mind, without adding the idea or sense of self. We simply know the angry mind is like this, the sad mind is like this, the happy mind is like this.

It is often obvious, either through a person’s bodily expressions or words, when they are feeling something as either pleasant or painful. Then, by inference, from our own experience of pleasure and pain, we can know, at least to some extent, what the other person is feeling. The same is true of various mind states. When we’re mindful of mind externally, and we see someone angry or loving, greedy or generous, distracted or concentrated, then by inference, based on our own experience of these states, we can open to and become aware of the other person’s mental state—just as it is, free from our own unmindful reactivity.

Just as pleasant feelings condition desire, unpleasant ones condition aversion, and neutral feelings condition ignorance when we’re unmindful internally, so too might seeing painful feelings in others trigger grief, sorrow, or denial in ourselves when we’re unmindful externally. In some circumstances, painful feelings in others can trigger cruelty.

Likewise, when we’re unmindful externally, the pleasant feelings in others could trigger jealousy or envy. The writer Anne Lamott expressed this possibility very clearly when she described how difficult it is for writers to accept the triumphs of other writers, especially a friend: “It can wreak just the tiniest bit of havoc with your self-esteem to find that you are hoping for small, bad things to happen to this friend, for, say, her head to blow up.”1

Reactions to others can be a powerful mindfulness bell, reminding us to pay attention. There is a lot to observe at those times. We can become mindful of our own reactive mind states, such as impatience, anger, or fear. We can then become mindful of the bodily actions, feelings, or mind states of others that have triggered our reactions, noticing if we’re also reactive to those same qualities in ourselves. And then we can pay attention to what happens as we settle into a mindful awareness of all these things.

The more often we see this passing-away nature of mind states and emotions, the less driven we are by them. Direct insight—that is, seeing into their passing away — brings about the space to be with mind states and emotions without fear, without identification, and without reaction. Arising and passing away, on their deepest levels, lead to wisdom and awakening. This is expressed most simply in words often found in the suttas: “Whatever has the nature to arise has the nature to cease.”

This bare knowing is not something we try to do or create; rather, it is something to come back to. A little mantra that has helped me a lot in my practice is a reminder of this aware nature: “It’s already here.”

Know when a hindrance is present and when it is absent, • Know the conditions leading to the arising and removal of a hindrance, and • Know the conditions that prevent future arisings of a hindrance.

I have found the note “painted tiger” a good reminder that when we get angry at something we are remembering or anticipating, in that moment we’re simply getting angry at a thought in the mind—a painted tiger.

Know That Awareness Is Already Present Lastly, when we’re caught up in excessive worry about our practice and our progress on the path, we can balance the linear-stage model of the path with the perspective emphasized more in the Thai or Tibetan Dzogchen traditions: understanding that the mind’s empty, aware nature is already here. From this perspective, it’s not something we need to get or develop, but rather something we need to recognize and come back to. I’ve used two reminders to great benefit in my practice: “Already aware” and “It’s already here.”

We can prevent the future arising of restlessness and worry in a variety of ways. From the moment we recommit to the sīla of nonharming, our mind settles into freedom from nonremorse. Even if we have done unskillful things in the past, as we all have, we know that from this point onward, we are taking care with our actions of body, speech, and mind. This, of course, is nothing more than following the eightfold path of practice, which we will explore in much greater detail in later chapters. Reading dharma books, conversing with good friends, associating with wise teachers — all help the mind to stay free from restlessness and agitation that have not yet arisen.

“To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation.”

experience unwise attention in different ways. One way is by not paying careful attention in the moment to the moment, not seeing and recognizing what the particular thoughts and feelings are that give rise to doubt. This can happen when we’re being what I call “more-or-less mindful.” We’re going along, somewhat aware of what is happening, but not in a precise and accurate way. In this situation, unnoticed thought tapes gather momentum and begin to dominate the mind stream.

is better to do an unskillful act knowing that it’s unskillful than to do it without that knowledge. If we go ahead and do that act, even as we know that it’s unskillful, there are still the seeds of wisdom that can lead to future restraint.

“See everything with perfect wisdom. This is not mine, not I, not myself.”

As soon as we identify with any role or image, it is already a limitation. It is like a mold that we pour ourselves into, and then wonder why we feel contracted. We can also create limiting spiritual self-images. This is when we get caught in practice-assessment tapes in our minds, identifying with the ideas that our meditation is going well or badly—what I call the “good yogi, bad yogi syndrome.”

Imagine for a moment a great summer storm. There is wind and rain, thunder and lightning; but there is no storm apart from these elements. “Storm” is simply the concept or designation for this interrelated mix of phenomena. In the same way, when we look more closely at what we are calling “self,” we see a constellation of rapidly changing elements, each one of which is itself momentary and insubstantial.

Identification with mental factors creates the perspective of “I’m thinking,” “I’m angry,” “I’m sad,” “I’m happy,” “I’m making effort,” “I feel rapture,” “I’m restless.” We build this superstructure of “I,” of “self,” on top of what are actually momentary, changing conditions. When we observe them more carefully, we see that each of these mental factors arises out of conditions in the moment, expresses its own nature, and passes away as conditions change.

