Fascicle 7

What is the essential nature of the perfection of meditative concentration? To make the mind upright, to unify one's intention, to gather every good quality within, holding it fast in the mind, while dissolving every defilement and evil through goodness. There are, in general, four levels of meditative absorption. In the first absorption's practice, one gives up the five wicked and deceptive things bound up with craving: the eye seeing beautiful form and the mind growing wild with lust for it; one must likewise give up sound heard by the ear, fragrance smelled by the nose, taste savored by the mouth, and pleasing sensation felt by the body — the resolve of one who practices the Way must hold itself far from these. There are also five hindrances: the hindrance of craving for wealth, the hindrance of anger and rage, the hindrance of drowsiness, the hindrance of lustful pleasure, and the hindrance of regret and doubt. Whether the Way exists or not, whether a buddha exists or not, whether scriptures exist or not — the mind's own awareness and thought, pure and free of defilement, the mind bright and beholding the truth, attains a state where nothing remains unknown, and gods, dragons, and wicked spirits can no longer deceive it. It is like a person who has ten enemies and manages to free himself from all of them, dwelling alone in the mountains where the crowd knows nothing of him and he need fear nothing further; far from the passions of ordinary people, inwardly pure and the mind stilled — this is called the first absorption. Once the mind has attained the first absorption, it advances toward the second. In the second absorption, it is like a person avoiding an enemy: though he dwells deep in the mountains, still fearing the enemy might seek him out, he conceals himself yet more deeply. Though the household passions of the ten cravings are now far away, one still fears that the thief of desire might come to destroy one's resolve for the Way; upon attaining the second absorption, the passions grow gradually more distant and can no longer defile oneself. In the first absorption, good and evil still contend with one another, with good dissolving evil, evil retreating as good advances. In the second absorption, the mind of joy comes to rest, and one no longer relies on goodness to actively dissolve evil. Both joy and goodness themselves entirely dissolve away, and the smoke of the ten evils is cut off; from outside, no further cause or condition can enter the mind. It is like a spring at the summit of a high mountain, into which nothing flows from outside, and which is not filled by rain from a dragon, but wells up purely from within itself, its water pure and the spring full; goodness arises from within the mind itself, and evil no longer enters through ear, eye, nose, or mouth. Governing the mind in this way, one then advances toward the third absorption. In the third absorption, one's guard over the mind grows firm and solid, and neither good nor evil can enter; the mind is as settled as Mount Sumeru, with no goodness escaping outward and no external matter of good or evil, entirely stilled, entering in. The mind is like a lotus, its root and stem within the water, its blossom closed and not yet opened, still covered by the water. The practice of the third absorption is pure as that blossom, departed from every evil, the body and mind both at peace. Governing the mind in this way, one then advances toward the fourth absorption. Both good and evil are entirely cast aside; the mind neither dwells on goodness nor retains any evil, and is bright and pure within, like a crystal jewel — or like a man or woman freshly bathed, anointed with fragrant perfume, dressed within and without in fresh new robes, radiant and fine, fragrant and pure both inside and out. The bodhisattva's mind, made upright in this way, attains these four absorptions. No wicked host or defilement can any longer obscure his mind, just as a piece of pure silk can be dyed whatever color one wishes, or as a potter shapes clay free of sand and grit into whatever vessel he desires, or as a skilled smith, having thoroughly refined fine gold, can shape it into a hundred marvels and a thousand cunning forms exactly as his heart wills. The bodhisattva, his mind purified, attaining these four absorptions, may do as his intention leads him: rising lightly and flying through the air, walking upon water, dividing and scattering his own body, transforming himself in countless ways, appearing and vanishing without any gap, coming and going as freely as he wishes. He may reach out to the sun and moon, move heaven and earth, seeing and hearing without obstruction, missing nothing; his mind pure and his vision clear, he attains complete wisdom, knowing what has passed between heaven, earth, and living beings even before it occurred, knowing the thoughts held in every mind of the ten directions in the present moment, and even matters not yet sprouted into being; he knows where the spirits of living beings, whether reborn as gods or as humans, or entering Mount Tai, the realm of hungry ghosts, or the animal realm, will receive punishment when their blessing is exhausted or receive blessing when their punishment is complete — nothing, however distant, remains unknown to him. Whoever attains these four absorptions and wishes to attain the fruit of stream-entry, once-returning, non-returning, or arhatship, or the state of any buddha, the Tathāgata, the truly and equally awakened, the unsurpassed brightness — need only seek it, and it is attained. Just as the ten thousand things all arise from the earth, so too, from the wisdom of the five spiritual powers up to that of the World-Honored One himself, all is accomplished through these four absorptions, just as nothing living beings create can stand without the earth beneath it. The Blessed One said further: "Living beings dwelling in this world — even should they possess the cleverness of Śakra, lord of the gods, or of an immortal sage, if they have not encountered this scripture and have not attained the concentration that abandons the four hindrances, they remain, in truth, no different from the ignorant." Once wisdom is present, and the mind further becomes single-pointed, one draws near to liberation from the world. This is how the bodhisattva, with a single-pointed mind, practiced the boundless perfection of meditative concentration.

