The Twenty-Five Preliminary Conditions

The Great Calming and Contemplation, Fascicle Four, Upper Part
Spoken by the Great Master Zhiyi of Tiantai, of the Sui dynasty
Recorded by his disciple Guanding

Topic six, clarifying the preliminary expedients: "expedient" (方便) means skillful and adroit. Skillful, adroit practice, by means of only the slightest wholesome root, is able to bring the boundless practices to fruition and understanding, and so enter the bodhisattva's own stage. The Treatise says: "By means of a small gift, a small precept, one goes beyond the śrāvaka and the pratyekabuddha." This is exactly that sense. Again, "expedient" means the coming-together of manifold conditions: by being able to come together, a cause is formed; and by being able to come together, a fruit is likewise obtained. The Larger Sūtra says: "The Tathāgata's own body is not born from a single cause, a single condition — it is born from boundless merit." This shows precisely this skillful capacity, hence the discussion of "expedient" at all. Following the gradual approach, there are exactly four kinds of expedient. Each expedient, in turn, has its own remote and near aspects: as the Abhidharma clarifies, the five methods for stilling the mind are the remote, and the four wholesome roots are the near. The shared and distinct teachings' own expedients may be understood by the same pattern. In the perfect teaching, the provisional-name stage and the five-grade contemplative-practice stage are still far from the real, and are named the remote expedient; the purification of the six faculties draws near the real, resembling it closely, and is named the near expedient. Here, specifically within the provisional-name stage, prior even to the five grades, remote and near are discussed once again: the twenty-five methods are the remote expedient; the ten objects are the near expedient. Spanning both horizontally and vertically, complete with the ten modes of contemplation, this constitutes the stage of contemplative practice, able to bring forth the real and its resemblance — this, too, is named the near expedient.

Here, the remote expedient is explained, in brief, as five: first, fulfilling the five conditions; second, rebuking the five desires; third, abandoning the five hindrances; fourth, regulating the five things; fifth, practicing the five methods. The path is never carried forward in isolation — its propagation depends upon the person; and a person propagating this supreme Dharma must borrow conditions to advance along the path, which is why the five conditions must first be fulfilled. Once the strength of these conditions is fulfilled, one must then cut away every craving and desire; once craving and desire are screened off outwardly, one must then purify the mind inwardly; once the mind is thus stilled, one must then regulate the five things; once the five things are regulated, one then practices the five methods, and is certain to arrive at the destination. It is like a potter: if he wishes to obtain a finished vessel, he first selects a good location — free of sand, free of alkaline soil, with grass and water in ready supply — where he may set up his workshop. Next he must set aside all other pressing affairs; if these affairs are not stilled, how could he ever attain his craft? Though he has set aside outward conditions, if his own body harbors illness, how could he still hold to his work? Though his body may be sound and vigorous, if the potter's wheel itself is not properly adjusted, no vessel will be completed. And even should every condition above be in perfect order, if he is not himself devoted single-mindedly to the task, so that his effort lapses and does not continue unbroken, nothing will ever be accomplished at all. The five conditions of calming-and-contemplation are exactly the same. This body, dependent as it is on external support, must necessarily borrow provisions — like that good location; rebuking and despising the dust of desire is like cutting off outward conditions; casting away the five hindrances is like curing an inward illness; regulating and adjusting the five things is like mastering the wheel and the cord; and practicing the five methods is like laboring without ever setting the work aside. If even shallow, worldly affairs cannot be accomplished without the right conditions, how much more the path that transcends the world? Without any means of coaxing entry, how could one easily ascend the steps at all? Hence one passes through the twenty-five methods, taking phenomenal matters as objects of contemplation, refining the coarse into the fine, and inspecting what is scattered so as to still it — and this is precisely why they form the remote expedient of calming-and-contemplation. Of these five groupings, three come from the Treatise, one from the Meditation Sūtra, and one was established by the various meditation masters themselves.

First, fulfilling the five conditions: first, purity in upholding the precepts; second, sufficiency of robes and food; third, dwelling in a quiet place; fourth, cessation of every external entanglement; fifth, obtaining a good friend. The Meditation Sūtra says: "Though the four conditions be fulfilled, guidance and instruction still depend on a good teacher." Hence these five methods form the very steps and rungs by which one enters the path — lacking even one of them obstructs the whole undertaking. A full explanation of this is given in the Cidi Chanmen.

Here, clarifying purity in upholding the precepts unfolds into exactly four points: first, listing the names of the precepts; second, clarifying their upholding; third, clarifying their violation; fourth, clarifying confession and purification. As for listing the names: the sources for this in the sūtras and treatises are extremely numerous — here we follow the Treatise. There are ten kinds of precept, namely: not deficient, not broken, not perforated, not mixed, in accord with the path, without attachment, praised by the wise, self-mastering, in accord with samādhi, and complete. All ten, in general use, take the precepts of inherent nature (性戒) as their root. The Treatise says: "The precepts of inherent nature are śīla itself — eight kinds spanning body and speech, namely three of the body and four of speech, with abstention from intoxicants added, this being the guarding of the mental sphere through a pure livelihood." It further says: "The ten wholesome actions are śīla itself. Whether or not a buddha appears in the world, this is ever present — hence it is called the 'ancient precept.'" Even when no buddha appears in the world, ordinary beings still cultivate the eight dhyānas, hence these are called the "ancient samādhi." The heterodox paths' own deviant views — the sixty-two views and the like — are, like an ancient physician's milk-remedy, called the "ancient wisdom." It is commonly said: "There is no guest samādhi; only the uncontaminated leads to the eight dhyānas." Here we press this claim further: should not the uncontaminated likewise lead to the ten wholesome actions? Since the precepts and wisdom both already have their guest counterparts, how could samādhi alone lack one? Here, the three refuges, the five precepts, and the two hundred and fifty precepts are taken as the root of the guest precepts.

As for the ten kinds of persons who obtain the precepts: as when the Buddha himself said, "Come, monk!" — and the complete precepts were spontaneously obtained; as with Mahākāśyapa, who obtained the complete precepts through the causal condition of his own vow; as with Kauṇḍinya, who received the complete precepts upon seeing the truth; as with the bhikṣuṇī Mahāprajāpatī, who received the complete precepts through the eight rules of respect; as with the bhikṣuṇī Dharmadinnā, who received the complete precepts by a messenger sent on her behalf; as with the novice Sudāya, who received the complete precepts through formal debate; as with the monk Yaśas and others, who received the complete precepts through "Come!"; as with Bhadrapālaṅkaja, who received the complete precepts through the three refuges; as in a border region, where the complete precepts are received before a fifth vinaya master alone; and, in the central lands, where ten persons together confer the complete precepts through a formal proclamation with three motions. These are all persons of the guest precepts. The fundamental pure dhyānas — contemplating, refining, perfuming, and cultivating — are the guest samādhi. The wisdom of the Four Noble Truths is the guest wisdom, present only once a buddha has appeared in the world.

As for the precepts of inherent nature: without regard to whether they were formally received or not, violation is itself already an offense; and, likewise without regard to reception, upholding them is itself already wholesome. If the precepts were formally received, upholding them generates merit, and violating them incurs an offense; if not received, there is no merit — but also, if not received, violation incurs no formal offense. Cutting grass and killing livestock, for instance, are equally an offense either way; and confession before another dissolves both kinds of offense alike. The Treatise explains: "The offense of transgressing the unmanifest precept dissolves alike in either case, and yet the debt of the life taken still remains." Hence it is known that the precepts as formally received differ from the precepts of inherent nature. So the Four-Part Vinaya, in questioning the obstructing conditions, asks: "Have you not committed a boundary offense?" — and the boundary offense is precisely this precept of inherent nature. Such an offense obstructs even the lay precepts — how much more the great precepts of full ordination? Where the precept of inherent nature is pure, this is the root of the pāramitā of moral discipline, and the very first cause of liberation. On the basis of this precept of inherent nature, there comes to be the unmanifest precept obtained through formal reception. In Hīnayāna doctrine, the unmanifest precept is said to form a third aggregate of its own; in the Mahāyāna, the Dharma-Drum Sūtra speaks only of form and mind, with no third aggregate at all — since the mind itself is inexhaustible, the precept, too, is inexhaustible. Discussed in terms of the precept of formal discipline (律儀戒), the unmanifest precept may be understood in this way. As for the "unmanifest precept conascent with samādhi": this arises together with samādhi itself. Some say it is present while in samādhi and absent once one emerges from it; others say the unmanifest precept depends on samādhi, remaining so long as the samādhi remains, and lapsing the instant the samādhi itself declines. As for the "unmanifest precept conascent with the path": this unmanifest precept depends on the path itself, and since the path suffers no loss, this precept, too, suffers no loss. The precepts of formal discipline, of samādhi, and of the path are all alike called "precept" in a general sense, and all alike take the precept of inherent nature as their root. Hence the sūtra says: "Relying on this precept as a cause, one is able to give rise to meditative concentration and to the wisdom that extinguishes suffering." This is exactly that same sense.

Second, clarifying their upholding: these ten kinds of precept gather in every precept without exception. The precept of "not deficient" is precisely upholding the precepts of inherent nature up through the four grave prohibitions, guarding them purely as one cherishes a bright pearl; should one transgress them, it is like a vessel already cracked, fit for nothing further — one becomes a person at the margins of the Buddhadharma, no longer a true śramaṇa or disciple of Śākya, having lost the very status of a monk, hence called "deficient." "Not broken" is precisely upholding the thirteen saṃghāvaśeṣa offenses without any breach, hence called "not broken"; transgressing these is like a vessel shattered outright. "Not perforated" is upholding the pāyattika offenses and the like; transgressing these is like a vessel with a leak, unable to hold the path, hence called "perforated." "Not mixed" is upholding the precept conascent with samādhi; though one upholds the formal discipline, if thoughts of breaking the precepts still arise, this is called "mixed"; when the mind held by samādhi no longer gives rise to desirous thought at all, this is called "not mixed." As the Nirvāṇa Sūtra says: "Though one has not physically joined with that woman, yet jests and banters with her in speech; though only the sound of her bracelet is heard beyond a wall; though one merely watches a man and woman pursuing one another — every one of these already defiles the pure precept." The Daśabhūmika-vibhāṣā says: "Though the act itself be restrained, yet if one lets a woman wash, wipe, or massage oneself, converses and exchanges glances with a defiled mind; or sets some fixed number of days for upholding the precept; or hopes for wealth and pleasure in a future life, or license among the heavens — every one of these is called impure." One who upholds the precept of "not mixed" has none of these thoughts at all. "In accord with the path" means according with the truth of principle, able to break through the affliction of views. The precept of "without attachment" is precisely seeing the real and becoming a sage, free of any defiling attachment toward the afflictions of habituated thought. These two precepts together uphold the precepts in terms of the real truth. The precepts of "praised by the wise" and "self-mastering" concern the bodhisattva's own transformative work for others, praised by the buddhas, attaining sovereignty within the world — these discuss upholding the precepts in terms of the conventional truth. The two precepts of "in accord with samādhi" and "complete" are precisely according with the Śūraṅgama samādhi: without rising from cessation-samādhi, one manifests every deportment, displays the images of the ten dharma-realms, and guides and benefits sentient beings; though deportment itself is stirred into motion, one remains, effortlessly, ever still — hence called the precept "fallen into samādhi." Every precept that came before, being restraint through formal discipline, is thus called "incomplete"; the precept of the middle way, lacking nothing whatsoever, is thus called "complete." This is upholding the precept of the middle, the ultimate truth itself. By means of the wisdom of the middle, pervading and entering every dharma — hence the sūtra speaks of śikṣā, śikṣā being named "the Mahāyāna precept." The Nirvāṇa Sūtra's own account of the five branches of precept and the ten kinds of precept follows roughly this same pattern; whatever further accounts of the marks of the precepts the sūtras and treatises may give, none ever falls outside these ten categories.

Gathering the first three kinds of precept together, they are named the "precept of formal discipline": upholding what is good and preventing what is evil, from the very root through to "not perforated," pure down to the finest degree — gathered together, these are named the precept of formal discipline. Even an ordinary being with a scattered mind is able to uphold this precept in full. Next, the single precept of "not mixed": the mind held by the dharma of samādhi does not stir in delusion, and body and speech, too, are stilled, the three karmic actions bright as a mirror — this is the precept conascent with samādhi. While in samādhi, it is effortlessly free of mixture; on emerging from samādhi, body and speech remain supple, likewise free of mixture. An ordinary being who enters samādhi is able to uphold this precept as well. The precept of "in accord with the path" is upheld by one who has seen the truth at the first fruit, having brought forth the real and become a sage — this a sage alone can uphold, not an ordinary being. The precept of "without attachment" is upheld by one at the third fruit, not even by one at the first fruit. "Praised by the wise" and "self-mastering" — these a bodhisattva must uphold for the sake of benefiting others, and are not upheld by the two lesser vehicles. "In accord with samādhi" and "complete" are upheld only by one of great capacity, not even by a bodhisattva of the six pāramitās or of the shared teaching — how much less, then, by an ordinary being or the two lesser vehicles? The high and low of these stages, thus distinguished above, each differ in their actual sense.

As for discussing the upholding of the precepts through contemplative insight into the mind: this, too, is able to uphold all ten precepts given above, in full. First, the ten precepts are gathered into four points: the first four precepts are simply dharmas arisen through causes and conditions, serving generally as objects of contemplation; the next two precepts are precisely contemplating that dharmas arisen through causes and conditions are themselves empty — upholding the precepts through the contemplation of emptiness; the next two precepts are contemplating that what arises through causes and conditions is itself provisional — upholding the precepts through the contemplation of the provisional; the last two precepts are contemplating that dharmas arisen through causes and conditions are themselves the middle — upholding the precepts through the contemplation of the middle. As for what is meant by "contemplating the mind as a dharma arisen through causes and conditions": if one contemplates a single thought of mind as arising from an evil condition, this is already able to break the precepts from the root on up through "not mixed," running contrary to what is wholesome, hence called "evil." Here, by means of a mind that wholesomely accords, one prevents the evil mind, so that the precepts from the root through "not mixed" are wholesomely accomplished, suffering no impairment at all — hence this is called the wholesome mind, named "prevention." Once the evil mind is thus stopped, body and speech follow in the same way. Preventing is itself stilling the wholesome; according is itself practicing the wholesome — practicing the wholesome is itself contemplation; stilling the wholesome is itself calming. This is called "upholding the four kinds of precept by contemplating the mind arisen through causes and conditions."

Next, as for "contemplating that the mind arisen through wholesome and evil causes and conditions is itself empty": as the Diamond Sūtra says, "If one sees the mark of a dharma, this is called attachment to a self, a person, a sentient being, a life-span; if one sees the mark of no-dharma, this too is attachment to a self, a person, a sentient being, a life-span. Not seeing the mark of a dharma, not seeing the mark of no-dharma — as with the simile of the raft, the dharma itself should be relinquished, how much more the non-dharma?" Hence it is known that both dharma and non-dharma alike are empty and quiescent — this alone is called upholding the precepts. Here, what is meant by "dharma" is simply the wholesome and evil minds themselves, as provisional and as real dharmas. If one sees the provisional names of good and evil as existing, this is already attachment to a self, a person, a being, a life-span; if one sees good and evil as real dharmas, this too is attachment to a self, a person, a being, a life-span. As for what is called the "mark of no-dharma": if one sees the provisional names of good and evil as nonexistent, this too is attachment to a self, a person, a being, a life-span; if one sees good and evil as real dharmas that are nonexistent, this too is attachment to a self, a person, a being, a life-span. Why is this? Because giving rise to a view dependent on nonexistence should likewise not be clung to — even giving rise to a view dependent on "neither existent nor nonexistent" is, every one, called attachment to a self, a person, a being, a life-span. Contemplating dharma and non-dharma of this kind as themselves, every one, empty — by means of this contemplation, one is able to accord with the uncontaminated, preventing the sixty-two views of existence and nonexistence — hence this is named the precept "in accord with the path." Should one deliberate further on this contemplation, its reflection grown fully ripe, so that in every circumstance, facing every object, all form and sound alike are seen as themselves empty, this is named the precept "without attachment." Preventing the affliction of habituated thought, wholesomely according with the real truth — this is called "upholding two kinds of precept by contemplating that the mind arisen through causes and conditions is itself empty."