More useful and freeing perspectives than identifying with these factors would be language such as “the thought is the thinker,” “love loves,” “anger angers,” “joy enjoys.” These mental factors are not “self,” not “I,” not “mine”; they don’t belong to anyone.

all intentional, volitional actions, whether of body, speech, or mind, have the power to bring about results both in the present and the future. The energy of intention is like the potential of a seed. A seed is so small, yet a small seed can become a huge tree. Moreover, just as each seed can bear many fruits, so too each of our volitional actions can produce myriad results.

The body doesn’t move by itself; it moves because of a volition in the mind. We can see this every time we change posture or reach for something or turn as we’re moving about. These are movements that are not happening on their own. There is some energetic factor in the mind that wills the action. We can notice this in various ways. We might get a forewarning of intention in the mind through being aware of a thought to do something. The thought, itself, is not the intention, but it can alert us that an intentional action may follow. As we observe this process carefully, we sometimes feel a certain gathering of energy in the mind — the impulse or command moment — that results in the hand reaching or the body turning. Sometimes we might not feel anything so tangible; rather we simply know, in the moment before acting, that we’re about to move—I call this the “about-to moment.” All of these processes connect us with the factor of volition. We can also notice that volitions keep arising throughout the action, not only in the initiation of the action. Intention is analogous to an electric current that keeps an appliance running or a light bulb shining. If the current stops, then the appliance also stops or the light goes out. In the same way, even within one step, there needs to be a continuous flow of intentions to keep the foot moving through the air. If the intention stops, the foot will stop moving. We can have a direct experience of the impersonal nature of intention at th...

consciousness is not something permanent, always present, waiting for some object to be known; rather, it is a process continually arising and passing away many times a moment. We have the illusion of continuity because the process is happening so quickly.

“self” or “I” is not something we need to get rid of or demolish. Rather, we understand that it was never there in the first place.

When there is unwise attention given to contact and feeling, then our conditioned response to pleasant experience is desire; to unpleasant experience, aversion; and to neutral experience, dullness or delusion. But if we are mindful of contact and feeling, then we cut the chain of dependent arisings right there, and it doesn’t lead on to the further links of desire, clinging, becoming, and the cycle of birth and death.

We might simply notice the different sense objects as they arise: sights and sounds, smells and tastes, sensations and thoughts. Or we might emphasize the process of contact: seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, touching, and thinking. This is the moment of sense base, sense object, and consciousness all coming together. Sometimes we emphasize the knowing aspect and rest in the knowing. Here, there is less effortful directing of the mind to the object; rather, there is the practicing of a more receptive awareness, the ease of simply knowing whatever appears.

we can begin understanding the force of taṇhā, of desire, more clearly and experience the freedom of its end, even if only for a few moments at a time. One way to explore this in your practice is to notice when some simple desire arises in the mind. It might be a desire for a cup of tea, a piece of chocolate, or your next vacation. We can try to be mindful of the desire without getting lost in it, without pushing it away. We can feel the energy of wanting in the body. As we’re being mindful of this desire, we may notice that, at some point, the desire disappears. Highlight that moment, because right there is an important insight into the impermanent nature of desire itself. We see that desires do not need to be gratified in order to be resolved.

We can notice the difference between desire and clinging. Desire is the wanting, the thirst for something. Clinging is the holding on to, grasping at either the object of desire or sometimes even the desire itself. I find I’m often less entranced by the actual object and more attached to the energy of wanting. I may be holding on to the thought of wanting something out of fear of not getting. At these times, it feels as if the object is secondary and that what is really happening is I’m trying to avoid a feeling of deprivation.

perception is the mental factor that interprets experience by recognizing and remembering the distinguishing features of an object. In the simplest examples, perception recognizes the differences between red and blue, hot and cold, man and woman. But there is one understanding here that is critical to our freedom: perceptions are not absolutes; they are conditioned on many different levels.

“Things are seen through the lenses of our desires, prejudices, and resentments and are transformed accordingly.”3

since all pleasures are all impermanent, there is no end to the seeking.

The more we understand our own process of conditioning, how our perceptions are influenced and colored by deeply rooted habits of mind that are often unconsciously activated, the more we can understand how other people come to their own points of view.

Not Forgetting The first application of mindfulness is the quality of not forgetting, not losing what is before the mind in the present moment. Mindfulness stays firmly with the object without wobbling or drifting off. We could call this aspect “the stability of awareness”

Presence of Mind The second aspect of mindfulness is its quality of standing near the mind, which manifests as being face-to-face with whatever is arising, rather than giving it only sidelong glances.

Remembering The third aspect of sati is one that we don’t often associate with mindfulness, but, in fact, it hearkens back to its root meaning of remembering. Here, mindfulness calls to mind, or remembers, what is skillful and what is not, what is inferior and what is refined, what is beneficial and what is harmful.

Mindfulness thus becomes a key factor in strengthening our inner moral compass. If we don’t remember and call to mind what is wholesome and what is not, then we simply toss about on the waves of habitual mind states, often acting out the latent tendencies of different defilements.