Long ago a monk, having finished his meal and rinsed his mouth, entered deep into the mountains, and, beneath a tree among the hills and graves, sat with hands joined and head lowered, his mind single-pointed and every thought extinguished. Within his mind, he dissolved away the five hindrances, and, once these five hindrances were dissolved, his mind became bright and clear, darkness withdrawing and brightness remaining. Looking with compassion upon the gods, humans, and every flying, crawling, and wriggling creature, he grieved for their foolish confusion, bound as they were by these five hindrances, which cut off the bright and virtuous mind within them. Once the five hindrances are dissolved, every virtue grows strong of itself — it is like a poor man who borrows money to establish his livelihood, and, having gained profit from it, repays the debt and still has wealth remaining to sustain his household, with daily profit coming in besides, so that his heart rejoices. Or it is like a servant freed to become a commoner, or a man gravely ill who recovers, his extended family flourishing day by day, or a prisoner condemned to a grave crime who is granted amnesty and released. Or it is like one who, carrying precious treasure across the sea through great danger, returns home to see his own family again, his joy beyond measure. A mind burdened by the five hindrances suffers exactly these five kinds of hardship; a monk who sees the truth and departs from the five hindrances is like that ordinary man freed from these five afflictions — as the hindrances retreat, brightness advances, and every evil is entirely dissolved, and, the resolve for the Way growing strong and full, the first absorption is attained. "From the first absorption to the second, there are, in general, three practices: first, diligent effort; second, sustained mindfulness; third, deep reflection. Through these three, the four absorptions are accomplished — from the first absorption to the second, from the second to the third, and from the third to the fourth. The fourth absorption surpasses the third, the third surpasses the second, and the second surpasses the first. In the first absorption, the ten evils retreat and the five virtues advance. What are the ten evils? The eye's delight in form, the ear's in sound, the nose's in fragrance, the mouth's in taste, the body's in pleasing sensation, together with the five hindrances mentioned above — these together are called the ten evils. What are the five virtues? First, calculation; second, sustained thought; third, love; fourth, joy; fifth, single-pointedness of mind. These five virtues dwell within. In the second absorption, calculation and sustained thought are set aside, and the mind, restrained, observes only within; virtuous conduct dwells entirely within, no longer passing in and out through ear, eye, nose, and mouth, and good and evil conduct no longer interfere with one another; the mind, dwelling within, holds only joy. The practice of the third absorption removes even this joy, the mind still pure, calm and tranquil; the Blessed One, addressing each buddha of arhat-attainment, said: 'Whoever can extinguish desire and purify the mind will find the body at peace from beginning to end.' In the fourth absorption, even the mind of joy departs, and one attains still, settled concentration. In the first absorption, the ear is disturbed by sound; in the second, the mind is disturbed by thought; in the third, the mind is disturbed by joy; in the fourth, the mind is disturbed by the very breath itself. In the first absorption, the disturbance of sound through the ear is stilled, and one advances to the second; in the second, thought is dissolved, and one advances to the third; in the third, joy is dissolved, and one advances to the fourth; in the fourth, even the breath itself is dissolved, and one attains the concentration of emptiness." This is how the bodhisattva, with a single-pointed mind, practiced the boundless perfection of meditative concentration.

By how many means does the bodhisattva's resolve for the Way come to purify the mind within and attain a single-pointed absorption? Sometimes, seeing an old person, his hair white and teeth fallen out, his body and form transformed, one is struck with sudden understanding: "I too must surely become like this." With this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. Sometimes, seeing a sick person, body and mind in pain and distress as though beaten with a rod, one is struck with sorrowful understanding: "I too must surely become like this." With this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. Sometimes, seeing a living being whose life has come to its end, breath extinguished and vapor departed, the spirit gone and the body grown cold, cast aside by the extended family and left out in the distant wilderness — within ten days, swollen and rotting and foul, devoured perhaps by foxes, dogs, or birds, the flesh crawling with worms, the worms in turn feeding on the flesh, pus and blood and foul fluid flowing over the ground, the bones falling apart, joint separated from joint, the feet, ankles, shins, thighs, hips, spine, ribs, arms, head, teeth, and skull each scattered on their own — the practitioner of the Way reflects: "All that is born must die; people and things alike are mere illusions, and what comes together must eventually part; the spirit departs and the body scatters. How could I alone remain unaffected, different from this?" Seeing this, struck with sorrow, with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. Sometimes, seeing bones long dead, their form dissolved into dust indistinguishable from mud, one reflects deeply: "My own body will soon be just the same." With this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. Sometimes, hearing of the poison and burning fire of Mount Tai, its cruel and searing pain, of the hungry ghosts' years of starving toil, of the animal realm's slaughter, flaying, and cutting, one is struck with dread; with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. Sometimes, seeing one who has frozen or starved to death, or one condemned and executed by the king's own law, the practitioner of the Way reflects: "This person met such misfortune because he lacked the resolve for the Way — if I am not diligent, I too will surely become like this." With this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. Reflecting deeply and observing within, one recognizes that below, one is pressed by the urgency of one's own bodily wastes, and above, threatened by cold and heat, and, feeling the body itself as something detestable, with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. Sometimes, seeing a year of bad harvest, the five grains failing to ripen, the people, in their desperation, turning to chaos and fighting one another, corpses strewn everywhere, one is struck with dread: "If I do not follow the Way, I too will surely become like this." With this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. Seeing abundance turn to decline, glory and wealth hard to keep, youth turn to old age and sickness, a lifespan as brief as a flash of lightning, recalling this with a shock of realization, with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. Reflecting on the Buddha's towering greatness, beyond compare, all achieved through purity, becoming thereby the Blessed One, one holds this thought with delight, and with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. Reflecting on the profound meaning of the scriptures, and the lofty conduct of monks, with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. Reflecting on one's own bodily conduct, the good, and the virtue one has accumulated over time, with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. Reflecting on how the foolish seek what runs contrary to the Buddha's own clear teaching, laboring in vain and only increasing their own guilt, while the gods, dwelling in this world, keep the precepts and observe the fasts, thereby ascending to the heavens with boundless glory and lifespan, with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. Receiving the Buddha's own profound scriptures and reflecting on them again and again, teaching and guiding the multitude with them, one's heart filled with joy, with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. Recalling that living beings, once they have achieved something, inevitably see it collapse, and that this collapse always brings suffering, reflecting on this with sorrow, with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. The nature of living beings can never be kept secure; from the moment of their very arising, they are already changing — the practitioner of the Way, fearing this for himself, knows that when his own life comes to its end, it may arrive suddenly, and he may fall into an evil path; seeing the glory and pleasure of this world as true or false, just as one sees a dream, his resolve turns all the more toward awakening, and with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. All food, once it enters the mouth, mixes with saliva and spit; fair without and