Next, as for "contemplating that the mind arisen through causes and conditions is itself provisional": knowing that mind is not fixedly mind, and dharma, too, is not fixedly dharma, and yet not remaining forever fixed in "neither mind nor dharma" either — by means of the expedient means proper to the differentiated path of wisdom, within what is, in itself, without any fixed existence, one establishes mind, establishes dharma, drawing forth the mind and its mental factors so as to guide and benefit sentient beings — this is "praised by the wise." Though one broadly distinguishes boundless mental dharmas, these have only names, like the mark of empty space itself, giving rise to no craving attachment, unconstrained by any afflicted mark — this is named "self-mastering." A contemplation of the provisional of this kind prevents ignorance and wholesomely accords with the principle of the conventional; discussed as prevention, this is calming; discussed as according, this is contemplation — together, this is "upholding two kinds of precept through the contemplation of the provisional." Next, as for "contemplating that the mind arisen through causes and conditions is itself the middle": contemplating the nature of mind as, in the end, quiescent and extinct, mind being originally neither empty nor provisional — not provisional, hence not of this world; not empty, hence not transcending this world; neither the dharma of the worthy and the sage, nor the dharma of the ordinary being — the two extremes quiescent alike, this is named "the nature of mind." Able to contemplate in this way is named "the supreme samādhi." The mind abiding in this samādhi is precisely the Śūraṅgama itself: fundamentally quiescent and unmoving, illuminating both truths at once, manifesting every deportment, according with a samādhi of this kind that lacks nothing whatsoever. Contemplating the mind in this way prevents every evil of ignorance at the two extremes, wholesomely according with the single real principle of the middle way; discussed as prevention, this is calming; discussed as according, this is contemplation — this is named "upholding two kinds of precept through identity with the middle." Hence the Brahmā's Net Sūtra says: "This precept is named the Mahāyāna, named the light of the ultimate meaning, neither blue, yellow, red, nor white. This precept is named filial devotion; filial devotion is named according — filial devotion is itself stilling the wholesome, according is itself practicing the wholesome. A precept of this kind is what the fundamental teacher himself recited, and what I, too, recite in just this way." One should know that the sublime contemplation of the middle way is the true essence of the precept itself; its highest grade of purity is the ultimate upholding of the precepts. The Daśabhūmika Sūtra says at length: "Where there is no self and no possession of a self, far removed from every idle discourse, having nothing whatsoever — this is named the supreme śīla." Hence the Vimalakīrti Sūtra says: "The nature of an offense abides neither within, nor without, nor in between the two. As the mind is, so too is the defilement of the offense. One who is able to see this is said to understand it well; one who is able to see this is said to truly uphold the vinaya." This is exactly that same sense.

Furthermore, contemplating the mind's upholding of the precepts is itself "five names." Why is this? "Prevention" is the very sense of the precept, and contemplation is exactly the same: the three contemplations are named as what prevents, and the three afflictions are named as what is prevented. Prevention of this kind, in its full sense, pervades the entire dharma-realm, and is not confined to body and speech alone. Again, the vinaya is named "extinguishing," extinguishing every wrong of body and speech — so too, contemplating the mind is likewise named extinguishing: the contemplation of emptiness is able to extinguish the wrongs of views and habituated thought; the contemplation of the provisional is able to extinguish the wrongs of dust-and-sand afflictions; the contemplation of the middle is able to extinguish the wrongs of ignorance. Extinguishing discussed in this way extinguishes, throughout, every wrong of the entire dharma-realm, not merely the seven kinds of karmic transgression. Hence the Vimalakīrti Sūtra says: "One should extinguish it outright, without further disturbing the mind." This is exactly that same sense. Again, the prātimokṣa is named "assured attainment of liberation" — contemplating the mind is likewise so: if the truth of the three truths is not contemplated, the three afflictions can never be assured of liberation; once the three truths are seen, the three afflictions are assured of liberation. Liberation of this kind is liberation throughout the entire dharma-realm, not merely liberation from the three evil destinies or from birth-and-death alone. Again, as for "recitation": this means holding the text silently in memory. Contemplating the mind, too, is exactly so — the very names of the three contemplations expound the principle of the three truths, and this is itself the "text"; knowing that the name is not fixedly the name, one refines the mind toward the truth of principle; the contemplation, sustained without a break, is ever manifest of itself, giving rise to no deluded thought — this is named "recitation." Recitation of this kind is recitation throughout the entire dharma-realm, not merely the recitation of the eighty scrolls of the vinaya alone. Again, as for "vinaya": this means weighing what is light and what is grave, distinguishing what is an offense from what is not. Contemplating the mind is likewise so: distinguishing the coarse, evil dregs of views and habituated thought — ignorance within the three realms is minor, light; the adventitious dust-and-sand afflictions arising unpredictably are, in turn, a somewhat greater weight; and the fundamental, most subtle ignorance is as already explained above, in the account of the bodhi-mind. The three contemplations contemplating the three principles is non-offense; the three afflictions obstructing the three principles is named offense. The three medicines treating the three sicknesses, weighed and measured without error, down to the very finest degree.

Furthermore, one should know that upholding the "phenomenal precepts" has three grades: the highest grade obtains a heavenly reward, the middle grade a human reward, the lowest grade an asura reward. Violating the highest causes one to fall from the heavens, violating the middle causes one to fall from the human state, violating the lowest causes one to fall from the asura state into the three evil destinies. The evil destinies, too, have three grades: the lighter falls into the destiny of hungry ghosts, the next into the destiny of animals, the gravest into the hell-destiny. The middle grade has, again, many kinds — upper, middle, lower, and lowest-of-the-low, corresponding to the four continents. The highest grade, too, has many kinds, namely the various heavens of the three realms, each with its own rank and order. Furthermore, upholding the "precepts of principle" — of emptiness, the provisional, and the middle — each has an upper, middle, and lower grade in turn. Among the three grades of the precept of emptiness: the lowest grade is the śrāvaka, the middle grade the pratyekabuddha, the highest grade the shared-teaching bodhisattva; falling away means losing ground step by step, one after another. Among the three grades of the precept of the provisional: the lowest grade is the Tripiṭaka-teaching bodhisattva, the middle grade the shared-teaching bodhisattva who has emerged into the provisional, the highest grade the distinct-teaching bodhisattva. Among the three grades of the precept of the middle: the lowest grade is the distinct-teaching bodhisattva, the middle grade the perfect-teaching bodhisattva, the highest grade the buddha himself — the buddha alone, of all beings, possesses the pure precept in full. Again, the lowest grade corresponds to the five grades of disciples, the middle to the purification of the six faculties, the highest to entry into the first abiding. This briefly judges their gradations in terms of contemplating the mind. Contemplating the mind through the middle way is itself the dharma-realm; the Mahāyāna gathers in every dharma without exception, and this may be grasped in the sense of it, without further belaboring the text. A private query asks: the lower and middle three grades are all discussed in terms of bringing forth the real — why, then, is the highest grade discussed in terms of three grades spanning the real and its resemblance both? Answer: while the first three paths have not yet converged, they may still be distinguished and debated horizontally, one against another; but once identity with the middle has already fused them together, it is fitting to judge by a single path, vertically. And it may also be discussed horizontally: the distinct teaching grafted onto the shared, and the distinct and perfect teachings themselves, forming three grades in their own right. Distinctions of gain and loss, weight and lightness, made in this way weigh and measure the entire dharma-realm throughout — how could this be no more than the boiling, burning, and covering-over of ordinary affliction? The five names of contemplating the mind may thus be seen distinctly, just as they are.

If one is reverent and careful in phenomenal terms, upholding the four precepts with diligence, and yet the mind still harbors scattered thoughts, then even the phenomenal observance is not secure — like an unfired clay vessel, which shatters the moment it meets with craving or aversion. But if one is able to contemplate the mind, upholding all six kinds of precept, the contemplative insight clear and distinct, deluded thought unmoved — then, even should one meet with an evil condition, it remains firm and unshaken. Once principle itself is unmoved, the phenomenal is accomplished effortlessly of itself. Hence the Vimalakīrti Sūtra says: "One who is able to see this is said to understand it well; one who is able to see this is said to truly uphold the vinaya." The true sense lies exactly here.

Third, clarifying the marks of violation: the destruction of the pure precepts never goes beyond delusion, craving, and inverted views — these are the precept's own mortal enemies, likened to two rākṣasa demons. The Nirvāṇa Sūtra says: "Suppose a man carries a float-bladder, crossing over a great ocean. At that time, a rākṣasa in the ocean comes and begs for the float-bladder. At first it begs for the whole; then, in the end, it begs for even the smallest speck — and to none of this is anything given at all." The practitioner is exactly the same: giving rise to the resolve and upholding the precepts, vowing to cross the great ocean of birth-and-death, while the rākṣasas of craving and of view come begging for the float-bladder of the precepts. When the rākṣasa of craving says, "Let me grant you ease, and bring you safely into nirvāṇa," this is simply desire and pleasure gratifying the senses, given the name "nirvāṇa" — like the hungry obtaining food, the poor obtaining treasure, a monkey obtaining wine, and so attaining a moment's ease. Calling this ease "nirvāṇa" is precisely how the practitioner is lured and deceived. Should one follow craving's turning and break the four grave precepts, this is giving away the entire float-bladder — this is named "the mark of violation." Though the mind of craving has arisen, one must not give it away entirely — why is this? Because, thinking, "I now wish to cross the great ocean of birth-and-death; should my śīla become impure, I would fall back into the three evil destinies, and neither meditative concentration nor wisdom could ever arise" — reflecting on this, one gives rise to great fear, and so says: "Sooner kill me than take my float-bladder!" — this is named "the mark of upholding." The mind of craving arises once more, seeking the pleasure of mere touch; should one follow this craving into touch, this is giving away half the float-bladder — this, too, is named "the mark of violation." The practitioner reflects once more: "How could the restraining precept possibly be surrendered by half? Considering its karmic fruit, this means the suffering of hell; considering it in the immediate present, this means demotion and expulsion in disgrace — a matter deeply shameful. How could I possibly damage so great a matter in this way?" And so one guards and cherishes it, refusing to follow this craving — this is named "the mark of upholding." The mind of craving arises yet again, begging by some weightier expedient: should one violate a precept outright, this is begging for a whole hand's worth; should one violate a pāyattika offense, this is begging for a finger's worth; should one violate even a duṣkṛta offense, this is begging for the merest speck. Though a duṣkṛta offense is small, it opens the gate to negligence; though a speck of water is not much, the water will gradually seep in all the same, until the float-bladder sinks beneath the waves entirely. This is how the mind of craving breaks the precept of formal discipline. Craving and grasping after the five desires breaks the precept conascent with samādhi. Deep attachment to birth-and-death, creating karma for the sake of existence, breaks the precept of identity with emptiness. Not stilling worldly mockery and blame, with no thought of protecting others, breaks the precept of identity with the provisional. Not believing that the goodness of the precept is equal to empty space, not believing this precept is itself complete with the entire Buddhadharma, not believing this precept is itself the ultimate purity — this breaks the precept of the middle way. This pattern may be understood by analogy in every further case.

Next, as for seeing the rākṣasa of view begging for the float-bladder: if one breaks the precepts for the sake of wealth or sensual desire, as already explained above, every person who encounters this is affected in the same way — this is named "evil already arisen," and to cut it off, one applies diligent effort single-mindedly. If the discriminating mind grows sharp and fierce, giving rise to transgression with regard to some doctrine one has settled upon, this is a mistaken understanding, named "evil not yet arisen," and to prevent its arising, one likewise applies diligent effort single-mindedly. Though this view has not yet arisen, if one cultivates and attains a little meditative absorption without a good teacher or friend, thoughts of attachment to it will still arise, and error will follow. While the Buddha was still in the world, a certain monk attained the four dhyānas and took them to be the four fruits of the path; as he was dying, he saw the intermediate-state appearance arise, and thereupon slandered the Buddha, saying, "Arhats are not reborn — how can I now be reborn?" Ānanda asked the Buddha, "Where has this man's life now gone, after his death?" The Buddha said, "He has already fallen into hell." Even one who upholds the precepts and attains a still-contaminated meditative absorption cannot be trusted on this basis alone — and this while the Buddha himself was still in the world; how much more, then, the deluded people of this final age, whose attachment to wrongdoing runs so much deeper! Hence the Sūtra of the Great Space-Treasury says: "Should one give rise to an evil view, this is named the third pārājika offense." What is meant by an "evil view"? Some, having attained a small understanding of emptiness and given rise to a little wisdom, make their own mind their teacher and set themselves up on it, claiming to have realized the unborn. Once such a view-mind grows strong, it is able to demolish every dharma — no buddha, no sentient beings — sweeping away both mundane and world-transcending causation alike. The Lotus Sūtra says: "Some eat human flesh, or again devour dogs" — this is exactly that same sense.

Breaking through right view, right deportment, and pure livelihood, they give rise to a view of equality without any discrimination at all: what, then, is an offense, and what is not? If any discrimination remains, that very discrimination is itself an obstruction, and an obstruction is not the real. Amid craving and desire, one should give rise to no fear or obstruction at all; freedom from fear and obstruction is itself bodhi — holding this to be the truth, and everything else mere idle talk. Meeting, moreover, with an evil teacher who expounds evil doctrines only inflames the poison of this view further; a deviant spirit enters the mind, and the deviant understanding only intensifies. Wild, deranged, and upside-down, there is no seed of wrongdoing left undone; the towering arrogance of this view looks down on and despises everyone. Seeing another practicing goodness, such a person supposes them merely to be grasping at something to be gained, scorning them like dirt — and by this view alone, the float-bladder is entirely given away. Should it not be entirely given away, such a person reasons instead: "Though principle is indeed as it is, I myself am not yet able to see it — how, then, could I abandon everything all at once? I still cherish it, and will not give it up." The view-mind arises once more: "All dharmas are empty — how could there be any mark of touching or not touching between a man and a woman?" — and thereupon seizes and embraces another, which is named giving away half the float-bladder; or, through some further expedient, goes as far as a mere duṣkṛta offense, reasoning: "Every dharma is empty and quiescent — what use is there in fussing over phenomenal marks?" Once not even the tiniest speck is preserved, the mind of emptiness grows only more excessive — like a small leak of water that gradually seeps in, unobstructed and ever more slippery, until every precept and restraint whatsoever is entirely swallowed up, and the float-bladder sinks forever. One should know that this view-mind is profoundly to be feared! Why is this? If one holds that the four grave offenses and their violators are all alike empty, and the five heinous crimes are likewise empty, why not simply commit them? Once the view of emptiness grows this strong, there are no longer any parents either — whether harming or killing them, neither is any longer an obstruction. And if there is no obstruction at all, then surely there should be no obstruction toward the king or his consort either. Yet examine this view-mind closely: in truth, it does not actually treat the king and his consort as nonexistent at all — while, toward its own self, it still cherishes its own body and its own life; should it offend the king, its own body would be shattered and its own life ended. Such deluded "emptiness," then, does not actually empty out body and life at all — cherishing its own body and life, it likewise fails to empty out the king. Since it cannot empty out even itself or the king, how could it uniquely deceive its own parents, treating the Buddha's teaching so lightly, and claim that the four grave offenses and the five heinous crimes are all alike empty? One should know that such a person cannot even see the fault of their own clinging to emptiness — unable to see it even close at hand, how much less at a distance? Having already used this evil "emptiness" to sweep aside the Buddha's own prohibitions, this breaks the precept of formal discipline; the view of emptiness disturbing the mind breaks the precept conascent with samādhi; obstinately clinging to one's own view breaks the precept of identity with emptiness; defiling the wholesome minds of others breaks the precept of identity with the provisional; and not believing that this view-mind is itself equal to empty space — that is, not believing this is itself the ultimate purity of the Buddhadharma — breaks the precept of identity with the middle. One should know that a deviant, twisted mind of emptiness is profoundly to be feared! Should one fall into this view, one sinks and is submerged forever — unable to attain even the human and heavenly realms, or nirvāṇa, how much less the great parinirvāṇa? Hence the Treatise says: "The great sage taught the dharma of emptiness precisely to cure attachment to existence; but should one become attached to emptiness itself, this the buddhas cannot transform." A sūtra likewise says: "One who gives rise to doubt with regard to the dharmas is thereby able to break through affliction as vast as Mount Sumeru itself; but one who fixedly gives rise to a view can no longer be transformed at all." The Sūtra on the Practice of Non-Action says: "Craving and desire are themselves the path" — yet to seize on this saying out of context, using it to justify freedom from all obstruction, why not also cite the same sūtra's own further words: "One who craves and clings to the dharma of no-obstruction is thereby far removed from the buddhas; one who has truly attained emptiness never, in the end, breaks the precepts"? This is named "the rākṣasa of the view-mind destroying the restraining precepts." The general sense is exactly as given here.