A counterintuitive but very helpful teaching is that it is better to do an unwholesome deed knowing it is unwholesome than to do it without that knowing. If we don’t even know that something is unwholesome, then there is no motivation to change. But in knowing that something is unwholesome, even as we might be doing it, then the seeds of wisdom and future restraint are there.

Close Association with Wisdom The last aspect of mindfulness is its close association with wisdom. This comes about through bare attention and clear comprehension. The quality of bare attention can manifest on different levels and is called different things in the various Buddhist traditions: mindfulness, naked awareness, innate wakefulness. It is naked and bare because it is simple, direct, noninterfering, and nonjudging. It’s not making up stories about experience; it’s just the simple awareness of things as they are.

It takes honesty and openness to cultivate this factor of investigation in our lives, to see clearly the different motivations that arise in the course of a day. As a simple example, notice your mind state as you’re about to sit down for a meal. Are you as settled back as when you’re doing walking meditation or listening to a sound, or is there a slight toppling forward in desire and anticipation? You can check to see what the attitude of the mind is at that moment. Or you might investigate your motivations before speaking. Are they coming from a mind state of lovingkindness, of self-reference, or of anger and ill will? It’s important not to bring reactive judgments to these discernments, or if we do, to be aware of them.

we need to be mindful of how we’re making effort. If there is a strong agenda—the “in-order-to” mind I’ve spoken of — being aware in order for something in particular to happen, or if we’re holding on to the object too tightly, afraid that we’ll lose it, then we need to open and relax the mind, softening the quality of our effort. On the other hand, if the mind is continually drifting off and there is no effort to investigate what is going on, then we need to strengthen this effort factor.

what happens when we investigate boredom or disinterest in the practice? These states seem the very opposite of pīti. But when we take interest in the boredom itself, we discover something of immense value. We see that boredom does not have anything to do with the object; it simply has to do with the quality of our attention. When our attention is half-hearted, when we’re “more-or-less mindful,” then there is disinterest, whatever the experience might be. As Fritz Perls, the founder of Gestalt psychology, said, “Boredom is lack of attention.” So instead of seeing boredom or disinterest as a problem, we begin to take it as feedback. Instead of struggling with what is arising, we step back and simply ask ourselves, “What is the mind knowing?” and then bring our attention in close to whatever it is.

Reflecting on our sīla can take different forms. First, we recognize the beauty and power in those moments of restraint from unwholesome actions. What is the quality of our mind when we protect life rather than destroy it—when we take an insect outside rather than killing it? Can we pay attention to the feeling of empowerment that arises when we refrain from some kind of harmful or useless speech, or when we act with integrity in situations where that might be in conflict with our desires? At all these times, we can recognize the feeling in the mind as we make choices that are in accord with our values,

Remember that the practice of sīla involves training, not commandments, and that even after lapses we can retake the precepts and begin again. This enables us to appreciate all the times we have lived by this commitment to nonharming, and it also allows us to learn from those times that we haven’t.

Notice the quality of peace when the mind is free of the hindrances or defilements. This is particularly noticeable when the mind comes out of some mental drama. It might be a lustful fantasy, some bout of annoyance or ill will, or maybe just quick moments of desire or irritation. We can bring understanding to these states, how we get caught up in them and how release from them happens, and then begin to taste what is called “momentary freedom.” Reflecting on this quality of peace inspires us with what’s possible in our lives.

There is often a subtle, or not so subtle, striving or efforting even with something as simple as the breath. Repeatedly reminding ourselves to relax, to calm the formations of body and mind, actually brings about a letting go, a settling back into a more tranquil state, free of wanting, of getting. We can then give wise attention to this experience of calm.

We can also practice tranquility as we move about. Notice the feeling of rushing, which can happen even in moving slowly, and notice what characterizes that experience. We find that we’re slightly ahead of ourselves, energetically toppling forward. Rushing is a kind of energetic excitability that doesn’t allow for the ease and composure of a tranquil mind. We can use the simple phrase “When walking, just walk” to remind us to settle back into the moment, without efforting or striving, without wanting some state or leaning into a destination. We can just feel the simplicity of each movement, moment after moment: when walking, just walk. This same reminder can be extended to any activity: When standing, just stand. When seeing, just see.

the enlightenment factor of calm is frequently overshadowed by its jazzier neighbors, rapture and concentration. In looking back at my own practice, I have seen that I often give more emphasis to the development of concentration; however, this is sometimes accompanied by a kind of striving and efforting that actually get in the way. In my efforts to concentrate, I was sometimes unknowingly practicing desire and the wanting mind, which are exactly what hinder concentration. It is worth remembering that the quality of calm has the precise function of cooling out this desiring mind: as tranquility develops, desire is abandoned. And it is this tranquility that allows for concentration, the next factor of awakening, to naturally arise.

Without the steadiness of concentration, it is easy to get caught up in the feelings, perceptions, and thoughts as they arise. We take them to be self and get carried away by trains of association and reactivity. Notice the profound difference between being aware of a thought and being lost in it. It is the power of concentration that keeps the defilements at bay, so that we can see clearly what it is that is going on.