foul within, it transforms into excrement and urine — recalling this as something detestable, with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. A child in its mother's womb is at first like congealed gruel, and gradually grows larger; after thirty-eight sevens of days, the body is entirely formed, and the danger of birth itself holds much peril and little safety. Once born, sicknesses of every kind arise in succession, whether one lives one year, ten, fifty, or a hundred — all must grow old and die, with no one escaping this affliction; reflecting that this too awaits oneself, with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. What exists is bound to be extinguished, and, seeking it afterward, no trace can be found; the three realms are all empty, and one's resolve holds no craving or attachment; grieving for living beings who do not see the Buddha's scriptures, obscured by wicked desire and ignorant of impermanence, one vows to relieve them, and with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. "Once this resolve is accomplished and conduct grows lofty, holding the four immeasurable minds and caring for living beings with compassion, it is like a loving mother caring for her infant child: as the child plays with its companions, the mother, with a compassionate heart, goes to seek him out, and, seeing the child soiled with mud and dust, hungry and thirsty and crying out, is moved with grief and tears, and, embracing him, carries him home, bathes him, clothes and feeds him, until his body is well and his heart at ease; the loving mother, rejoicing, holds and cherishes him, tending him without ceasing, exactly as before. The practitioner of the Way, in compassion, cares for living beings even beyond how that loving mother cares for her child, teaching every being of heaven, whether flying, crawling, or wriggling, to honor the Buddha, see the scriptures, draw close to the community of monks, take up the Buddha's precepts, and hold and practice them, departing far from the three evils; the mind reflecting goodness, the mouth speaking goodness, the body practicing goodness — suppressing the three evils above, and forever establishing the three virtues, so that one need never again pass through the extreme suffering of Mount Tai, hell, the hungry-ghost realm, or the animal realm. He brings them to rest in the boundless hall of blessing, and, following after, continues to instruct them, fearing that, dwelling in blessing, they might grow proud and reckless, and, indulging a wicked heart, fall back again into the three lower paths; the calamity that even glory and rank can bring, and the changing nature of impermanence, suffering, and emptiness, are held up as warnings against this. He urges them instead to take up what is unconditioned, just as that loving mother's own mind of care and protection would have them do. "Contemplating sixteen matters, one attains a single-pointed mind and absorption. What are these sixteen? Knowing for oneself whether the breath is long or short; knowing for oneself when the breath causes the body to move; knowing for oneself when the breath is subtle or pronounced; knowing for oneself when the breath is comfortable or uncomfortable; knowing for oneself when the breath stops or races; knowing for oneself when the breath is joyful or sorrowful; reflecting that all things are impermanent, and knowing this through the breath itself; knowing that what has passed cannot be pursued or regained, and knowing this through the breath; holding no thought within, casting aside all reflection, and knowing this through the breath; releasing attachment to one's own body and life, or not yet releasing it, and knowing this through the breath. The practitioner of the Way, reflecting deeply, understands: where this is present, that follows; where this is absent, that does not follow. All that is born must inevitably meet the affliction of old age and death; if the spirit is not extinguished, it simply receives another body. Without birth, there is no old age; without old age, there is no death. Reflecting on this, with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. The practitioner of the Way, observing the world's birth and death with his own eyes, does so only through the twelve links of dependent origination; reflecting on this, with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. "The practitioner of the Way observes his own bodily form through five matters: first, that the countenance changes repeatedly; second, that pain and pleasure shift repeatedly; third, that one's own resolve and intention turn repeatedly; fourth, that the bodily form itself changes repeatedly; fifth, that good and evil alternate repeatedly. These are the five matters. Their repeated change is like flowing water, one moment following upon the last; reflecting on this, with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. How should the practitioner of the Way contemplate meditation itself? Seeing a dead person from head to foot, examining and reflecting on this closely, holding it fixed within the mind — whether walking, sitting, lying down, rising, eating, or engaged in any of the ten thousand tasks — one should hold this constantly in mind, so as to make one's resolve firm, and attain absorption freely according to what one contemplates. It is like a person cooking several bushels of rice who wishes to know whether it is fully cooked: he need only take a single grain, press it between his fingers, and examine it — if that one grain is cooked, it is clear that the rest are cooked as well. The resolve for the Way is just the same: the mind's wandering is like flowing water, and the practitioner of the Way, holding to a single object of reflection, brings the mind to rest and the intention to purity, and the true Way of the arhat, of liberation, may thereby be attained. "Can the first absorption alone allow one to attain the state of an arhat? Some do attain it, and some do not. What conduct attains it, and what conduct fails? Within the first absorption itself, if any trace of thought or craving remains, the Way cannot be accomplished. Heaven and earth are impermanent, and emptiness itself is hard to hold onto secure; exhausting every inner defilement, free of any thought of craving or attachment, with one's resolve pure in just this way, the state of a true arhat may be attained. From the second through to the fourth, one should hold the mind exactly as in the first absorption. If one's resolve rests only in the first absorption without yet attaining arhatship, then, when life ends, one may still advance: rising to the seven heavens to receive a lifespan of one kalpa; dying while in the second absorption, one rises to the eleven heavens to receive a lifespan of two kalpas; dying while in the third, one rises to the fifteen heavens to receive a lifespan of eight kalpas; dying while in the fourth, one rises to the nineteen heavens to receive a lifespan of sixteen kalpas. "The practitioner of the Way, observing his own body's inward impurity, sees that it is entirely unclean: hair, skin, skull, flesh, blinking eyes, tears and spittle, sinews and vessels, flesh and marrow, liver and lungs, intestines and stomach, heart and gallbladder, spleen and kidneys, feces, urine, pus, and blood — the coming together of these many impurities is what makes up a human being. It is like a sack filled with the five grains: whoever has eyes may empty the sack and examine each grain separately, each one distinct from the rest. The wise, observing their own body within in this way, recognize that the various elements each have their own name, and that there is, in truth, no fixed 'person' at all; through this observation free of desire, one comes to see the fundamental emptiness, and, with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. "The practitioner of the Way, deeply observing the body's separate four elements — earth, water, fire, and wind — recognizes: hair, bones, teeth, skin, flesh, and the five internal organs are the earth element. Tears, spittle, pus, blood, sweat, fat, marrow, brain, and urine are the water element. The body's own inner warmth, which governs the digestion of food, is the fire element. The breath's own inhalation and exhalation is the wind element. It is like a butcher slaughtering an animal, cutting it apart into its four separate portions, knowing each in full detail. The practitioner of the Way, observing within and distinguishing the four elements in this way — this is earth, that is water, and fire and wind likewise — recognizes that there is, in truth, no fixed 'person' at all; reflecting on this, his resolve stilled, with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained. The practitioner of the Way, aware for himself of the breath's length, speed, and subtlety, distinguishing each of these clearly, is like a person carving something who knows for himself how deep his cut goes; reflecting on the breath in this way, with this single-pointed thought, absorption is attained." This is how the bodhisattva, with a single-pointed mind, practiced the boundless perfection of meditative concentration.