Furthermore, what came before discussed upholding the precepts exclusively, and what followed discussed violating them exclusively; here, it is clarified that the upholding and violating of the ten precepts are not fixed in only one direction. Discussed generally, in terms of what moves and carries one forward, all of this is named "vehicle" — hence there are the five vehicles, of humans, heavenly beings, and so on. Discussed generally, in terms of what restrains and prevents, all of this is named "precept" — hence there are the precepts of formal discipline, conascent with samādhi, and conascent with the path. Discussed distinctly, however, the three grades of the phenomenal precept are named "precept": the precept itself is contaminated, neither moving nor carrying one forward. The three grades of the precept of principle are named "vehicle": the vehicle is uncontaminated, able to move and to carry one forward. In terms of this vehicle and this precept, four propositions may be distinguished: first, both vehicle and precept urgent; second, the vehicle urgent, the precept lax; third, the precept urgent, the vehicle lax; fourth, both vehicle and precept lax. First, both vehicle and precept urgent: as in the marks of upholding described above, all ten kinds of purity intact, phenomenal and principled alike without flaw, the contemplation sustained without a break — in this very life, one should attain the path. Should the path not yet be attained, this karma is the strongest of all, and the strongest draws one forward first, certain to rise to a good destination. If the precept of formal discipline is what is urgent, one is drawn toward rebirth among humans and heavenly beings of the desire realm; if the precept of "not mixed" is what is urgent, one follows the dhyānas into the Brahmā heavens. Among the three grades of the vehicle of principle, which vehicle is most urgent? If the vehicle of the three-graded identity with the middle is urgent, then in a human or heavenly body one encounters the buddha Maitreya, hears the Avataṃsaka teaching, and, of sharp faculty, attains the path. If the vehicle of the highest-grade emergence into the provisional is urgent, then in a human or heavenly body one encounters Maitreya at the very seat of the Avataṃsaka teaching, and, of dull faculty, attains the path there. If the vehicle of the upper-and-middle-grade entry into emptiness is urgent, then in a human or heavenly body one encounters Maitreya, hears the Vaipulya and Prajñāpāramitā teachings, and attains the paths of the three vehicles alike. If the vehicle of the lowest-grade entry into emptiness is urgent, then in a human or heavenly body one encounters Maitreya, hears the Tripiṭaka scriptures, and attains the path. Obtaining a human or heavenly body is the power of upholding the phenomenal precepts; seeing the Buddha and attaining the path is the power of cultivating the contemplation of the vehicle. Upholding both the phenomenal and the principled together is foremost among every practice — hence this can never be treated laxly.

Second, the vehicle urgent, the precept lax: this is a person of thin virtue and heavy defilement, driven by affliction, in whom every phenomenal precept has been devoured by the rākṣasa demon, and who instead single-mindedly guards only the precept of principle, the contemplative practice sustained without a break — as in "the samādhi of awakened intent" above, applying the mind amid the six defilements, of which Aṅgulimāla is shown as the very type. Because the phenomenal precept is lax, such a one, at life's end, falls into the three evil destinies and undergoes the retribution of that offense. Among the various vehicles, which vehicle is strongest? The strongest draws one forward first. If the vehicle of analytical emptiness is strong, then in a body of the three evil destinies one encounters Maitreya, hears the Tripiṭaka scriptures, and only then attains the path. If the vehicle of identity with emptiness is urgent, then in a body of the three evil destinies one encounters Maitreya, hears the Prajñāpāramitā and Vaipulya teachings, and attains the path. If the vehicle of identity with the provisional is urgent, then in a body of the three evil destinies one encounters Maitreya, hears the Avataṃsaka and other teachings, and, of dull faculty, attains the path. If the vehicle of identity with the middle is urgent, then in a body of the three evil destinies one encounters Maitreya, hears the Avataṃsaka Sūtra, and, of sharp faculty, attains the path. This is exactly why, when the Buddha taught the gradual and sudden sūtras alike, dragons, spirits, animals, and beasts all came to gather and take their seats — this is precisely that same reason. Breaking the phenomenal precept, one undergoes a body of the three evil destinies; upholding the contemplation of principle, one sees the Buddha and attains the path. The Nirvāṇa Sūtra says: "One lax in the precept is not, on that account alone, called lax; one lax in the vehicle — this alone is truly called lax." This single line is exactly the point.

Third, the precept urgent, the vehicle lax: the phenomenal precept is upheld with strict severity, not violated in the slightest, and yet the three kinds of contemplation of the mind are never truly opened or understood at all. Because the precept is urgent, one is reborn among humans and heavenly beings, or else follows the dhyānas into indulgent absorption in the bliss of the Brahmā heavens; though a buddha may appear in that age, teaching the Dharma to deliver beings, this brings such a person no benefit whatsoever — even should they happen to encounter the Buddha, they remain unable to open to any understanding. The land of Zhentan, entire, neither perceived nor knew him; of Śrāvastī's three hundred million people, most neither heard nor saw him. Absorbed in the pleasures of the heavens, or born in some difficult circumstance, they never come to hear and receive the teaching — this is exactly that same sense. It is like a prisoner in bonds who, by means of wealth and goods, seeks out some powerful patron, prolonging the days and months, hoping to meet with a pardon. Among humans and heavenly beings, it is exactly the same: one hopes that a good friend will come to guide and instruct one in cultivating the vehicle, and only thereby is release attained. Should one fail to cultivate the vehicle even while among humans and heavenly beings, once that karmic reward is exhausted, one falls back into the three evil destinies — and though a hundred thousand buddhas should appear, one would, in the end, never attain the path. Fourth, both phenomenal and principled lax: as with all ten kinds of precept violated above, one falls forever into the Avīci hell, losing every reward among humans and heavenly beings; one's own spiritual clarity grows dim and obstructed, with no prospect of attaining the path at all, turning and sinking ever deeper, beyond any hope of deliverance. The practitioner should examine their own mind: between the phenomenal and the principled precept, which is lax and which urgent? Among the three grades of the phenomenal, which grade is strongest? Among the three grades of the principled, which grade is weakest? Knowing one's own depth or shallowness in this way, one also comes to recognize the good or evil karmic reward yet to come. Having thus known oneself, one comes to know others as well. Applying this same contemplation of the mind, one also comes to recognize the intent behind the assemblies listed in the various sūtras, and comes to recognize how the Tathāgata meets each capacity, great or small. Hence, in the Avataṃsaka Sūtra, when spirits and demons alike are said to "abide in the inconceivable gate of liberation," this is the provisional coming forward to draw out the real, so that those who, in a former life, cultivated the inconceivable vehicle with urgency might now attain the path. The assemblies listed in the Nirvāṇa Sūtra are exactly the same. Should one trace this sense in careful detail, broadly surveying the urgency and laxity of vehicle and precept across the Four Teachings so as to distinguish the cause, and then surveying the Five Flavors so as to clarify the fruit, everything becomes clear. In every case of this kind, cause and fruit differ by degree, rising and sinking never uniform. How, then, could one object: "If the precept of principle alone attains the path, what use is there for the phenomenal precept at all?" One should be glad enough to attain the path among humans and heavenly beings — why insist, instead, on suffering entry into the three evil destinies?

Fourth, clarifying confession and purification: both phenomenal and principled violation alike obstruct calming-and-contemplation, so that concentration and wisdom fail to arise. How, then, may confession cause the offense to be dissolved, so that it no longer obstructs calming-and-contemplation? For a lighter transgression among phenomenal offenses, the vinaya texts all provide their own methods of confession; once the method of confession is accomplished, it is entirely named pure — the precept purified, the obstruction turns aside, and calming-and-contemplation is easily brought to clarity. For a graver violation, one is, in terms of the Buddhadharma, already a dead person, and the Hīnayāna provides no method of confession for it at all. Relying on the Mahāyāna, however, confession is permitted even here, as explained above among the four kinds of samādhi, and to be further clarified below. As for a minor deviation in contemplative insight not quite according with the truth: if such a person's own attachment of mind is still slight, not stubbornly fixed, then simply applying correct contemplation of the mind, breaking through the attachment to this view, feeling shame and remorse, bowing the head in self-reproach, and spurring the mind back onto the correct track — the obstruction of this offense can be dissolved, and calming-and-contemplation is able to arise. Should the view be graver, one must still cultivate confession within the contemplation of the mind itself, to be explained below. For a grave offense among phenomenal transgressions, the four kinds of samādhi each provide their own method of confession. The Samantabhadra Contemplation Sūtra says: "Sitting upright, mindful of the true mark of reality — this is named the foremost confession." The Sūtra of the Sublime and Supreme Samādhi says: "For the four grave offenses and the five heinous crimes, apart from meditative concentration, nothing else is able to save one." The Vaipulya says: "The three refuges, the five precepts, up through the two hundred and fifty precepts — confessed in this way, should they fail to be restored, this could never be." The Sūtra of Invoking Avalokiteśvara says: "One who has broken the pure conduct and committed the ten evil actions may yet sweep away this filth and defilement, and regain purity once more." Hence it is known that the Mahāyāna permits confession even for these offenses. An offense arises from a weighty condition, and so, too, must be confessed with an equally weighty mind, that like may treat like. Without a mind of deep and weighty sincerity, confession is performed in vain, to no benefit at all; and if the obstruction is not dissolved, calming-and-contemplation cannot become clear. If a grave offense has just now arisen in the present, confessed with anguished sincerity, it is easily dissolved — why is this? Because, like losing one's way close to home, it is easily corrected; whereas a grave obstruction from the distant past is necessarily difficult to turn back, since one has strayed so deeply and so far. Should one wish to confess a grave obstruction spanning two lifetimes by cultivating the four kinds of samādhi, one should first recognize the ten minds that flow downstream with birth-and-death, clearly knowing one's own transgression; and then set in motion the ten minds turned upstream against that flow, as the antidote. These twenty minds together form the root of every confession.

The ten minds that flow downstream are these: first, from beginningless time, the mind has been dim and confused in its own understanding, intoxicated by affliction, falsely conceiving a self and a person; from conceiving a self and a person, the view of a substantial self arises; from this view, deluded, inverted thought arises; from this inversion, craving, aversion, and delusion arise; from delusion, manifold karma is broadly created; and this karma then flows on, turning through birth-and-death. Second, with affliction already present within and an evil friend encountered without, deviant teachings are fanned into flame, urging and confusing one's own mind, redoubling in intensity. Third, once evil conditions, inward and outward alike, are both present, they are able to extinguish the wholesome mind within, and to extinguish wholesome deeds without — and, further, one feels not the slightest sympathetic joy toward the goodness of others at all. Fourth, one indulges the three karmic actions without restraint, leaving no evil undone. Fifth, though the deed itself may not be extensive, the evil mind spreads everywhere. Sixth, the evil mind continues on, unbroken day and night. Seventh, one conceals and denies one's own transgressions, unwilling that others should know. Eighth, one is coarse, brazen, and reckless, unafraid of the evil destinies. Ninth, one is without shame and without remorse. Tenth, one sweeps away cause and effect entirely, becoming an icchantika. These are the ten minds that flow along with the current of birth-and-death, dim and inverted, creating evil — like a maggot delighting in a latrine, neither perceiving nor knowing its own state, accumulating weight upon weight beyond all reckoning, until the four grave offenses and the five heinous crimes reach their utmost extreme in the icchantika, and birth-and-death spreads out vast and without any boundary at all.

Now, wishing to confess, one should turn directly against this current of offense, using ten kinds of mind to overturn and remove the evil dharma. First, rightly believing that cause and effect are fixed and unmistakable: though the karmic seed be old, however long it endures it never decays away to nothing, and never, in the end, does one person act while another bears the fruit. Discerning good and evil with precision, giving rise to no doubt at all — this is deep faith, overturning and breaking the icchantika mind. Second, reproaching and blaming oneself with shame: the most degraded of all offenders, without shame, without remorse, practicing the ways of an animal, casting away the foremost adornment of pure whiteness — alas, how could one, uncontrolled, commit so grave an offense! Heaven sees the offense I have hidden, and so I feel shame before heaven; people know the offense I have shown, and so I feel remorse before people. By this, one overturns and breaks the mind without shame and without remorse. Third, fearing the evil destinies: human life is impermanent — a single breath, once it fails to return, is gone for a thousand years; the dark pathway ahead stretches on without end, and there are no provisions for the journey; the sea of suffering runs deep and vast — where, then, is any raft or ferry to be found? Cast aside and rebuked by the worthy and the sage, with nothing left to rely upon; as the years slip further away and the knife-edged wind of death shows no mercy, how could one sit calmly by, waiting for that bitter pain? It is like a jackal that has lost its ears, tail, and fangs, feigning sleep in hope of escape — but on suddenly hearing that its head is to be cut off, its heart fills with terror. Encountering birth, old age, and sickness is still not felt as urgent — but the matter of death shows no mercy at all; how could one fail to be afraid? When the fearful mind first arises, it is as though treading through boiling water or fire — the five sense-objects and the six desires leave no room for craving or attachment at all. It is like King Aśoka, who, on hearing the caṇḍāla's bell rung morning after morning, knew that when one day had passed, on the sixth day he would die; though the five desires still remained, not a single thought of craving for them arose. The practitioner's own fear, confessing with anguished sincerity, sparing neither body nor life, is like that jackal's own resolute severance; and thinking of nothing else at all, is like that fearful king. By this, one overturns and breaks the mind unafraid of the evil destinies. Fourth, one should make full disclosure, concealing no flaw at all: a thief's poison, a noxious weed, must be swiftly removed; once the root is exposed, the branch withers; once the source runs dry, the stream itself is exhausted. To conceal and hide one's offense is to be no good person at all. Kāśyapa's own austere practice required disclosure before the whole assembly; the Vaipulya rite requires disclosure before a single other person; every other method of practice requires only that one confess and reform with a sincere mind before the Buddha's image. It is like a hidden abscess within — concealed and left untreated, it kills. By this, one overturns and breaks the mind that conceals its own offense. Fifth, cutting off the mind of continuation: if one resolves with utter finality, done with the old and creating nothing new, this alone is true confession. To confess and then offend again is like the king's own law — a first offense may be pardoned, but offending again is treated more gravely. On first entering the place of practice, the offense is easily dissolved; offending again makes it difficult to remove. Having already vomited it out, how could one swallow it down once more? By this, one overturns and breaks the mind that continually dwells on evil deeds. Sixth, giving rise to the bodhi-mind: formerly, one troubled every circumstance only for one's own safety; now, one gives rise broadly to the resolve to save others as well, benefiting them throughout the entire realm of empty space. By this, one overturns and breaks the mind that gave rise to evil everywhere without exception. Seventh, cultivating merit to make up for past faults: formerly, the three karmic actions committed offenses without regard for day or night; now, wholesome body, speech, and mind spur one on without rest. Is this not like moving mountains to fill in rivers and seas? By this, one overturns and breaks the mind that indulged the three karmic actions without restraint. Eighth, guarding and protecting the true Dharma: formerly, one extinguished one's own goodness and extinguished the goodness of others as well, feeling no sympathetic joy for oneself and none for others either; now, one guards and protects every wholesome thing, expanding it through skillful means, never letting it be cut off — like the merit of preserving an entire city intact. The Śrīmālā Sūtra says: "Guarding and protecting the true Dharma, embracing and upholding the true Dharma, is foremost of all." By this, one overturns and breaks the mind without sympathetic joy. Ninth, being mindful of the buddhas of the ten directions: formerly, one grew intimate with evil friends, believing and accepting their words; now, one is mindful of the buddhas of the ten directions, mindful of their unobstructed compassion, becoming an uninvited friend to others; mindful of their unobstructed wisdom, becoming a great guide — thereby overturning and breaking the mind that followed evil friends. Tenth, contemplating the emptiness of the very nature of offense: fully realizing that the mind of craving, aversion, and delusion is, every one, a gate of quiescence. Why is this? When craving or aversion arises, where, exactly, does it abide? One comes to know that this craving and aversion abides in deluded thought; deluded thought abides in inversion; inversion abides in the view of a substantial self; the view of a substantial self abides in the view of "I" — and the view of "I" itself, in the end, has no abode at all. Sought throughout the ten directions, this "I" cannot be found; the mind itself is, of itself, empty, and offense and merit alike have no master. Fully realizing the mark of offense and merit, illuminating throughout the ten directions — this emptiness-wisdom, now in accord with the mind, is like the morning dew vanishing all at once the instant the sun rises; every mind whatsoever is, itself, a gate of quiescence, showing quiescence as such. By this, one overturns and breaks the dim darkness of ignorance itself. These are the ten kinds of confession, according with the path of nirvāṇa and turning against the current of birth-and-death, able to extinguish the transgression of the four grave offenses and the five heinous crimes. Should one fail to understand these ten minds, with no grasp whatsoever of what is right and what is wrong, how could confession even be performed at all? Even should one enter the place of practice, this would be nothing but empty austerity, in the end of no great benefit. The Nirvāṇa Sūtra says: "Should one claim that diligent ascetic practice alone is the near cause of the great nirvāṇa, this could never be so." This is exactly that same sense. This, then, is confessing a grave offense among phenomenal transgressions.