The crown prince went out to travel, and the king commanded that nothing unclean within the kingdom should appear along the prince's own road. As the prince left the city, the second heavenly Śakra transformed himself into an old man, standing before his carriage, his hair white, his back bent, leaning on a staff and walking feebly. The prince asked, "What manner of person is this?" His charioteer answered: "This is an old man." "What is meant by old age?" He answered: "The four elements of the body have grown fully ripe, and little life remains to him." The prince said, "Shall I too become old one day?" He answered: "Since ancient times all have grown old — no sage has ever escaped this." The prince said: "I had thought that those of exalted rank were different from ordinary people, and yet none can escape this — what benefit, then, is such glory to oneself?" Returning to the palace, he reflected on this, and with this single-pointed thought, absorption was attained. The king asked his attendant: "Did the prince enjoy his journey through the kingdom?" He answered: "He observed an old man along the way, and, reflecting on the impermanence of the world, his heart found no joy in it." The king, fearing the prince might leave the kingdom, increased still further the number of musicians and performers, hoping to bewitch him with glory and confuse him with music, wishing to break his resolve for the Way and keep him bound to his exalted rank instead. Later, the prince went out once more, and the king again commanded: "Let no feeble old person appear along the road." The same Śakra as before then transformed himself into a sick man, his body exhausted and his breath weak, his flesh wasted to the bone, foul discharge smeared upon his body, leaning against a gate. The prince asked, "What manner of person is this?" He answered, "A sick man." He asked, "What is meant by sickness?" "Through immoderate eating and drinking, and irregular rest and rising, one contracts such illness as this, whether one then recovers or dies." The prince said: "I too eat and drink without moderation, and rest and rise without regularity — must I too fall ill in the same way?" He answered: "Whoever has a body is subject to illness — no one escapes this affliction." The prince said: "If I cannot escape this affliction, I too must one day become like this." Returning to the palace, he reflected on this, and entered absorption with a single-pointed mind. Later, going out again, Śakra transformed himself once more, this time into a dead man, borne on a bier with mourning banners raised, the road filled with the sound of grief. The prince asked, "What manner of person is this?" He answered, "A dead man." "What is meant by death?" "When life ends, the spirit departs, the body and its members scatter apart, and one is parted forever from one's own loved ones — a pain most difficult to bear." The prince asked, "Shall I too become like this?" He answered: "Even the purest virtue of the highest sages cannot escape this affliction." Turning his carriage back to the palace, he entered absorption with a single-pointed mind. Later, going out once more, he came to the king's own fields and farmhouses, and sat beneath a tree. Seeing a plowman turning the soil, insects were exposed, some wounded, some killed, and birds came to devour them. His heart was struck with sorrow, and he sighed at length: "Alas, living beings are caught in such turmoil — how painful and difficult their circumstance is!" Reflecting on this with a heavy heart, he entered absorption with a single-pointed mind. At that time the sun blazed down upon the prince's own body, and the tree lowered its branches to shield him from its heat. The king, seeking him out, saw from a distance this sign of unsurpassed sacred virtue, and, overcome with mingled sorrow and joy, threw himself down and bowed his head in reverence, unable to contain himself; the prince, too, bowed his head to the ground in return. Father and son, having taken their leave of one another, and the king having returned to the palace, the prince entered absorption with a single-pointed mind. This is how the bodhisattva, with a single-pointed mind, practiced the boundless perfection of meditative concentration.