Next, as for confessing the offense of view: because of the affliction of views, one flows along with the current of birth-and-death, as already explained above. What came before, applying the ten minds in connection with phenomenal matters, confessed the offense of the dull-faculty afflictions; here, supported by principle, confessing the view instead confesses the offense of the sharp-faculty afflictions. Yet since the view-mind is so fierce and overpowering, giving rise to grave affliction, one should also draw on phenomenal methods as auxiliary support — like taking a purgative medicine, to which croton oil must be added, so that the purge reaches all the way to the very bottom. Hence, this too is clarified by the same ten methods, applied now to confessing view. First, overturning and breaking unbelief: this means pointing directly at the mind's own view of a substantial self, causing it to recognize the suffering and its origin within ignorance itself. Consider Udraka Rāmaputra, who attained the concentration of neither-perception-nor-non-perception, and whom the world revered as though he were a buddha — yet, not recognizing suffering and its origin, once that reward was exhausted, he fell back down again. Subhadra, too, attained the concentration of neither-perception-nor-non-perception; though free of coarse thought, subtle afflictions remained. Even Dīrghanakha, of sharp intellect, both accepted and did not accept various views. Persons of such lofty, entrenched heterodox views have still not gone beyond the affliction of views at all — this is not nirvāṇa; how much less, then, one coarser and more shallow, not even reaching Udraka Rāmaputra's own attainment, who nonetheless claims to hold the true path — is this not a profound distortion? Such a person, craving and clinging to the wisdom of contemplating emptiness, remains ignorant of this very fact — this is named "ignorance"; and from it, arising in opposition or in accord, "formations" are created dependent on this view; view and formation depend on form, and this is "name-and-form"; name-and-form is itself suffering, and so on. Confused as to suffering, "craving" and "existence" arise from it; "existence" gives rise to future "birth-and-death," flowing on in unbroken succession — how could this possibly be quiescent extinction? Should one claim that birth-and-death is thereby exhausted, this is simply idle talk. Calling the view-mind of ignorance "the path," calling what is not the path "the path," reckoning what is not the cause as the cause — this is named "clinging to precept and vow," and is this not theft of causation itself? Calling the suffering retribution of the three evil destinies yet to come "nirvāṇa" — this is "clinging to views," reckoning what is not the fruit as the fruit, and is theft of the fruit itself. The views of a substantial self, of extremes, and of deviance may be understood in the same way. A view-mind of this kind is itself suffering and its origin, not cessation and the path. Since it is not even the Tripiṭaka teaching's own cessation and path, how much less the Mahāyāna's own cessation and path? Able to recognize this, one thereby comes to know the causation of the mundane world, and further recognizes the causation that transcends the world. Hence the Larger Sūtra says: "Prajñā is able to reveal the mark of the mundane world" — meaning precisely showing "what is the path" and "what is not the path." This is deeply recognizing that the view-mind is itself suffering and its origin. And more deeply still: not merely knowing the suffering and origin of ignorance, one also recognizes the Tripiṭaka teaching's own causation, and recognizes that dharmas arisen through causes and conditions are themselves empty — the causation of the Four Noble Truths of generation-and-extinction. More deeply still, one also knows that causes and conditions are themselves provisional — the causation of the immeasurable Four Noble Truths. More deeply still, one also knows that causes and conditions are themselves the middle — the causation of the unconditioned Four Noble Truths. Within a single view-mind, one comes to recognize every causation without exception. Hence the Nirvāṇa Sūtra says: "Within a single thought of mind, to be able to weigh and measure boundless birth-and-death — this is named the inconceivable." Hence this is named deep faith, breaking through unbelief.

Second, giving rise to deep shame and remorse: failing to see the principle of the three truths within one's own mind is named "shame and remorse." Discussed in terms of contemplative insight into humans and heavenly beings: one feels shame before those of dry wisdom and the stage of nature, and remorse before the pure heavenly beings of the fourth fruit, before the persons of the thirty minds and the heavenly beings signified by the ten grounds, and before those of the five grades and the purification of the six faculties, signified by the forty-two heavenly stages. By analogy, a reward attained through deliberate effort is named "human"; a spontaneous fruit is named "heavenly." These two kinds of "heavenly humans" follow the same pattern: the expedient path is named "human," the manifestation of real principle is named "heavenly." Since the view-mind's own offense obscures the principle of the three truths, failing to reach any of these three kinds of "human and heavenly," one therefore feels shame and remorse — by this, one overturns and breaks the mind without shame or remorse. Third, fear: knowing that the offense created by the "view"-mind is a fault profoundly grave. The Treatise says: "The buddhas taught the meaning of emptiness precisely to free beings from every view; but should one, in turn, come to view emptiness itself as existing, this the buddhas cannot transform." I myself, through view, have now given rise to a grave offense — when this present kalpa is exhausted, I shall be born into hell in another realm; and when that kalpa, too, comes into being, I shall return once more to this very place — turning on in this way, without measure, without limit. Were the body to be undergone as karmic reward actually described, one would vomit hot blood and die on the spot! Hence it is known that the offense of view is exceedingly grave: being anything but uncontaminated, it cannot escape birth-and-death, and affliction moistens karma into growth — how could falling into ruin possibly be in doubt? Once this one life fails to be recovered, there is never again any day of escape. For this reason, one gives rise to great fear — by this, one overturns and breaks the mind unafraid of the evil destinies. Fourth, disclosure: from the very beginning, every view has given rise to craving attachment, obscuring these three truths, unable to give rise to any settled faith. Now, knowing the fault of this view, one discloses and dispels the three doubts, concealing nothing at all, revealing the very nature of the truth. This is disclosure — by this, one overturns and breaks the mind that conceals its own offense. Fifth, cutting off the mind of continuation: never letting the contemplation of the three truths lapse even for a moment, treating the mind of the three afflictions by means of the eightfold noble path, cutting it off and no longer rehearsing it. By this, one overturns and breaks the mind of continuous evil.

Sixth, giving rise to the bodhi-mind: this means taking the principle of the three truths as one's object, all of it like empty space; emptiness itself has no boundary, and so one has compassion for all beings without exception, universally bringing about their deliverance. Formerly, being confused about this very point gave rise to affliction without bound, and so the offense, too, was without bound; now the bodhi-mind pervades the entire dharma-realm, giving rise to unconditioned goodness that likewise pervades the entire dharma-realm — thereby overturning and breaking the unconditioned evil that once pervaded emptiness in just the same way. Playing the lion's own lute, so that every other string falls silent — this is exactly that same sense. Seventh, cultivating merit to make up for past faults: the branches of the path belonging to the three truths are themselves the bodhisattva's own jeweled-torch dhāraṇī, the very dharma of practicing the path, the gate that leads toward nirvāṇa. Sustaining these branches of the path, thought after thought without a break, is itself cultivating merit to make up for past faults. Formerly, clinging to a view and taking it for nirvāṇa, one remained unmoved with regard to that view, never cultivating the branches of the path at all; even should that view be stirred into entering non-existence, this is like an inchworm's own motion — though the view itself is stirred, one is still unable to cultivate the branches of the path. Now, knowing that both existence and nonexistence are themselves views, and not clinging to either as real, is named the view stirred, and yet the branches of the path not cultivated; but if one breaks apart and analyzes every view, practicing the branches of the path, this is named the view stirred, and the branches of the path cultivated as well. Further, one embodies the view as itself empty, itself provisional, and itself the middle — and once one speaks of "itself," then, even while the view remains unmoved, the three kinds of branches of the path are being cultivated all the same. This is cultivating merit to make up for the fault of indulging in view. Eighth, guarding and protecting the true Dharma: formerly, one guarded one's own view, keeping others from breaking it, applying skillful means to promote and spread it; now, one guards the various forms of emptiness within the three truths, keeping view itself from breaking them. Should any obstacle remain, one skillfully promotes and spreads the truth further still, forgetting the body to preserve the Dharma, just as a parent guards and protects their own child. By this, one overturns and breaks the deed of destroying what is wholesome. Ninth, being mindful of the buddhas of the ten directions: formerly, one drank the poison of view, never satisfied, as though parched and longing to drink; and, meeting with an evil teacher, this was like adding brine to that same thirst — using suffering to cast off suffering, arrogant and self-important, flattering and insincere of mind, failing to hear even the name of a buddha across a thousand myriad koṭis of kalpas. Now, being mindful that the three truths neither come nor go, this is itself the Buddha; that the unborn dharma is itself the Buddha; ever protected by the very truth of principle. By this, one overturns and breaks the mind that grew intimate with evil friends. Tenth, contemplating the emptiness of the very nature of offense: these three kinds of affliction are, in their fundamental nature, already quiescent — and yet, failing to realize this, I have falsely taken them as real, right or wrong. It is like a person in a fever, seeing dragons and demons that are not there. Now, contemplating "view" as like an illusion, like a phantom — coming from nowhere, going leaving no trace, arriving at no direction whatsoever, north, south, east, or west — every offense and every merit alike is exactly the same. Once one thing is empty, everything is empty; emptiness is itself the very nature of offense, and the nature of offense is itself emptiness. By this, one overturns and breaks the inverted mind itself. Setting these ten confessions in motion, one contemplates the three truths deeply; adding to this the phenomenal methods as well, with a mind of the deepest sincerity, sparing neither body nor life, this is named "the second kind of hero." This, then, is confession through both phenomenal and principled means together: the offense obstructing the path is dissolved, śīla is purified, samādhi manifests before one, and calming-and-contemplation opens and unfolds. Because the phenomenal precept is purified, the fundamental samādhi manifests before one, and mundane wisdom and the wisdom of knowing others' minds unfold. Because the precept of the unborn is purified, the samādhi of the real truth manifests before one, and the wisdom of all things unfolds. Because the precept of identity with the provisional is purified, the samādhi of the conventional truth manifests before one, and the wisdom of the paths unfolds. Because the precept of identity with the middle is purified, the king-samādhi manifests before one, and the wisdom of all modes unfolds. Attaining this samādhi of the three truths is precisely why it is named the "king-samādhi" — every samādhi whatsoever enters into it entirely. It is, moreover, able to give rise to every meditative absorption, lacking nothing at all, hence named "calming"; and it is able to be complete with every wisdom, hence named "contemplation." Hence it is known that purity in upholding the precepts, and confession performed with anguished sincerity, together form the very first condition of calming-and-contemplation — the meaning lies exactly here.

Second, sufficiency of robes and food: robes serve to cover the form, screening off what is unsightly; food serves to sustain life, filling the wound of hunger. When the body is at ease, the path flourishes — and once the path flourishes, its very root is established. Form, life, and the path itself all depend on these robes and food. Hence it is said: "The Tathāgata, having eaten, attained anuttarā-samyak-saṃbodhi." Though this is a slight condition, it is able to accomplish a great matter — naked and starving, ill at ease, where could the Dharma of the path even be found? Hence robes and food must be sufficient. As for robes: they screen off what is unsightly, screen off cold and heat, screen off mosquitoes and gadflies, and adorn the body. Robes are of three kinds. The great being of the Snow Mountains, cutting off all human form deep within the ravines, has no dealings with the human world at all; he weaves grass into a mat and wears a robe of deer hide, with no formal reception, declaration of purity, or the like — his own power of endurance is already complete, needing no warmth or padding; not traveling among people, he has no need of any further support. This is the highest kind of person. The twelve practices of the ascetic monk keep only the three robes, neither more nor less; going out into the assembly or entering the mountains, dressed properly and in order — hence the three robes are established. This is the middle kind of person. In lands of great cold, the hundred-and-one permitted articles support the body; these must be formally declared pure, sufficient only for one's actual needs, never sought in excess. Excessive seeking is itself hardship, and guarding what is excessive is likewise hardship — it obstructs and disturbs one's own practice, and troubles the lay donor as well. Content with whatever little is obtained, this is the lowest kind of person. As for contemplative practice itself as the robe: the Nirvāṇa Sūtra says, "Though you monks wear the kāṣāya robe, your minds have still not been dyed by the Mahāyāna's own Dharma-robe." As the Lotus Sūtra says: "Wearing the Tathāgata's own robe. The Tathāgata's robe is the mind of gentleness and forbearance." This is precisely the forbearance of quiescent extinction. Birth-and-death and nirvāṇa, coarse and unrefined at their two extremes, are, with the principle of the middle way, neither two nor different — hence named "gentle"; settling the mind in the middle way is hence named "forbearance." Freedom from the clamor of both extremes is hence named "quiescent"; transcending the two kinds of death is hence named "extinction." This mind of the forbearance of quiescent extinction covers over the evil of the two extremes, and is named "the robe that screens off what is unsightly"; removing the afflictions of the five levels of abiding, it is named "screening off heat"; breaking through the views of ignorance, it is named "screening off cold"; free of the stirring of birth-and-death, and free as well of any confused notion of emptiness, casting aside the two kinds of discursive thought, it is named "screening off mosquitoes and gadflies." This forbearance is complete with every dharma — like a mirror that reflects an image, in which mere rubble and tile show nothing at all, while within it every mark is present in full, and yet, being itself empty, is nothing at all. Hence it is said: "Fully realizing the mark of offense and merit, illuminating throughout the ten directions; the subtle and sublime pure Dharma-body, complete with the thirty-two marks, is thereby adorned." The single contemplation of the forbearance of quiescence is complete with every virtue, and is likewise named "robe," likewise named "adornment" — not something formed by cutting cloth into nine, seven, or five strips. The three robes are precisely the three contemplations: they cover over what is unsightly in the three truths; they screen off the cold and heat of view and craving within the three truths; they ward off the three kinds of discursive mosquitoes and gadflies, adorning the three bodies. Hence the three contemplations are taken as the robe — namely, the forbearance of submission, the forbearance of gentle accord, and the forbearance of the unborn, of quiescent extinction. Furthermore, giving rise to view is named "cold," and giving rise to craving is named "heat." Cultivating calming-and-contemplation, one attains the understanding of seeing the truth, which is like warmth, and view no longer arises; one attains the understanding of habituated thought, which is like coolness, and craving no longer arises. When the five faculties harbor no evil, this is the adornment of merit; when the mental sphere harbors no evil, this is the adornment of wisdom. The robe belonging to the remaining two contemplations may be understood by the same pattern. As for the hundred-and-one extra articles: these are precisely every practice that assists the path, helping to accomplish the three contemplations, together covering over every affliction, adorning the three bodies. This is cultivating forbearance as the robe, by passing through every dharma in turn.

As for food: food is discussed in terms of three settings, each able to sustain the body and nourish the path. First, deep in the mountains, cut off from every trace of human habitation, far removed from other people, relying only on sweet fruit and pure water, a single vegetable or a single fruit, and nothing more — or feeding on pine and cypress to sustain one's vital essence, as with the fragrant lotus roots of the Snow Mountains. Having eaten, one fixes the mind and sits in meditation, with nothing further to attend to at all. One who eats in this way is the highest kind of person. Second, in the āraṇya, the ascetic practices shaken free of every trace of grazing and herding sounds — this is a place for cultivating the path — one supports oneself through alms-begging alone. All seven buddhas alike taught the method of alms-begging; the Vaipulya, the Pratyutpanna, and the Lotus Sūtra all speak of alms-begging as well. Should the path be too distant, alms-begging becomes a wearisome obstacle; should it be too near, people and things clamor together in disturbance. Neither too far nor too near, so that alms-begging is easily accomplished — this is the middle kind of person. Third, unable either to abstain from grain and live on fruit alone, or to beg for alms through ascetic practice, one may still accept food sent as an offering by an external protector or lay donor; and one may likewise accept food formally declared pure within the saṃgha, in accordance with the proper procedure — this is the lowest kind of person. As for clarifying food in terms of contemplating the mind: the Nirvāṇa Sūtra says, "Though you monks go about begging for alms, you have never yet obtained the Mahāyāna's own Dharma-food." "Dharma-food" is the Tathāgata's own Dharma-joy and dhyāna-bliss. This Dharma-joy is precisely the great wisdom of equality, contemplating every dharma without any obstruction at all. The Vimalakīrti Sūtra says: "One who is equal toward food is equal toward the Dharma as well; one who is equal toward the Dharma is equal toward food as well." "Affliction as the firewood, wisdom as the flame — by this causal condition, the food of nirvāṇa is accomplished, and every disciple finds it, every one, delicious." This food nourishes the Dharma-body, increasing the life of wisdom — like eating the finest milk-porridge, with nothing further needed at all, this is itself true liberation. True liberation is itself the Tathāgata. By means of this Dharma-joy and dhyāna-bliss, passing through every dharma, none of it is anything but a single flavor; a single form, a single fragrance, is nothing but the middle way — the dharma of the middle way, being complete with every dharma, is itself the very sense of fullness, the very sense of needing nothing further. It is like that highest person deep in the mountains, for whom a single herb or a single fruit is already sufficient to sustain the body. As for the ascetic monk's alms-begging: the practitioner unable to cultivate the wisdom of the true mark of reality directly, in the very midst of phenomenal matters, must instead order the mind through the three contemplations in sequence, entering the middle way by stages. Because the contemplation proceeds by sequence, this is named "begging for alms"; and since the middle way is seen at the end all the same, this too is named the sense of fullness — this is the middle kind of person. As for food sent by a lay donor: if a person is unable either to penetrate directly through phenomenal matters, or to contemplate by passing through the teachings in sequence, they have, of themselves, no access to the true sense of food at all; they must instead rely on a good friend able to expound the prajñā teaching, skillfully making the distinctions for them, so that, upon hearing it, understanding follows, and the middle way is seen. Such a person, of dull faculty, gives rise to understanding from what is heard — this is named "obtaining food." As for one unable to accomplish either of the two methods above, hearing another's food being sent as an offering — and, further, food formally declared pure within the saṃgha — this is precisely realizing the merit of the branches and groves of meditative concentration, attaining awakening by relying on samādhi, named "food within the saṃgha." Hence the practitioner should ever hold the Mahāyāna's own Dharma-food in mind, giving no thought to any other flavor at all.

Third, dwelling in a quiet place: though robes and food are sufficient, what of one's dwelling place? If one simply follows one's own inclination, ease may be found wherever one happens to be; but the three kinds of samādhi absolutely require a good place. A good place is of three kinds: first, deep mountains and distant valleys; second, the ascetic practice of dwelling near, but apart from, a settlement; third, an āraṇya or monastery. If deep mountains and distant valleys, the paths there difficult and perilous, forever cut off from any human trace — who, then, could come to disturb one? Giving free rein to meditative contemplation, every thought fixed on the path, praise and blame alike never arising — this place is foremost. Second, the ascetic dwelling: no closer than three li, coming and going kept sparse, awareness spurring one against affliction — this place ranks next. Third, an āraṇya or monastery: a quiet temple, dwelling alone in a single room, not meddling in outward affairs, closing the door and sitting still, contemplating the truth directly — this place ranks lowest of the three. Apart from these three places, no other will do. A layperson's own fasting-hall in a settled town invites reproach from those who pass by; a bustling temple beside a marketplace is likewise unsuitable. To settle the body and enter the path, one absolutely must choose with care, and never act rashly. Once a good place is found, there is no need to move about repeatedly. As for the place contemplated in the mind: this is precisely the truth of principle. The dharma of the middle way is so profound and deep that the seven kinds of expedient means cannot reach it, not even leaving a trace — hence it is named "deep"; lofty and vast, unmoving, it is named "mountain"; far removed from both extremes, it is called "quiet"; neither arising nor being stirred, it is called "at leisure." The Larger Sūtra says: "Should one, even a thousand yojanas away, give rise to the śrāvaka's own mind, this person's body, though far removed, has a mind that is not far removed at all." Taking mere clamor for the absence of clamor is not true remoteness. Though one dwells right beside a city, if the mind of the two lesser vehicles does not arise, this alone is named "remoteness" — this is the highest-grade place. The ascetic's own place is precisely the contemplation of emerging into the provisional: this contemplation borders closely on emptiness, just as the āraṇya lies close beside the settlement. The contemplation of emerging into the provisional settles the mind in the conventional truth, distinguishing remedy from sickness, shaking off ignorance, purifying the wisdom of the paths — this is the next place. The quiet temple's single room is precisely the contemplation of entering emptiness from the provisional: a temple is, by its nature, a place of crowds and clamor, and yet one is able to settle a single room in quiet stillness within it; the provisional is itself dust and noise, and yet one is able, in the very midst of the provisional, to reach emptiness — one should know that the real truth, too, is exactly such a place. Settling in the principle of the three truths is itself the place of calming-and-contemplation; it is not, in truth, a matter of hiding one's shadow among mountain forests, or secluding one's room in some hidden chamber at all.

Fourth, cessation of every external entanglement: entanglements obstructing meditation is a fact of long standing. The āraṇya monk, having left the clamor behind for the sake of quiet, why, then, should he take up and manage further entanglements, ruining his own āraṇya practice? This is not fitting at all. Entanglements are of four kinds: first, livelihood; second, social affairs; third, technical skills; fourth, scholarship. First, the entanglement of livelihood: managing the means of one's own subsistence brings tangled complications at every turn — gaining one thing, one loses another, ruining the path and disturbing the mind. Should one diligently manage many such affairs, this is a matter left to one's own discretion, and not what is discussed here. Second, social affairs: bowing and scraping at celebrations and condolences, paying respectful visits high and low, coming here and going there, back and forth without end — how much more so amid the tangled entanglements of crowds, the clamor of people pursuing one another? To turn away from family and leave one's teacher was, from the very start, done in search of the essential path — why, then, form new ties across three provinces, and cultivate connections through five more districts besides? This is like turning one's robe upside down to search for the collar, or striking flint to seek water — it is simply not fitting. Third, technical skills: medicine, divination, plastering and carpentry, painting, chess and calligraphy, incantations, and the like. Even a hide worked for its beautiful pattern, a horn boiled down for its oil, a bell melted for its metal — the animal itself is thereby harmed; how much more, then, one cultivating the world-transcending path, who, in taking up such skills, is like a grove of trees inviting birds to nest, or rotting matter drawing flies — is this not itself a kind of ruin and disgrace? Fourth, scholarship: reading and reciting the sūtras and treatises, debating questions and answers to win or lose. Holding and memorizing them wearies the mind and exhausts the will; disputing back and forth muddies the water and dims the pearl within — what leisure, then, could remain for cultivating calming-and-contemplation? Even this matter alone should be set aside — how much more, then, the three entanglements that came before! As for livelihood contemplated through the mind: craving is the very dharma that nourishes karma, like water nourishing a seed. From craving comes worry; from worry comes fear. Should one be able to cut off craving, this is named "the cessation of the entanglement of livelihood." Social affairs are themselves karma: karma gives rise to the three realms, coming and going through the five destinies. Craving moistens karma, so that one takes birth in place after place; without karma, craving would have nothing to moisten at all. Every karma, though it has its own power, does not pursue one who does not act upon it — and because one does not act, birth-and-death is thereby cut off. As for technical skill: not yet having attained the sagely path, one is not yet able to cultivate true spiritual penetration — and any hollow, deceptive dharma obstructs prajñā itself. Prajñā is like empty space, free of idle discourse, free of any fixed text; once prajñā is attained, it is like obtaining a wish-fulfilling jewel — cultivating this alone, single-mindedly, why should one hastily seize on some lesser spiritual power instead? As for scholarship: not yet having attained the forbearance of the unborn, one instead cultivates worldly wisdom and clever eloquence — every such distinction is nothing but rubble and weeds, not the true jewel at all. Should one be able to let the water settle and still, it grows clear of itself; only then, looking down through it as through lapis lazuli, does one calmly and steadily draw out the treasure within. Able, then, to know the marks of arising and ceasing throughout the mundane world, in their every category and kind, what is there left unknown? — known by the wisdom of all modes, seen by the buddha-eye itself. Wishing to travel the great path, one should not, instead, take lessons along that lesser byway.

Fifth, the good friend: this is a great causal condition, meaning precisely being guided and transformed so as to come to see the Buddha. Ānanda said: "A good friend is half the causal condition of attaining the path." The Buddha said: "This should not be so — a good friend is the entire causal condition, complete in full." A good friend is of three kinds: first, the external protector; second, the fellow practitioner; third, the instructor. If one dwells deep in the mountains, in some utterly remote region, with nothing to rely on for support, then one need not depend on an external protector; but if one cultivates the three kinds of samādhi, one should look to this superior condition. As for the external protector: without distinguishing black robe from white, one who is simply able to manage and provide what is needed — never noticing one's faults, never causing offense, never offering excessive praise, and never acting carelessly so as to cause harm — like a mother raising her child, or a tiger carrying her cub in its mouth, attending and adjusting exactly as needed. Only a long-practiced follower of the path is truly able to serve in this way. This is named "the external protector." Second, the fellow practitioner: for the practice that follows one's own inclination, and for the practice of ease and bliss, a companion is not necessarily required; but for the practice methods of the Vaipulya and Pratyutpanna samādhis, a good companion is absolutely required, each spurring the other onward, neither sleeping nor growing scattered, making fresh progress day by day; polishing and refining one another like jade, of one mind and equal resolve, as though riding together in a single boat, each honoring and respecting the other as though beholding the World-Honored One himself. This is named "the fellow practitioner." Third, the instructor: one able to expound prajñā, showing the path and what is not the path, resolving with full clarity every inward and outward expedient means, every obstruction and hindrance along the way — skillfully expounding the Dharma, showing, instructing, benefiting, and delighting, gradually breaking through a person's own mind. Toward the various expedient means, once one is oneself able to resolve them with full clarity, one may then practice alone; but so long as obstacles and difficulties remain unfamiliar, one should not yet set the instructor aside. The sūtra says: "Following and studying under a good teacher, one comes to see buddhas as numerous as the sands of the Ganges." This is named "the instructor."

As for the good friend contemplated through the mind: the Larger Sūtra says, "The Buddha, the bodhisattvas, and the arhats are good friends; the six pāramitās and the thirty-seven factors of enlightenment are good friends; the Dharma-nature and the ultimate reality are good friends." If the Buddha and the bodhisattvas, with their majestic light, cover and nurture one, this is precisely the external protector. The six pāramitās and the factors of enlightenment are the very gateway into the path, and are precisely the fellow practitioner. The Dharma-nature and the ultimate reality are precisely the truth of principle itself, that which every buddha takes as teacher; and since this very object is able to give rise to wisdom, this is precisely the instructor. Each of these three, moreover, contains all three senses within itself. First, just as the Buddha's own majestic spiritual power covers and protects one, this is itself the external protector. Second, the buddhas and sages themselves likewise cast off their own jeweled ornaments, don soiled and ragged robes, take up the very vessel for removing dung, tempering their own light to benefit beings — is this not itself the fellow practitioner? Third, the buddhas and bodhisattvas, with a single voice, expound the Dharma, opening, cultivating, guiding, and transforming, each according to their own capacity for understanding — this is itself the instructor. Each of these three, then, already contains all three senses at once. The six pāramitās and the factors of enlightenment likewise contain all three senses: assisting the path is named protecting assistance — assisting the path so as to give rise to the correct path is itself the external protector. Since the correct path and its assistance are joined together, this is itself the fellow practitioner. Relying on this correct path and its assistance without losing the proper measure, penetrating fully into the three gates of liberation, this is itself the instructor. The Dharma-nature, too, contains all three senses: the object itself is that which one takes as teacher, secretly perfuming and imperceptibly benefiting one — this is itself the external protector. Object and wisdom according with one another is itself the fellow practitioner. Before principle is seen, one is as though blind; once the truth of the Dharma is manifest, one is as though gifted with sight, the function of wisdom no longer astray. The sūtra says: "One who cultivates my own Dharma comes to realize it by themselves alone; without any real practice of mind, what use would there be in even asking?" — this is itself the instructor. This yields three sets of three, nine propositions in all; combined with the three given before, twelve propositions altogether. The first three, and the next three, are the good friend in phenomenal terms; the remaining six propositions are the good friend in terms of principle. Applying this to the three truths: on entering the contemplation of emptiness, the assembly of sages is the external protector; the factors of enlightenment identical with emptiness are the fellow practitioner; the real truth itself is the instructor — and this, too, contains six phenomenal and six principled senses. The contemplations of the provisional and of the middle follow the very same pattern. Across the three truths together, this yields thirty-six variants in all, eighteen phenomenal and eighteen principled; and applying this further across the four siddhāntas, the senses of "good friend" multiply still further. Should one be able to fully grasp this gateway of the good friend, the intent behind Sudhana's own entry into the dharma-realm may then be understood. Though all of these are alike called "good friends," the Avataṃsaka Sūtra nonetheless says: "There is the māra of the good friend, the māra of samādhi, and the māra of the bodhi-mind." A māra is able to make a person abandon what is wholesome and follow what is evil, and is also able to transform a person into falling into the stage of the two lesser vehicles. If this is so, then an arhat, practicing only the real truth, would not be a good friend at all. But if one takes the śrāvaka who is inwardly hidden yet outwardly manifest as a good friend, then a bodhisattva, too, may take the form of a deva or a nāga to draw beings into the true mark of reality — why single out the arhat alone? This sense, then, applies universally: there is nothing that is not a good friend. What is here called a "māra" refers to the arhat taken as ultimately real: one who leads a person only as far as the phantom city is not a true good friend at all, but merely a good friend of the half-syllable — practicing half the bodhi path, diminishing half of affliction; taking away and giving are each, in turn, made clear — sometimes a good friend, sometimes a māra. Even the distinct teaching, should one fail to grasp its own intent and fail to meet with the middle way, is likewise a māra of the good friend. Only the perfect teaching's own three kinds of good friend are truly good friends in the full sense. Samādhi and the bodhi-mind may be understood by the very same pattern.