When the crown prince was first born, the king had a physiognomist examine him, and the master said: "If he remains in the kingdom, he will surely become a flying, wheel-turning emperor; but if he gives up the kingdom to become a renunciant, he will become a teacher of gods and men." The king built three seasonal palaces, one each for spring, summer, and winter, each distinct from the others. Each palace held five hundred musicians and performers, neither too plump nor too thin, of no excessive height or fault, their faces radiant and fresh, all as fine as peach and plum blossoms, each skilled in several arts, their bearing surpassing that of the worthy, all to entertain the crown prince. Before each palace grew rows of sweet fruit trees, their blossoms fragrant, and pure bathing pools, filled with flowers of every kind, and rare and unusual birds, their calls answering one another in harmony. The opening and closing of the palace gates could be heard forty leagues away, and loyal ministers and guards patrolled without rest, and warning birds — mandarin ducks and herons — cried out in alarm one after another. By the age of seventeen, the prince had mastered every scripture, and his own teachers came to bow before him in return. The king arranged his marriage to a consort named Yaśodharā, whose beauty was matched only by a heavenly maiden, and whose strength alone could overpower sixty great elephants. By the age of nineteen, the prince had gathered all his musicians and performers, some fifteen hundred in all, together in a single palace, indulging fully in their music and entertainment. Wishing that they might grow weary and lie down so that he could leave unnoticed, heaven caused all the musicians to fall asleep, unaware of anything around them. The prince, quietly reflecting, looked upon these performers, and saw them as though they were wooden puppets, every joint hollow, their limbs like segments of bamboo, hands and feet fallen limp to the ground, tears and drool flowing from their faces, spittle soiling their cheeks, their drums fallen upon them and their hair disheveled. The musicians all still wore their fine jeweled earrings, hanging ornaments swaying with light, pearls and gems strung as necklaces, rings of every fine craftsmanship, and their gauze robes embroidered with patterns lay scattered upon the ground; their instruments — lutes, zithers, flutes, and pipes — lay strewn haphazardly across the floor. The warning birds and the guards themselves had all fallen into a stupor, unaware of anything. The prince, with unclouded eyes, gazed upon every one of these bodies, and then looked upon his own consort as well: her hair, her skull, her bones, teeth, nails, and fingers, her skin and flesh, pus and blood, marrow and brain, sinews and vessels, heart and gallbladder, spleen and kidneys, liver and lungs, intestines and stomach, eyes and sockets, feces, urine, tears and spittle — seen from within, she was like dry bones; seen from without, like a mere sack of flesh, with nothing in her worthy of prizing. Foul and unclean, the very memory of it was enough to make one retch, just as a painted mask, its outer fabric colorful and scented with fragrant perfume, might conceal within it nothing but feces, urine, pus, and blood — the foolish trust in the outward appearance, while the wise perceive what lies within, and keep their distance as though closing their very eyes to it, even from ten thousand leagues away. The prince saw all this as though an illusion, difficult to hold onto for long, borrowed only temporarily in this world and destined to be returned to its true owner. Those lying about him in disarray were just like corpses, and he found no further joy in any of it; with this single-pointed thought, absorption was attained. Rising from his absorption, he looked up and saw the star Puṣya, the night already past its middle; the gods gathered densely around him, joining their hands in reverence, scattering flowers, playing music, and raising their heads in immeasurable joy. The prince, seeing the gods bow before him, then spoke this teaching: "Lust and excess are the very worst of evils, driving people to a mad drunkenness, slandering the true and praising the false, taking darkness for light — this is why the buddhas, pratyekabuddhas, and arhats do not praise it as good, and one should flee from it swiftly." Reflecting on this again and again, he called out to Chandaka: "Quickly saddle Kaṇṭhaka." He then reflected further: "The opening and closing of the palace gates can be heard forty leagues away — what shall be done about this?" The gods all said together: "We respectfully accept this task, World-Honored One! We will guard the gates ourselves and let them make no sound." The palace attendants, unaware, heard not even the faintest sound of the horse's hooves; the prince mounted, and a hundred million Śakras, four hundred million of the Four Great Heavenly Kings, and gods, dragons, and spirits escorted and guided him, smoothing the road before him. Heavenly music sang out: "How fortunate we are to have lived to see this! Beholding this sacred radiance dissolves the dust and toil of the heart, and shall never fade through endless ages — how pitiable are the eight difficulties, so far from this honored one!" They sang further: "How fortunate we are, to share in this together!" As the horse first passed through the gate, the gate made a sound after all. The horse, choking, cried out in mournful protest, tears streaming down its cheeks. The gods and their kings, and the whole kingdom, remained unaware of what had happened. And why was this so? It was so that the prince might attain buddhahood all the sooner. The prince gave up the position of a wheel-turning king with the seven treasures, enduring every hardship to deliver living beings. This is how the bodhisattva, with a single-pointed mind, practiced the boundless perfection of meditative concentration.

Before the prince had yet attained the Way, he gathered dried grass from the ground and, beneath a tree, sat upright with hands joined, casting aside every defiled thought, purifying his mind and unifying his resolve. He made this vow to himself: "From this day forward, though my very sinews and flesh should wither and decay, if I do not attain buddhahood here, I will never rise from this seat." The bodhisattva then attained the first absorption, and progressed through the second and third to the fourth, and in that single night attained the first watch of insight, knowing the countless kalpas of his own past parents, brothers, wife, children, and nine classes of relatives. In the second watch of that night, he attained the second insight, knowing for himself, across countless kalpas, poverty and wealth, honor and lowliness, long and short life, fair and dark complexion, and every thought, present or absent, in the minds of living beings, missing nothing. In the third watch of that night, he attained the third insight, and the three poisons were entirely extinguished. As the night drew toward dawn, the Way of buddhahood was accomplished. Reflecting deeply on this, he thought: "I have now attained buddhahood — how profound, how truly profound this is, how hard to know and hard to fully grasp, the subtlest of the subtle, the most wondrous of the wondrous. Now that the Buddha's Way is accomplished, nothing remains unknown to me." He rose and went to the dwelling place of a dragon named Mucilinda; where Mucilinda dwelt, beside the water, there stood a tree, and the Buddha sat beneath it, saying: "Long ago the Buddha Dīpaṃkara bestowed upon me his own honored prediction, that I would become the Buddha Śākyamuni — exactly as I once heard it then, so I have now attained buddhahood. Since countless kalpas past, through giving, precepts, patience, diligence, meditation, and wisdom, I have accumulated merit and fulfilled my vow, and only now have I reached this utmost honor; having done good, blessing has returned to me, and my effort has not been in vain." Just as the Buddha reflected on this, he entered the boundless perfection of meditative concentration. As the Buddha sat beside the water, his radiant light shone through and illuminated the dragon's own dwelling place. The dragon, seeing this radiance, felt every scale on its body rise. The dragon had once beheld three former buddhas — the Buddha Krakucchanda, the Buddha Kanakamuni, and the Buddha Kāśyapa — and when these three buddhas had attained the Way, each had sat in this