Second, rebuking the five desires: these are form, sound, smell, taste, and touch. The Daśabhūmika-vibhāṣā says: "Restraining the six faculties is like tethering a dog, a deer, a fish, a snake, a monkey, and a bird. The dog delights in the settlement; the deer delights in mountains and marshes; the fish delights in ponds and pools; the snake delights in dwelling in its burrow; the monkey delights in the deep forest; the bird delights in relying on open sky. The six faculties delight in the six sense-objects in just this way, and this is not something the ordinary being's own shallow wisdom and weak resolve can ever subdue — only wisdom, together with a firm mind and right mindfulness, is able to subdue it." This is a general simile for the six faculties as a whole. Here, matching them privately, one by one: the eye craves form — form has substance and image, like the settlement — so the eye is like the dog. The ear craves sound — sound has no substance or image, like open marshland — so the ear is like the deer. The nose craves smell, like the fish. The tongue is drawn by taste, like the snake. The body clings to touch, like the monkey. The mind takes dharmas as its object, like the bird. Here, setting the mind aside, only the five sense-objects are discussed. The five sense-objects are not, in themselves, desire — but within them lies a certain savor, able to give rise, in the practitioner, to a mind that craves them — hence they are called "the five desires." It is like the potter: while entertaining a guest, he is unable to attend to his craft; the five desires are exactly the same, ever able to drag a person into every demonic realm — even with every prior condition already fulfilled, gathering the mind proves difficult to establish, and this is exactly why they must be rebuked.

The desire of form means red and white, long and short, bright and alluring eyes, a fair neck and delicate brows, gleaming teeth and crimson lips — and, further, in terms of one's surroundings, red, yellow, vermilion, and purple, every kind of rare and precious object — all of it bewitching and stirring the human mind, exactly as described in the Chanmen. The harm of form runs especially deep, driving people into a wild intoxication — the very root of birth-and-death lies truly here. Even Nanda, upholding the precepts for the sake of desire, though he attained arhatship, still retained a great deal of habitual tendency — how much more, then, one still fully bound? A king indulging without limit, giving no thought to the weight of his own ancestral shrine and his own state, entering, for the sake of desire's pleasure, even an enemy land in person. In this land, in ages past, the ruin of states and the destruction of families have very often arisen from desire — the resplendent house of Zhou, brought down by Bao Si, is exactly such a case. A sūtra says: "Sentient beings, ravenous with desire for wealth and sensual pleasure, are, on this account, unable to attain the path." The Contemplation Sūtra says: "Enslaved by form, one becomes the slave of affection and attachment, no longer free." Should one be able to know the ill effects of form, one will no longer be deceived by it. Having rebuked it in this way, the desire for form is at once stilled, no further thought of it arising, and the mind, single and undivided, enters samādhi. The desire of sound is precisely alluring, seductive words, licentious voices and defiling speech, the sound of strings and pipes, bracelets, bells, and pendants. The desire of smell is precisely dense, heavy fragrance, the scent of orchid and musk, and every intensely sweet and fragrant substance, together with the natural scent of a man's or woman's own body. The desire of taste is precisely wine and meat, rare delicacies, rich and greasy fare, sweet, sour, and spicy flavors, ghee, oil, and fresh blood. The desire of touch is precisely coolness and warmth, smoothness and softness, lightness and heaviness, firmness and pliancy, fine garments and elegant robes, and the very body of a man or a woman. The ill effect of these five is this: form is like a molten ball of gold — grasp it, and one is burned. Sound is like a drum smeared with poison — hear it, and one surely dies. Smell is like the breath of a venomous dragon — inhale it, and sickness follows. Taste is like boiling honey — pour it on the tongue, and the tongue is scalded raw; or like honey smeared on a blade — lick it, and one is cut. Touch is like a sleeping lion — draw near it, and it bites. These five desires, once obtained, bring no satiety at all — the evil mind only grows more inflamed, like fire fed further fuel, causing harm life after life, fiercer even than a mortal enemy. Across accumulated kalpas, they have ever plundered and seized, breaking and destroying both form and mind alike; and now, just as one turns toward the stillness of meditation, they come once more to trouble and disturb it. Deeply knowing this fault, craving attachment is thereby set to rest. The phenomenal particulars of this are given in full in the Chanmen. A poem by an eminent monk of a former age says: "Kept at a distance, one is easily a gentleman; drawn near, feeling itself grows hard to master — fragrance and flavor bring down the loftiest resolve; sound and form destroy the very span of life."

As for rebuking the five desires through contemplating the mind: within the desire of form alone, there lies boundless savor — permanence and impermanence, self and no-self, purity and impurity, suffering and bliss, emptiness and existence, the mundane and the ultimate — every one of these is itself a savor. Hence the Treatise says: "Within form there is no mark of savor at all — the ordinary being ought not to cling to it." Should one claim form is permanent, this view depends on form; should one claim form is impermanent, or both permanent and impermanent, or neither permanent nor impermanent, every one of these views likewise depends on form. And so on, up through "the Tathāgata goes on" and "the Tathāgata does not go on," "having a boundary" and "having no boundary" — every one of these views, too, depends on form. All of this is contention: clinging to a view and taking it as real, idle discourse breaks the eye of wisdom, each side declaring the other wrong, creating karma for the sake of form. The instant "this" exists, birth-and-death exists — a contemplation of this kind only increases desire; it is not truly rebuking desire at all. Here, contemplating that the sixty-two views of existence, nonexistence, and the rest concerning form all depend on ignorance: ignorance is impermanent, arising and ceasing without remaining fixed, a swiftly decaying dharma crumbling away thought after thought, without a self, without a master — quiescent extinction. Ignorance being thus, whatever arises from ignorance — existence, nonexistence, and the rest — is likewise, every one, impermanent, quiescent extinction. Since there is no master-self at all, who, then, is real, and who is false? In the end, no karma of birth-and-death is ever raised up on account of form at all; karma dissolves, and the fruit vanishes with it — this is rebuking form so as to enter emptiness and attain liberation. Rebuking form being thus, the remaining four follow the very same pattern. This is named rebuking the five desires through the Tripiṭaka teaching's own method of analysis. The Middle Treatise refers to this as "unwholesomely extinguishing idle discourse."

As for rebuking the desire of form through the Mahāyāna: embodying the knowledge that every view depends on ignorance — ignorance is itself empty, and so every view is itself empty as well. Hence the Diamond Sūtra says: "A stream-enterer is so named because he has entered the stream; and yet, in truth, he has entered no stream at all, since he has not entered form, sound, smell, taste, or touch." Why is this? If there were some form that could be analyzed away, one could then speak of "entering" form; but form is itself already empty, with no form left to enter at all — hence it is named "not entering." Since there is no stream to enter at all, there is no karmic fruit either. This is named skillfully extinguishing idle discourse. Rebuking form being thus, the remaining four follow the very same pattern.

Furthermore, as for rebuking form as simply identical with emptiness: this merely enters the emptiness of form, without being able to distinguish form's own manifold marks — how, then, could one possibly deliver every sentient being? Sentient beings, giving rise to manifold conceptions with regard to form, thereby give rise to manifold accumulations of affliction, and bring about manifold sufferings in turn. Since suffering and its accumulation are so manifold as sicknesses, the remedies of cessation and the path, too, must be equally boundless. Wishing to transform others, how could one possibly realize emptiness alone, without further observation and discernment? Hence, knowing that emptiness is not merely emptiness, one enters the provisional from emptiness, so that the Dharma-teachings, numerous as the sands of the Ganges, may all be penetrated and understood in full. Failing to do this, one is still said to be caught within the mere reception of entering the emptiness of form. Here, deeply rebuking the emptiness of form itself, neither receiving it nor entering it as a final resting place, one broadly distinguishes form in all its particulars. Though one thus makes distinctions, these have only names; and since a name is itself already empty, this is called "the provisional." Rebuking form being thus, the remaining four follow the very same pattern.

Furthermore, rebuking form at both extremes: as the Larger Sūtra says, "Within form there is no mark of savor — the ordinary being ought not to cling to it; within form there is no mark of separation either — the two lesser vehicles ought not to withdraw from it." Breaking through the views of existence, nonexistence, and the rest that arise from ignorance concerning form is rebuking its savor; breaking through sinking into mere emptiness is rebuking its separation. If form definitely possessed savor, there could be no separation from it; if it definitely possessed separation, there could be no savor in it either. Since savor is not fixed, it is not truly "savor"; since separation is not fixed, it is not truly "separation." Clinging to neither extreme is itself neither savor nor separation, revealing the true mark of the middle way within form itself. Hence the Treatise says: "The two lesser vehicles rebuke the phenomenal matter of form for the sake of dhyāna alone — this is not to be called a pāramitā." When the bodhisattva rebukes form, this is itself seeing the true mark of form; and seeing the true mark of form is itself seeing the true mark of dhyāna — hence it is named a pāramitā, reaching the far shore of form itself. Reaching the far shore of form is itself seeing the middle way within form. Distinguishing form in its particulars is itself seeing form as the conventional; form as itself empty is itself seeing form as the real. Rebuking form in this way, reaching all the way to form's own ultimate source, accomplishes the samādhi of the three truths, and gives rise to the three kinds of wisdom. Rebuking form this deeply is precisely the preliminary expedient of calming-and-contemplation — its meaning lies exactly here. Rebuking form being thus, the remaining four follow the very same pattern.

Third, abandoning the five hindrances: these are covetousness, ill will, sloth-and-torpor, restlessness-and-remorse, and doubt. They are generally called "hindrances" because they cover over and entangle, darkening the spirit of the mind, so that concentration and wisdom fail to arise — hence the name "hindrance." What came before, rebuking the five desires, concerned the five faculties meeting the five sense-objects as they presently stand, giving rise to the five sense-consciousnesses. Here, abandoning the five hindrances concerns these same five consciousnesses turning inward into the mental sphere, pursuing past sense-objects and anticipating future ones, becoming a great obstruction within the mind itself. It is like the potter: should illness arise within his own body, he is unable to hold to his craft. The hindrances are exactly the same — since the obstruction they cause runs so deep, they must further be abandoned outright, like cutting down a poisonous tree, or apprehending a thief caught in the act — they cannot be allowed to remain. The Larger Sūtra says: "Leaving behind desire and evil dharmas." Leaving behind desire means the five desires, as already rebuked above. The evil dharmas are the five hindrances, which must be urgently abandoned.

What, then, are the marks of these five hindrances? When the hindrance of covetousness arises, one recalls and pursues the five desires as formerly experienced: recollecting a pure, alluring form, setting it before the eye; remembering some lovely sound, as though echoing still in the ear; thinking of some delightful fragrance, opening the gate to the fetters; imagining some delicious flavor, its sweet juice flowing in the mouth; recalling the sensation of touch, the hair standing on end, trembling. Craving such coarse, corrupting objects of the five desires, weighing and calculating them in thought, the mind grows intoxicated and confused, losing right mindfulness entirely; one may even secretly devise some scheme, hoping to obtain them once more. If one has never yet obtained them, one still searches and seeks them out regardless, the mind entering the dusty sense-realm without a single moment's respite. With awareness this coarse, how could dhyāna itself, hindered as it is, ever be attained? This is the mark of the hindrance of covetousness. As for the hindrance of ill will: one recalls and dwells on how this person troubled me, troubled someone dear to me, or praised an enemy of mine; the nine kinds of vexation across the three times, resentment knotting into hatred. The mind grows hot, the breath coarse, anger continuing on unbroken; scheming a hundred ways, watching for one's chance, wishing to strike at the very heart of the matter, endangering the other's own peace and safety. Indulging this venomous rage, giving free rein to the feeling as though it were a pleasure — a fire of anger like this burns away every merit; how, then, could the very branches and groves of meditative concentration ever grow and flourish? This is the mark of the hindrance of ill will. As for the hindrance of sloth-and-torpor: the spirit of the mind grown dull and heavy is "sloth"; the six consciousnesses darkened and obstructed, the four limbs slack and sprawled, is "torpor." Torpor is named "a mental factor that increases the mind" — dark and murky, sinking and obstructing, it comes secretly to cover a person over, and is difficult to guard against. The five senses, devoid of awareness, are like a dead person — even a brief spell of this is named "a small death." One who delights in sleep finds sleep only growing more excessive. The Sāgaramati Sūtra says: "If a person sleeps to excess, this indolence obstructs whatever might be attained — what has not yet been attained will not be attained, and what has already been attained will be lost again. Wishing to attain the supreme path, one must remove sleep, doubt, and negligence, spurring every thought on with diligence, leaving evil behind and gathering merit." The Treatise says: "Sleep is a great darkness in which nothing is seen, deceiving one day after day, stealing away one's own clarity — it is like standing amid bared blades on the battlefield, or dwelling in the same chamber as a venomous snake. It is like a person already bound, being led away to execution — how, at such a time, could one possibly lie down to sleep in peace?" The obstruction sleep poses to meditation is the gravest fault of all. This is the mark of the hindrance of sloth-and-torpor.

As for restlessness-and-remorse: when discursive thought and reflection arise on their own, one at a time, this belongs to the hindrance discussed above; here, discursive thought and reflection arise together, ranging broadly over every dharma — now dwelling on craving, now imagining ill will, and now on foolish delusion, blazing without pause, restless without any fixed resting place, now arising, now subsiding, tangled in every manner of confusion; the body finds no ease in any posture, the mouth finds no benefit in any idle chatter — this is named "restlessness." Restlessness without remorse does not, by itself, form a hindrance; but because of this very restlessness, the mind, upon reflection, reproaches itself for its own carelessness and lack of restraint — how could one have done something so pointless? — a matter truly shameful. The heart then fills with regret, this remorse coiling and binding the mind, and this becomes the hindrance of remorse, covering over meditative concentration, so that it cannot open and unfold. If a person confesses and reforms past wrongs, rightly reproaching their own mind, this gives rise to appropriate remorse; but if a person is already in meditative concentration, simply recognizing the fault and no more, one should not dwell on it with any further attachment. It is not confession alone that grants release from an offense — one should still cultivate the pure dharma of meditative concentration itself. How, then, could one let remorse continue to bind the mind, obstructing so great a matter? Hence it is said: "Once you have repented, do not dwell on it further with worry; do not continually fix your thoughts on it. What should not have been done was done; what should have been done was left undone." This is exactly that same sense. This is the mark of the hindrance of restlessness-and-remorse. As for the hindrance of doubt: this is not the doubt that obstructs seeing the truth directly, but the doubt that obstructs meditative concentration itself. Doubt is of three kinds: first, doubting oneself; second, doubting one's teacher; third, doubting the Dharma. First, doubting oneself: supposing that one's own person is too base and unworthy ever to be a vessel for the path, and so doubting one's own body. Second, doubting one's teacher: this person's body and speech do not match my own expectations — how could he possibly possess profound meditative concentration and fine wisdom? Should I serve him as my teacher, would he not lead me astray? Third, doubting the Dharma: is what I have received really in accord with the truth? These three doubts, lingering and unresolved, ever held within the heart, prevent meditative concentration from arising; and should it arise regardless, it is quickly lost. This is the mark of the hindrance of doubt. The sicknesses of these five hindrances being as described, how, then, are they to be abandoned?