very place. This light now illuminated the dragon's dwelling in exactly the same way, and the dragon, seeing this radiance, thought: "This light is identical to the radiance of those three former buddhas — could there now be yet another buddha in the world?" The dragon, filled with joy, emerged from the water and looked about, and saw the Buddha seated beneath the tree, his body bearing the thirty-two marks, the color of refined purple gold, his radiance shining brighter than the moon and outshining even the sun, his fine features perfectly formed like a tree in full blossom. The dragon came before the Buddha, touched his forehead to the ground, and circled the Buddha seven times; then, though its own body extended forty leagues from the Buddha, it spread its seven heads to cover him. The dragon, in its joy, raised wind and rain for seven days and seven nights, while the Buddha sat perfectly still, unmoving, unshaking, without even the sound of breath, and, having gone seven days without food, attained buddhahood, his heart joyful and entirely free of thought. The dragon, likewise overjoyed, went seven days without food and felt no hunger or thirst. When the seven days were complete, the wind and rain ceased, and the Buddha awoke from his meditation. The dragon then transformed itself into a young brahmin, dressed in fine, fresh robes, and, kneeling with hands joined, bowed his head and asked: "Are you now free of cold, free of heat, free of hunger, free of thirst? Your merit and blessing have come together, and no poison can now touch you; dwelling in this world as a buddha, honored uniquely above the three realms — is this not truly a joy?" The Buddha said to the dragon: "The scriptures of the buddhas of the past teach that living beings, once free of the three lower paths and able to become human, find this joyful; dwelling in the world in quiet retreat and holding to the resolve for the Way is joyful; what I once only heard of, I have now attained in full, and this is joyful; dwelling in the world holding compassion and harming no living being is joyful; every heavy poison of the heavenly demons has now been dispelled, and this is joyful; calm, tranquil, and free of desire, no longer longing for worldly glory, is joyful; attaining the Way in this world to become the teacher of gods and men, resolved in emptiness, wishlessness, and signlessness, is joyful. The very possession of a body bound up in craving and desire is returned instead to the spirit's own original, formless nature, abiding forever in stillness, forever cut off from suffering — this is the unsurpassed joy of all." The dragon bowed his head and said: "From this day forward, I take refuge in the Buddha and in the Dharma." The Buddha said to the dragon: "There will yet be many sages who, vowing to become arhats, wish to remove the suffering of hunger, and you too should take refuge in them in advance." The dragon said, "I will." He took refuge, of his own accord, in the community of monks. Among all the animal realm, this dragon was the very first to take refuge in the Buddha's teaching." This is how the bodhisattva, with a single-pointed mind, practiced the boundless perfection of meditative concentration.

The Buddha, traveling along a small path, came to a place where a tree stood beside the road, and sat beneath it together with his twelve hundred and fifty monks, entering absorption with a single-pointed mind. Five hundred carts passed by along that road. The Buddha, then feeling very thirsty, said to Ānanda: "Fetch me water — I wish to drink." He answered: "Just now five hundred carts have passed, and the water has become thick with mud — it cannot be drunk." The Buddha again instructed him: "My thirst is very great — go quickly and fetch water." This happened two or three times more. Ānanda said: "There is a stream named Kakuttha, its water clear and fine, fit both for bathing and drinking." Before the Buddha and Ānanda had finished this exchange, there was a man named Pukkusa, a disciple of the ascetic Ārāḍa Kālāma. Pukkusa, seeing the Buddha's own sacred radiance, his body the color of purple gold, his fine marks extraordinary, a rarity such as the ancient sages themselves had never possessed, was filled with an overflowing joy, and, joining his hands, came forward, bowed his head, and said: "Just now five hundred carts have passed along this road — did the World-Honored One hear or see them?" He said, "I neither heard nor saw them." Pukkusa asked, "Was the World-Honored One asleep, then?" He said: "I was seated in meditation, absorbed in a single-pointed concentration." Pukkusa exclaimed in praise: "That the profound concentration of the Tathāgata, the one attached to nothing, the true and right awakened one, should reach even this far! Carts passed by just now, shaking the very earth with dust, and yet your resolve for the Way, unmoved and unattached, neither heard nor saw them — heaven and earth themselves might be shaken, and yet such a resolve could not be swayed. When my own teacher was alive, he too once attained absorption beside the road beneath a tree, and at that time, likewise, five hundred carts passed before him. Someone asked him: 'Did you hear or see them?' He answered: 'I neither heard nor saw them.' The person asked, 'Were you asleep or awake at the time?' He answered: 'My mind was unified in a state of pure concentration, and that is why I did not hear.' The person said: 'Could the resolve of an arhat truly be so profound as this? The carts passed right before him, and his own body, though covered in dust, remained entirely unaware.' That person, witnessing such a profound and mysterious resolve, served him as a teacher for the rest of that year." Pukkusa said: "The Buddha's own still and unattached resolve is just like that of my former teacher — from this very day, to the end of my life, I will honor the Buddha's five precepts and become a devout lay follower, and dare commit no evil of any kind." The Buddha said to Pukkusa: "How does the sound of five hundred carts compare to the roar of thunder?" He answered: "The sound of a thousand carts could not compare even to a small clap of thunder in the rain — how much less to a raging bolt of lightning?" The World-Honored One said: "Long ago, when I dwelt beneath a simple thatched roof in the county of Ātumā, sitting in reflection on the root of birth and death, a violent storm arose, with hail, thunder, and lightning, which killed four fine oxen and two brothers who had been plowing. Very many people of that county gathered to see this. I, at that time, came out to walk in meditation, and a man approached me; I asked him: 'What is the crowd gathered to see?' He told me exactly what had happened. He then asked: 'Where was the Buddha at the time?' I answered, 'Alone beneath my own roof.' He asked, 'Were you asleep at the time?' I said, 'No.' He said: 'How could you be awake and yet not hear it? Your resolve for the Way is profound indeed. From this day forward, I wish to serve the World-Honored One as my teacher, honor the five pure precepts, and become a devout lay follower, holding to the truth for the rest of my life.'" Pukkusa, hearing this, felt his heart open and his doubts dissolve, his joy beyond measure, and, turning to his attendants, instructed them: "Within my storehouse there are a thousand robes woven of gold thread — select the finest of them and bring them to me, for I wish to offer them to the Buddha." His attendants, following this command, returned home to fetch them, and Pukkusa, with his own hands, draped the robe over the Buddha's body, then withdrew and bowed his head, saying: "I beg only that the World-Honored One might, from this day forward, deign to grace with your sacred presence the devout lay followers of my own region, and also honor my own household with a visit, that my entire clan, high and low, may each personally attend to your needs and make offerings to the Buddha. Though one might spend an entire lifetime, with the utmost reverent heart, honoring gods, dragons, spirits, and every flying, crawling, and wriggling creature, this would still not equal feeding a single monk for even one day — how much more so the unsurpassed, true and right Buddha himself? I beg you to extend your vast compassion and grant me this boundless blessing." The World-Honored One said, "Very good." This is how the bodhisattva, with a single-pointed resolve for the Way, practiced the boundless perfection of meditative concentration.