The practitioner should examine their own mind: which sickness, right now, predominates within it? Knowing one's own sickness, one should treat it first. If the hindrance of covetousness is heavy, one should abandon it by means of the contemplation of impurity. Why is this? Formerly, one took the five desires to be pure, entangled in craving attachment; now, contemplating impurity — pus-filled sacks, mucus, and spittle — there is not a single thing left to delight in. A mind of aversion arises, as though pursued by an enemy — what person of wisdom could still take pleasure in this? Hence it is known that this contemplation is the very medicine that cures covetousness; once this hindrance is gone, the mind at once finds peace. If the hindrance of ill will predominates, one should be mindful of loving-kindness, extinguishing the fire of anger. This fire is able to burn away merit across two lifetimes at once, and no one delights to see it. It is no different from a venomous, cruel beast; the enmity of birth-and-death, once kindled, does not rest for many kalpas — a trivial resentment in this present life becomes a great enmity hereafter. Now, cultivating a mind of loving-kindness, one abandons this evil; contemplating every person with the thought of a father, a mother, a loved one, wishing every one of them to attain happiness. Should they not attain happiness, I myself should diligently strive to bring them ease and joy — how, then, could I give rise to enmity toward them at all? Contemplating in this way, the mind of ill will is at once stilled, and the mind, at ease, enters meditation. If the hindrance of sleep predominates, one should diligently apply effort, spurring on body and mind, deliberately attending to and reflecting on the marks of the Dharma, discerning and selecting between wholesome and unwholesome dharmas, never letting the hindrance of sleep gain entry. One should further select a wholesome mind, giving rise to Dharma-joy; once the mind grows bright and pure of itself, the hindrance of sleep is removed of its own accord. One should not, on account of sleep, lose the joy of two lifetimes at once, living and dying to no purpose, gaining nothing whatsoever — like entering a mountain of treasure and returning with empty hands, a matter deeply to be lamented! One should skillfully govern the mind, guarding against it with well-chosen means: the staff, the ball, the conch-shell, stretching the legs, rousing oneself by starlight, washing with water. If restlessness and distraction predominate, one should apply the counting of the breath. Why is this? This hindrance is exceedingly sharp — it arrives unnoticed, and one only comes to recognize it after it has lingered a long while. Now, using the counting of the breath: should the count fail to be sustained, or lapse partway through, one recognizes at once that it has already slipped away, and, on recognizing this, counts once more. Once the counting is successfully sustained, discursive thought and reflection are thereby subdued; left untreated, one remains covered by this hindrance for one's entire life. If the three kinds of doubt linger in the heart, one should reflect in this way: my own person is like a wealthy man's own blind son, already complete with the peerless treasure of the Dharma-body, merely obscured by affliction, the eye of the path not yet opened — this must simply be cultivated and treated, never abandoned. And across boundless past kalpas, what habituated cause has ever been fixed? How, then, could I doubt myself, and lose both this moment and this benefit? A human body is difficult to obtain, and a mind of true fear is difficult to arouse — one should not, through doubt and confusion, injure oneself in this way. If one doubts one's teacher: I myself now lack wisdom — even the most exalted sages of the past all sought the Dharma itself, not the particular person who taught it. On Snow Mountain, the bodhisattva sought a verse from a demon; Indra, lord of the heavens, bowed before an animal as his own teacher. The Treatise says: "One does not discard the gold on account of the stench of its sack." "Arrogance is like a lofty mountain, where rainwater never pools; humility is like the rivers and seas, where every stream gathers and converges." For the sake of the Dharma, I too should cross over and show reverence to such a teacher. The Sūtra of Universal Transcendence says: "When one person meets another, one should not regard them as equal — only wisdom equal to the Tathāgata's own is truly able to regard another as an equal." Śāriputra said: "From this day forward, I dare no longer say, 'This person enters birth-and-death,' or 'This person enters nirvāṇa.'" This is exactly that same sense. Ever giving rise to reverence toward the buddhas of the three times — since one's own teacher may well be a buddha of the future — how, then, could doubt possibly arise? If one doubts the Dharma: my own Dharma-eye is not yet opened, unable to distinguish right from wrong, relying only on faith for the time being. The Buddhadharma is like the ocean — only faith is able to enter it. The Lotus Sūtra says: "The śrāvakas and the rest, this being beyond their own wisdom, enter through faith alone." If I myself, blind and benighted, still fail to believe and accept it, where else could I possibly turn? Sinking and drowning forever, with no knowledge of the way out — as with Vakkali; as with Upagupta instructing his own disciple to climb a tree. If the mind trusts the Dharma, the Dharma is then able to dye the mind; but hesitation and fox-like suspicion are exactly like an overturned vessel, into which nothing at all can be poured.

Question: do the five hindrances all obstruct meditative concentration equally? Answer: interpreters differ on this point. Some say: "Not-knowing is the true obstruction." Why is this? Because dhyāna is a dharma of gateways and sequences, and knowing runs contrary to not-knowing — hence the hindrances of doubt and sleep are said to be this true obstruction. Others say: "Scattered agitation is the true obstruction." Why is this? Because concentration and scatteredness run contrary to one another — hence restlessness-and-remorse is said to be this true obstruction. Others say: "Covetousness and ill will are the true obstruction." Why is this? Because dhyāna is a gentle, pliant, wholesome dharma, and rigidity runs contrary to gentleness — hence covetousness and ill will are said to be this true obstruction. Each of these positions rests on a different basis. Here, the explanation is otherwise: all five hindrances are, in general, an obstruction, but which one predominates depends on the practitioner's own particular strengths and weaknesses. If a person's hindrance of covetousness is especially heavy, this hindrance is the true obstruction for that person, and the others are secondary. The same holds for the remaining four hindrances in turn. It is like the four physical elements — all of them, in general, are capable of sickness, but not necessarily all flaring up at once; whichever one is stirred into activity is the one truly capable of killing. The hindrances should be understood the very same way: treat first whichever is strongest, and the weaker ones will fall away of themselves, allowing meditative concentration to arise. The Daśabhūmika-vibhāṣā says: "If a person is negligent, the hindrances will cover over the mind — even rebirth in the heavens becomes difficult for such a one, how much more attaining the fruit of the path? But if a person diligently applies effort, they are thereby able to tear the hindrances apart; and once the hindrances are torn apart, every aspiration is, every one, attained." This, then, is abandoning the hindrances by phenomenal method.

Question: when the first dhyāna arises, are the five hindrances thereby exhausted once and for all? Answer: this must be carefully distinguished. Why is this? Setting the three poisons apart yields four parts: covetousness, ill will, and delusion arising individually, each on its own, form three unequal parts; and the three arising together, equally, form the fourth. The three poisons arising individually is discursive thought and reflection, but not to excess; the three arising together, equally, is named excessive discursive thought and reflection, and this is precisely the fourth part. The Satyasiddhi-śāstra calls this "the momentary mind." Since the momentary mind takes all three poisons together as its object, the three poisons arising equally together, it is thereby known that the momentary mind is itself already formed as either wholesome or unwholesome. The Abhidharma clarifies that this momentary mind, on arising, is merely ignorance, an indeterminate state, neither wholesome nor unwholesome yet formed at all. Why is this? Though it generally takes the three poisons as its object, it does not properly belong to any one of the three in particular; and since it does not properly belong to any one, how could it be called either wholesome or unwholesome? Though it is not itself evil, the three poisons arise dependent upon it — this indeterminate state is called the arising cause, and yet is not itself named wholesome or unwholesome. Though these two treatises differ on this point, both alike are clarifying this same fourth part. Setting these four parts apart yields the five hindrances: the parts of covetousness and of ill will are, each, its own hindrance; the part of delusion opens further into the two hindrances of sleep and of doubt; and the part where all three arise equally together becomes the hindrance of restlessness-and-remorse. Should these four parts be broadly expanded further, each single part contains twenty-one thousand afflictions, and the four parts together number eighty-four thousand. In terms of the truth of suffering, these form the eighty-four thousand treasuries of the Dharma; in terms of the truth of its origin, these form the eighty-four thousand gates of worldly affliction; in terms of the truth of the path, these form the eighty-four thousand samādhis and dhāraṇīs; in terms of the truth of cessation, these form the eighty-four thousand pāramitās. The marks of the dharma of these four parts reach this deep and this broad — the principle of the five hindrances should, by the same measure, be understood as equally vast and lofty. How, then, could the Abhidharma judge covetousness as confined to the desire realm alone, naming it merely "attachment" in the higher realms, with no ill will present there at all? This very point has already been challenged by the Satyasiddhi-śāstra: if attachment in the higher realms is merely a lighter form of covetousness, should not a lighter form of ill will likewise still be present there, under some other name? Hence it is known that this covers over the underlying pattern by artificially restricting the term, and is not yet a fully comprehensive account. Here, the five hindrances are explained as extending, in terms of these four parts, all the way through to the stage of buddhahood itself.

The marks of abandoning the five hindrances given above concern the five hindrances of dull-faculty affliction, which obstruct only the first dhyāna; once the first dhyāna arises, these hindrances are abandoned entirely. This is exactly the sense of the ordinary account given above. The five hindrances of sharp-faculty affliction, however, obstruct the real truth itself: as already explained above, concerning the person who holds the view of emptiness, taking their own fixed position as real and everything else as false speech — running contrary to it gives rise to ill will, according with it gives rise to covetousness; these are precisely the two hindrances of covetousness and ill will. A mind darkened by ignorance, mistakenly holding to some fixed position, lacking clear and thorough knowledge, is precisely the hindrance of sleep. Every kind of idle discourse, disputing over views to no benefit at all, is precisely the hindrance of restlessness-and-remorse. And though there may seem to be no doubt at first, great doubt follows later — why is this? Since one already holds this fixed position as real, what further doubt could there possibly be? But should this position later be refuted, the mind gives rise to doubt and confusion after all. These five, covering the mind, prevent one from ever truly seeing the truth. Rebuking and abandoning these hindrances, once the hindrances are gone, the path arises, and one realizes the fruit of stream-entry. From the first fruit onward, grasping at the real is itself covetousness; abandoning habituated thought is itself ill will; the affliction of habituated thought not yet exhausted is itself sleep; losing hold and forgetting mindfulness is itself restlessness; and not yet an arhat beyond further training is itself doubt. Hence it is known that the five hindrances obstructing the real truth extend all the way through to the third fruit. Once these five hindrances are removed, this is itself the state beyond further training.

Furthermore, hindrances arising in dependence on emptiness obstruct the principle of the conventional truth. Why is this? Sinking into emptiness and taking this as one's own realization, holding emptiness to be correct — it is like a poor person, content with the least little thing obtained, wishing for nothing better. Cherishing and clinging to this emptiness is itself the hindrance of covetousness; detesting and rejecting birth-and-death, abandoning it without further observation, is itself the hindrance of ill will; taking the unconditioned as quiescent and empty, unwilling to illuminate the provisional, not even recognizing the five kinds of salt, is named the hindrance of sleep; sentient beings confused by emptiness are simply not within its own field of view at all — this is named the hindrance of restlessness-and-remorse; and lacking clarity in the wisdom of the provisional is named the hindrance of doubt. Should these hindrances not be abandoned, the wisdom of the paths and the samādhi of the conventional truth will never manifest at all; once these hindrances are removed, the Dharma-eye grows bright and clear. Furthermore, hindrances arising in dependence on the middle obstruct the middle way itself. Why is this? The bodhisattva craves and seeks the Buddhadharma the way the ocean swallows every stream, never satisfied at all; giving rise to what is named love of the Dharma, giving rise to craving in accord with the path, is named the hindrance of covetousness; taking no delight in the two lesser vehicles, like a great tree with a broken branch that no longer shelters a resentful bird, is named the hindrance of ill will. Ignorance stretches on so long and so far that, even at the higher stages, some remnant still remains — the Treatise says, "everywhere it teaches breaking through the samādhi of ignorance," meaning that though it is broken through at first, it must be broken through again and again thereafter; lacking the clarity of wisdom is itself the hindrance of sleep; though the bodhisattva's three karmic actions are already free of fault, compared to the buddha they still retain some residual imperfection, named the hindrance of restlessness-and-remorse; and though the principle is equally perfect at both the beginning and the end, the beginner's own wisdom does not yet reach that of the one further along, and this is named the hindrance of doubt. Should these hindrances not be abandoned, one never truly accords with the true mark of reality at all; once these hindrances are removed, the principle of suchness is revealed, and the buddha's own knowledge and vision opens. This dharma of the five hindrances is not confined to the beginner alone — it is present at every single stage, and the buddha alone, ultimate and complete with all eighty-four thousand pāramitās in full, perfect and entire, has reached the very far shore. Hence the Yogācārabhūmi says: "The ninth, the pure dhyāna free of every view, in its own purity." Grasping this sense, the marks of the hindrances extend on and on, and are not confined to the desire realm alone.

Furthermore, discussed in terms of sequence, stage by stage: the two hindrances of dull and sharp faculty above are abandoned during the stage of the ordinary being; the hindrance obstructing the conventional truth is abandoned during the stage of the two lesser vehicles; and the hindrance obstructing the middle way is abandoned during the stage of the bodhisattva. Discussed this way, the hindrances of what comes later have no bearing on what comes at the very beginning. The masters of the Dilun and Shelun traditions largely explain the matter in just this way. But since the dharma belonging to the very culmination of the fruit has, on this account, no bearing on the ordinary being at all, how could it possibly be cultivated directly, in the very midst of phenomenal practice? The perfect teaching's own explanation is otherwise. How is this known? If this teaching were meant only for beings of the higher stages, it ought to have been taught as a dharma-nature buddha, manifesting a dharma-nature land, addressed to dharma-nature bodhisattvas alone — why, then, would it appear together with, and manifest within, these very three realms of ours? It is precisely for the sake of delivering these ordinary, worldly beings that this sublime dharma is discussed at all, so that they, too, might be able to cultivate it. Were this not so, for whose sake would the provisional teaching even be bestowed? What could the provisional possibly be drawing anyone toward? Grasping this sense, the beginner, an ordinary being, is able, within a single thought, to abandon every hindrance perfectly and completely all at once.

Hence the Larger Sūtra says: "Every dharma converges in the matter of desire — this convergence goes no further. Since the matter of desire itself cannot be found at all, how much less could there be any further convergence, or non-convergence?" This may be explained as follows: convergence is itself existence, since there is both something that converges and something converged upon — this discusses the conventional truth. The matter of desire being unfindable is itself clarifying emptiness — within emptiness there is neither something that converges nor something converged upon — this discusses the real truth. "How could there be any convergence, or non-convergence?" — this discusses the middle way. One should know that the three truths lie, every one, within this single matter of desire alone. Here, this shall be more broadly explained, so that the sense is easier to grasp. Why does every dharma converge in the matter of desire, this convergence going no further? Because the matter of desire is itself the dharma-realm, the very root of every dharma. When the very first thought of desire arises, every dharma is already, in that instant, complete within it — but the mind, being coarse, does not recognize this, and, growing gradually more slippery and practiced, unable any longer to restrain itself, one falls into habitually indulging the matter. At first one merely samples its heat; grown accustomed to it, one can no longer forget its taste, and one retreats from the precepts and returns home, seeking out its object further still. Seeking it without any sense of satiety, one steals, or robs, or coerces, or trades for it — through manifold means of this kind, seeking desire, one gives rise to manifold transgressions. Once this object is obtained, it must be lavishly maintained — one may steal or plunder to seek the wealth for it, or kill living beings to satisfy it. If wealthy and noble, one indulges the mind and commits crime freely; if poor, evil intention grows equally broad all the same. Once the offense of desire is thus formed, the instant "this" exists, birth-and-death exists, and one must undergo the fruit of it in full. In whatever destiny one finds oneself, desire only grows doubly more intense, the subtle form received at conception growing ever greater, life after life; the twelve links of dependent origination turn on without end. One should know that there is no dharma whatsoever that does not converge in desire; outside the dharma-realm of desire, there is no separate dharma at all. One should know that every one of the five hindrances described above is, already, complete within that very first single thought. That desire is a dharma arisen through causes and conditions — this sense may thus be seen clearly.