The Blessed One himself related that, when he was a bodhisattva, he was named Sadāprarudita, "Ever-Weeping." The bodhisattva Ever-Weeping wept constantly as he traveled. At that time, the world was without a buddha, its scriptures entirely exhausted, and no community of monks or worthy sages could be found anywhere; he constantly longed to behold a buddha and hear the profound meaning of the scriptures. The age was corrupt and defiled, turning its back on truth to follow wickedness, chasing false glamour and profit as moths are drawn to flame; though the dwelling place of lasting peace lay in the four immeasurable virtues and the six perfections, the age had abandoned the Buddha and this very teaching, rushing instead toward danger and disaster, breaking itself apart in the process — and so he traveled on, mournful and grieving. Long ago there had been a buddha named the Tathāgata King of Stainless Reflected Dharma, whose extinction had occurred long ago, and whose scriptures and teachings were now entirely exhausted. The bodhisattva Ever-Weeping dreamed he saw this very buddha teaching him the Dharma, saying: "Take care never to be arrogant. The conduct of a true student is to remove the defilement of attachment and affection from the mind, to hold no attachment to the dust and toil of the six senses, and to leave behind not even the smallest hair's breadth of craving. Store this within your own mind, and let every thought within you come to rest — this is the unconditioned." The bodhisattva, hearing this teaching from the buddha in his dream, was like a starving man given sweet food, his joy beyond measure; the defilements of his mind were removed, and he entered a state of pure concentration. He at once left his household, gave up his wife and children, and entered deep into the mountains to dwell in quiet solitude, sustaining himself on the mountain's water and fruit. Dwelling there, he raised his hands, struck his own chest, and cried out in mournful lament: "How resentful is my own life! Not to have encountered the age of a buddha, not to have heard the Buddha's own scriptures — the World-Honored Ones of true reality, present now in the ten directions, who see and hear without obstruction, knowing all things, however faint or distant, their radiance reaching everywhere — I beg you to manifest your sacred presence, and let me behold a buddha, that I may hear the vast model of the great Way in its fullest sense." As soon as his mournful cry ended, a heavenly spirit descended and said: "A man of such understanding as you need not cry out in grief any longer. The Buddha holds a great teaching, called the boundless perfection of wisdom. The buddhas of the past, those present now, and those yet to come, all attain their accomplishment through this very teaching. You must seek it out, recite and study its text, hold its meaning in mind, and practice it — and you will surely attain the four kinds of fearlessness, the ten powers, and the eighteen unique qualities of a buddha. Your body will become the color of purple gold, and a boundless light will shine from your neck. Throughout the scriptures and teachings of the ten directions, you will become their bright master, the most honored of all sages, the teacher of gods and men — a distinction no arhat or any other buddha possesses." The bodhisattva Ever-Weeping, looking up, answered: "From whom shall I hear this honored teaching? By what skillful means, and in what land? What is the name and lineage of this teacher?" The heavenly being answered: "Travel due east from here, without any thought of form, sensation, perception, mental formation, or consciousness; without any thought of suffering or pleasure, good or evil, ear, eye, nose, mouth, body, mind, or self; without any thought of what a person has experienced in past lives or what is yet to come in future ones; without any thought of earth, water, fire, wind, or space, of blue, yellow, white, black, or any color at all; without craving, lust, anger, delusion, envy; without any thought of male or female, of the nine classes of kin, of left or right, before or behind, high or low, slow or swift. Without any thought of whether a buddha exists or not, whether scriptures and the Way exist or not, whether the worthy and the sagely exist or not; empty your own intention, and cut off every desire and wish. If your resolve holds fast without departing from this teaching, you will now behold the sacred canon of the boundless perfection of wisdom." The bodhisattva Ever-Weeping, looking up, said: "I receive this respectfully, and will hold to it from beginning to end." The heavenly being said further: "Hold to this with diligence." Having said this, he vanished at once. The bodhisattva, receiving this instruction, made his mind upright and pure within, and traveled eastward in search of this teaching. "After several days he stopped, and reflected deeply to himself: "My past fortune was thin, and I was born without ever encountering a buddha; the world holds no community of monks, and ruler and ministers alike are confused and know nothing of the Buddha. The teacher of the boundless perfection of wisdom, who dispels darkness — how many more leagues until I reach him? I have not yet caught even a glimpse of him." His heart filled with fierce sorrow, he raised his voice in mourning as he traveled on, and the depth of his utmost sincerity moved the buddhas themselves. A buddha from the upper realms came, flying before him, his body the color of purple gold, his fine features surpassing every sage, his face like the full moon, a solar radiance at his neck, escorted by gods, beneath jeweled canopies and flowered parasols, music playing and flowers scattering, hands joined and heads bowed low. The buddha praised the bodhisattva, saying: "Excellent, excellent! Your vigor and vitality are a rarity such as the world has seldom seen." The bodhisattva, seeing the buddha, was filled with mingled joy and sorrow, and, bowing his head, said: "I beg the Buddha to take pity on me, to sever my bonds, to loosen my knots, to open my blindness, to heal my sickness, and to expound the scripture for my sake." The Buddha told him: "The three realms are all empty; what exists is, in truth, nothing at all; the ten thousand things are like illusions, one arising and one perishing, like a bubble on water — this is how it is throughout the world, without exception. Reflect on this well, and I will expound the scripture for you; make your mind upright, listen carefully, and take care never to forget it. From here, travel east twenty thousand leagues, and you will find a country called Gandhavatī, the city of the bodhisattvas, where every person within that entire land is of the highest order, with no ordinary or common people at all. I wish to speak to you of the virtue of these many bodhisattvas: though the number of kalpas allotted to them has already passed, their virtue still remains in abundance. The most honored and virtuous bodhisattva among them, named Dharmodgata, is like the moon among the stars compared to these many sages, holding within him every scripture, his brightness without limit, expounding the sūtra of the boundless perfection of wisdom, teaching people again and again. Among the bodhisattvas there, some receive the scripture, some recite it, some copy it out, and some determine its fundamental principles — go to him, and you will surely find him to be your own teacher. He will urge you to seek the Buddha, and you should hurry swiftly to him, for he alone can expound for you the full inner and outer glory and virtue of the boundless perfection of wisdom." The bodhisattva Ever-Weeping, hearing the Buddha's own praise of this bodhisattva's name and virtue, entered into the joy of the Dharma, attained a concentration fixed in the present moment, and every thought entirely stilled; he beheld all the buddhas expounding for him the virtue of the boundless perfection of wisdom, praising his own diligence in seeking the Buddha, and they all said together: "Excellent! Your resolve to seek the Buddha, you have now attained it. In ages past, when we ourselves first gave rise to this very resolve, we were all exactly as you are now. The buddhas of the past, those yet to come, and those present now — all sought in just the way you now seek. You shall surely attain buddhahood, and deliver every living being." The bodhisattva Ever-Weeping, waking from his concentration, looked all about him but could no longer see any of the buddhas, and, his heart again filled with sorrow, wept and said: "From where did the buddhas' own sacred radiance come, and where has it now gone?" This is how the bodhisattva, with a single-pointed mind, practiced the boundless perfection of meditative concentration.

Long ago there were two bodhisattvas, of pure resolve and clean conduct, inwardly still and free of desire, their outward bearing like heavenly gold, departed from the wicked crowd, dwelling among the mountains and marshes, where they had carved a dwelling out of stone. Living there in quiet retreat, their resolve stilled, wearing garments of grass and mats of straw, sustaining themselves on fruit and spring water, pure and unconditioned, their resolve as vast as empty space, they had perfected all four absorptions, and attained the wisdom of the five spiritual powers: first, the ability to see clearly without limit, missing nothing however distant; second, the ability to hear clearly, missing nothing however faint; third, the ability to fly and pass through solid matter without obstruction; fourth, the ability to know directly the thoughts held in the minds of living beings throughout the ten directions; fifth, the ability to know for themselves their own past lives across countless kalpas. Brahmā, Śakra, immortal sages, and every heavenly dragon and spirit bowed their heads before them without exception. Dwelling among these mountains and marshes for more than sixty years, they grieved for living beings turning endlessly in their own foolish confusion, unaware that committing evil brings grave calamity afterward; restraining their own passions and giving up desire, honoring the Three Jewels, they knew that blessing arrives as swiftly as an echo answers a sound, and that this would surely bring its own glory in time. Of these two ascetics, one was named Tiqiluo, and the other was named Nalai. Tiqiluo, reciting scriptures late into the night, grew exhausted and lay down to rest; Nalai, also reciting scriptures at that time, by accident trod upon Tiqiluo's own head. Tiqiluo rose at once and said: "Who has trodden upon my head? Tomorrow morning, as soon as the sun's first pole-length of light appears, may your head be split into seven pieces — would that not be fitting!" Nalai said: "It was only an accident that I trod on you — why make such a grave curse of it? Even lifeless vessels of clay may accidentally strike one another — how much more so when people live together, over the course of an entire year, without a single mishap? If your word is truly to be trusted, then tomorrow, as soon as the sun rises, my own head must surely split into seven pieces. I shall simply prevent the sun from rising at all." And so he did, and the sun did not rise. "Within five days, the entire kingdom was plunged into darkness, torches and lamps sought out on every side, government offices left unattended, and ruler and people alike thrown into confusion and dread; the assembled officials gathered, and ascetics were summoned for counsel. The king asked: "What is the cause of the sun's failure to rise?" Among the ascetics summoned, one who possessed the five spiritual powers said: "Two ascetics in the mountains hold a slight grievance against one another, and this is why the sun has been prevented from rising." The king asked, "Is there some particular cause for this dispute?" The ascetic told the king the whole matter from beginning to end. The king asked, "What is to be done?" He answered: "Let the king lead his officials and people, high and low, to go there together, bow their heads, and seek reconciliation — they will surely be moved to kindness and harmony." The king then issued a decree exactly as the ascetic advised, and, going to the mountains and marshes, bowed his head and said: "The kingdom's prosperity and the people's peace are due to the grace of you two honored ones, and now that you are no longer in harmony, the whole land has lost its proper order. The fault is mine alone; the people are without blame — I beg you to forgive them." Nalai said: "If the king can persuade him and resolve his grievance, I will release the sun at once." The king went to Tiqiluo and conveyed Nalai's own message. The king then said: "Let him smear mud upon his own head before releasing the sun." As the mud-covered head was struck by the first light, it split at once into seven pieces, while Nalai himself remained unharmed. The king, his ministers, and the people all rejoiced without exception, and the two ascetics gave the king extensive counsel on governing his kingdom, urging him to practice the boundless compassion of the four immeasurable virtues, and to honor the five precepts and carry out the ten virtues. The king, together with his ministers and people, all received the precepts together. Returning to his kingdom, the king issued a decree: "Let no person, of whatever rank, fail to hold the scripture of the five precepts and the ten virtues as the very governance of this land." From that time on, the king's own grace reached even to the grass and trees; loyal ministers were sincere and yielding, fathers followed the proper way and mothers their own proper conduct, each household honoring its own duties, holding fast to the Way with chastity and trust, and every family had its own filial children. The Blessed One said: "The two bodhisattvas, seeing that the ruler of that kingdom did not know the Three Jewels, and that his ministers and people, confused and beset by wrong views, walked as though with closed eyes in darkness, grieved that this multitude, doomed to die without ever seeing the Buddha's own scriptures, brought about this very transformation, that they might come to see the light." The Buddha said to the monks: "Nalai was I myself. Tiqiluo was Maitreya." This is how the bodhisattva, with a single-pointed mind, practiced the boundless perfection of meditative concentration.