How, then, is the desire itself, as the dharma-realm, empty? Sought among the five external sense-objects, it cannot be found; sought within the mental faculty, it cannot be found; sought in the intervening mental consciousness, it cannot be found. Sought in the union of inner and outer, it cannot be found; sought apart from inner and outer both, it cannot be found. Sought as a past condition of desire, it cannot be found; sought as a present cause of desire, it cannot be found; sought as a future fruit of desire, it cannot be found. Sought both horizontally and vertically, it is, in the end, utterly quiescent — desire is itself already empty. Since desire is empty, every dharma arisen from desire is likewise itself already empty, and this very emptiness, too, cannot be found. This is contemplating emptiness so as to abandon the hindrances of both dull and sharp faculty at once. Having thus recognized that one's own single desire is every desire at once, one likewise recognizes that it is exactly the same for every sentient being. Setting the other destinies aside for the moment, and considering the human destiny alone: its manifold forms and images, manifold sounds, manifold mental activities, manifold circumstances of dependent reward, are each, every one, different from the next. One should know that the causes of desire are of boundless variety without limit. A single person's own causation is already inexhaustible — how much more, then, that of many persons together? If a single realm is thus, how much more the nine dharma-realms? If a single dharma is thus, how much more a hundred dharmas? It is like facing down a bandit: the bandit is, in fact, the very root of one's own merit — by being able to defeat the bandit, one attains great renown and great wealth and honor. Boundless covetousness, itself the very seed of the Tathāgata, is exactly the same: it is able to cause the bodhisattva to bring forth boundless hundreds and thousands of Dharma-gates. More fuel makes a fiercer fire; a lotus grows from rotted, ruined filth — "craving and desire are themselves the path" means exactly this. Should one instead cut off covetousness, abiding in the mere emptiness of covetousness, how could every Dharma-gate whatsoever ever be brought forth at all? A sūtra says: "Without cutting off the five desires, one is able to purify the faculties." Contemplating in this way, the hindrances of the conventional truth become pure of their own accord. Yet even while able to do this, one has still not seen the true nature of desire itself. In truth, it is neither empty nor provisional. Since it is not provisional, how could there be any boundless multiplicity to it? Since it is not empty, how could there be any quiescent stillness to it either? Both emptiness and the provisional name alike are absent; there is no convergence, and no non-convergence either. "No convergence" clears away, at a stroke, the two rounds of hindrance, dull and sharp; "no non-convergence" clears away a further single round of hindrance; and coming to recognize the middle way itself clears away yet one more round again. With nothing whatsoever cut off or broken, nothing whatsoever abandoned or extinguished, all four rounds of the five hindrances are cleared away perfectly, within a single thought. Breaking through the twenty-five states of being, seeing the true nature of desire itself — this is named the king-samādhi, complete with every dharma. This is named the perfect contemplation abandoning the perfect hindrance.

A gateway of the Dharma of this kind is named "identity in principle." Understanding this explanation is named "identity in name." The beginner's own first contemplation of this kind is named "identity in contemplative practice." As described above, rebuking form purifies the eye faculty; rebuking sound purifies the ear faculty; rebuking smell purifies the nose faculty; rebuking taste purifies the tongue faculty; rebuking touch purifies the body faculty; abandoning the five hindrances purifies the mental faculty. When the six faculties are thus purified, this is named "identity in resemblance." Once the three afflictions are broken and the three truths are revealed, this is named "identity in a portion of the truth." Should one be able to exhaust the very bottom edge of the hindrance of desire completely, this is named "identity in the ultimate." Perfectly abandoning the hindrance of desire being thus, abandoning every remaining hindrance follows the very same pattern.

Fourth, regulating the five things: namely, regulating food, regulating sleep, regulating the body, regulating the breath, and regulating the mind. As already illustrated above, if earth and water are not properly mixed, they cannot serve to form a vessel; if these five things are not well regulated, one cannot enter meditation. Sleep and food are the two regulated apart from formal meditation itself; the remaining three are regulated in entering, sustaining, and emerging from meditation. As for regulating food: whatever increases sickness, increases sleep, or increases affliction should not be eaten; whatever settles the body and cures illness is what should be eaten. Stated briefly, neither hungry nor overfull is the mark of properly regulated food. The Nirgrantha Sūtra says: "Eating to excess makes the body sluggish to move; indolent and lazy, what is eaten becomes difficult to digest, and the benefit of both this life and the next is lost — sleep itself becomes a suffering, one's own confusion difficult to wake from." As for regulating sleep: sleep is food for the eyes, and should be neither harshly restricted, which increases the mental factors and undermines one's own effort, nor indulged without restraint either. What was rebuked outright above, among the hindrances, concerns sleep as a direct obstruction to entering samādhi itself; here, the concern is with the four elements' own natural ease during ordinary waking activity, and so each context carries its own distinct sense. Stated briefly, neither restricted nor indulged is the mark of properly regulated sleep. As for regulating the remaining three together: these three depend on one another, and cannot be separated — just as at the very moment of conception, there are three things: first, warmth; second, life; third, consciousness. Warmth is the very color of the inherited body; life is the vital breath, sustained by the winds of karmic retribution; consciousness is the governing mind of this one lifespan. From the moment of conception, these three things are already present together. As these three things grow, they change once every seven days; once thirty-eight such seven-day periods have passed, the three things come forth into birth, named "infancy"; the three things settling into stability is named "the prime of life"; the three things declining is named "old age"; and the three things dissolving and failing is named "death." From beginning to end, these three things cannot be separated, and must be regulated together. On first entering meditation, one regulates the body so that it is neither too lax nor too tense; one regulates the breath so that it is neither too rough nor too smooth; one regulates the mind so that it is neither too sunken nor too agitated. Regulating the coarse into the fine, one settles into meditation; wherever something remains unregulated, one should notice and examine it, adjusting it until it is at ease. It is like tuning a string before playing a melody — should the melody afterward fail to come together properly, one recognizes that some peg is out of tune, and, recognizing this, corrects it. Should one wish to emerge from meditation, one proceeds from the fine back to the coarse, exactly as given in full in the Cidi Chanmen. Should one be able to regulate these three ordinary things, they are transformed into the sage's own three dharmas: form becomes the very basis from which the precepts arise; breath becomes the very gateway into samādhi; mind becomes the very cause from which wisdom is born. This precept is then able to relinquish the coarse, degraded body of the evil destinies, accomplishing the sage's own six pāramitās, fulfilling the Dharma-body in full. This breath is then able to transform scattered, agitated, unwholesome thought, becoming instead the joy and delight of dhyāna itself; and from dhyāna, wisdom arises, which the sage takes as their own very life. This mind is then able to transform the mind of birth-and-death into the bodhi-mind, the true and constant consciousness of the sage. Beginning from these three dharmas, the sage's own embryo is thereby formed together. From the very first thought to the very last, these three dharmas alone can never be separated from one another.

As for regulating the five things through contemplating the mind: as before, Dharma-joy and dhyāna-bliss serve as the food. The concentration and wisdom born of the first contemplation, of the real truth, mostly serve to enter emptiness, dissolving and purifying every dharma — this is "the mark of hunger." The Lotus Sūtra speaks of "hunger and emaciation, the body breaking out in sores and scabs." The concentration and wisdom born of the second contemplation, of the conventional truth, mostly serve to sustain the conventional, provisionally establishing every dharma — this is named "the mark of fullness." Hence it is said: "Cultivating practice across many kalpas, mastering the Dharma-teachings numerous as the sands of the Ganges." These two contemplations, taken alone, are unregulated between hunger and fullness. The Dharma-joy and dhyāna-bliss of the middle way, regulated and harmonized to the exact mean, is free of the bias of either extreme — this is named "neither hungry nor full." As for regulating sleep: so long as the contemplation of emptiness has not yet broken through ignorance, ignorance remains joined with emptiness, sunk into and clinging to emptiness as its own resting place, and the mark of sleep grows abundant. Emerging into the provisional to make distinctions subdues ignorance, and the mark of sleep grows correspondingly slight. Now, the contemplation of the middle way proceeds at ease: should ignorance be cut off outright, every wholesome dharma would then have nowhere left to arise from at all — the very host of worldly afflictions is itself the seed of the Tathāgata, and without cutting off delusion and craving, no clarity or liberation whatsoever could ever arise. But should ignorance instead be indulged without restraint, how could the unsurpassed buddha-path ever be accomplished either? A sūtra says: "Ignorance turned about is itself transformed into clarity." "Practicing what is not the path, one penetrates through to the buddha-path itself." "The nature of ignorance and the nature of clarity are neither two nor separate." How, then, could one possibly cut off the nature of ignorance, and cultivate the nature of clarity as something apart from it? Abiding neither in subjugation nor in the absence of subjugation — this is precisely regulating sleep through the contemplation of principle. Regulating the three things together forms, in turn, three further rounds. The Nirvāṇa Sūtra says: "The body complete with the six pāramitās in full." Regulating a body of this kind, one makes it neither too lax nor too tense. The Larger Sūtra says: "Should the eloquence of joyful preaching arise too suddenly, this is itself a demonic affair; should it fail to arise at all, this too is a demonic affair." Arising too suddenly means practicing the six pāramitās too hastily — this is tension; abandoning them too suddenly is laxity. Neither tense nor lax is the mark of a properly regulated body. As for regulating the breath: dhyāna-joy, Dharma-bliss, and the very life of wisdom itself serve as the breath. As the Larger Sūtra says: "Prajñā is neither sharp nor dull." Should it be dull, this is named roughness; should it be sharp, this is named smoothness; neither dull nor sharp is named the mark of a properly regulated breath. As for regulating the mind: the bodhi-mind difficult to attain is sinking; the bodhi-mind too easily attained is agitation; neither difficult nor easy is the mark of proper regulation.

Next, as for regulating the three things in terms of the three contemplations: taking the subtle and sublime wholesome mind as the bodhi-mind, as already explained above concerning the four kinds of bodhi-mind — if, as in the Tripiṭaka or shared teaching, one cuts off the fetters to enter emptiness, taking the real as one's own realization, this mind is sinking; if, as in the distinct teaching, one transforms others by emerging into the provisional, distinguishing remedy from sickness, broadly recognizing every Dharma-gate, and thereby gives rise to the bodhi-mind, this mind is agitation; if, as in the perfect teaching, one contemplates the principle of the true mark of reality, obstructing both extremes and illuminating both at once, neither sinking, since it is not mere emptiness, nor agitated, since it is not mere provisional — giving rise to a mind of this kind is named the mark of proper regulation. As for regulating the body: in the shared teaching, cutting off affliction and clarifying the six pāramitās is tension; in the distinct teaching, emerging into the provisional to make distinctions is laxity; the middle way, depending on neither extreme, is neither lax nor tense. As for regulating the breath: in the shared teaching, the life of wisdom entering emptiness is smoothness; in the distinct teaching, entering the provisional is roughness; the middle way, depending on neither extreme, is neither rough nor smooth. Furthermore, regulating each in terms of the three contemplations individually: the first contemplation's own calming of body, breath, and mind is tension, smoothness, and sinking; its own contemplation of body, breath, and mind is laxity, roughness, and agitation. Should one be able to strike the exact mean between them, this becomes the preliminary expedient by which one is able to enter the real truth. The second contemplation's own calming of body, breath, and mind is likewise tension, smoothness, and sinking; its own contemplation of body, breath, and mind is laxity, roughness, and agitation. Able to strike the exact mean between calming and contemplation, this becomes the preliminary expedient giving rise to the wisdom of the paths, seeing the principle of the conventional truth. The middle way's own calming of body, breath, and mind is likewise tension, smoothness, and sinking; its own contemplation of body, breath, and mind is laxity, roughness, and agitation. Should one be able to strike the exact mean between them, calming and contemplation both at ease, this becomes the preliminary expedient by which one is able to enter the middle way and see the principle of the true mark of reality. The practitioner, skillfully regulating these three things, thereby entrusts them to the sage's own embryo. Should one practice without the mind yet having any fixed allegiance, one should diligently apply the mind to reconciling expedient means with the wisdom that carries one across, as father and mother, entrusting oneself to the sage's own embryo. How, then, could one possibly entrust oneself instead to the embryo of hell, of the three evil destinies, or even of the ordinary human and heavenly realms?

Fifth, practicing the five methods: namely, aspiration, effort, mindfulness, skillful wisdom, and one-mindedness. As illustrated above with the potter: though every other matter is fully arranged, if he is unwilling to work, or works without diligence, or fails to keep the proper method in mind, or works without skill, or works without full concentration, nothing at all will be accomplished. Here it is exactly the same: though the twenty methods above are all fully in place, without a joyful aspiration and longing, without the body and mind spurred on through hardship, without mindfulness, skillful means, and a resolute one-mindedness, calming-and-contemplation has no way to manifest at all. But should one be able to delight in this practice without ever tiring of it, unflagging morning and night, thought following thought without a break, skillfully grasping its true sense, the mind single and unwavering — such a person is able to advance further along the path. One-mindedness is like the rudder of a boat; skillful wisdom is like the boatman nodding the way; the remaining three are like the pole and the oar — lacking even one of these, the boat cannot travel safely. It is also like a bird in flight: seeing with its eyes, steering with its tail, advancing with its wings. Without these five methods, even mundane dhyāna is difficult to attain — how much more, then, the meditative concentration of principle itself? One should know that these five methods generally serve as the preliminary expedient for both the lesser and the great vehicle alike, for both phenomenal and principled practice alike.

The Satyasiddhi-śāstra takes the four branches as the preliminary expedient, and one-mindedness as the very essence of samādhi itself. If this is so, then since every one of the four dhyānas alike possesses one-mindedness, and one-mindedness itself admits no distinction, how could the four dhyānas possibly be distinguished from one another at all? Here, this scheme is not adopted. The Yingluo Sūtra says: "The five branches are all preliminary expedients, and the sixth, silence, is the very essence of samādhi." Yet since every one of the four dhyānas alike possesses this same silence, this too proves difficult to distinguish. The Abhidharma, however, takes the five methods as the preliminary expedient, with all five branches together forming the essence of samādhi — and this is exactly why the four dhyānas can be distinguished, both in general and in particular. One-mindedness forms the essence held in common across all four; the very first branch forms the essence distinguishing each one individually — hence it is said that the first dhyāna is "the dhyāna accompanied by both discursive thought and reflection," on through "the dhyāna accompanied by equanimity" for the fourth. Each distinguishing branch arises together with one-mindedness itself, and it is by this that one-mindedness itself may be distinguished as deeper or shallower. The Treatise agrees with this same account, and it is this scheme that is adopted here as well.

The Treatise's own text explains these five methods as follows. Aspiration: the aspiration to pass from the desire realm into the first dhyāna. Effort: the desire realm is difficult to pass beyond, and without effort, one cannot escape it at all — like a rebel attempting to return to his own former kingdom, the very border of the realm is the hardest passage of all. Hence the Treatise says: "Giving, upholding the precepts, and forbearance are the ordinary, constant dharmas of the world — like the etiquette between host and guest, the Dharma naturally provides for them. Seeing wrongdoers punished, one dares not commit an offense oneself, or, lacking the strength for it, simply forbears — and so no great effort is required for these alone. But now, wishing to give rise to prajñā, one must rely on meditative concentration as the necessary cause, and this absolutely requires great effort — body and mind pressing urgently forward, and only then is it accomplished. As the Buddha himself said: though blood, flesh, fat, and marrow should all be exhausted entirely, leaving only skin and bone remaining, one must never abandon this effort — only then are meditative concentration and wisdom finally attained." Having obtained these three things together, every undertaking is thereby accomplished — this is exactly why great effort is required. Mindfulness: constantly mindful of the first dhyāna, giving thought to nothing else at all. Wisdom: distinguishing that the first dhyāna is honorable and precious, while the desire realm is deceptive and detestable — the first dhyāna is grasped as superior, sublime, and a true escape; the desire realm is despised as inferior, suffering, coarse, and an obstruction. Considered together in terms of cause and fruit, this yields twelve modes of contemplation in all. Following this account alone, it would resemble the six practices of the non-Buddhist paths — but the non-Buddhist paths pursue dhyāna exclusively for its own sake, whereas the Buddha's own disciples here use what resembles a deviant mark to enter the true mark instead, cultivating with an uncontaminated mind, so that it becomes, in the end, the true Dharma after all — and this is precisely skillful wisdom. One-mindedness: cultivating this method with a mind single and wholly devoted, with no further distraction at all — this is a resolute one-mindedness, not merely the one-mindedness of having entered samādhi itself.

Furthermore, aspiration: the aspiration to pass from birth-and-death into nirvāṇa. Effort: not mixing in any contaminated state is named "essential exertion"; single-mindedly and exclusively pursuing this goal is named "advancing." Mindfulness: mindful only of the quiescent extinction of nirvāṇa, giving thought to nothing else at all. Skillful wisdom: distinguishing the ills and dangers of birth-and-death, rebuked by the worthy and the sage, against the ease and bliss of nirvāṇa, praised by the sage. One-mindedness: resolutely fearful of birth-and-death, cultivating the eightfold noble path, going straight forward without turning back. This is the preliminary expedient by which one is able to enter the real. Furthermore, aspiration: the aspiration to broadly transform sentient beings, bringing the Buddhadharma to accomplishment. Effort: though the nature of sentient beings is so manifold, and the Buddhadharma so vast and distant, one vows never to retreat or regret the undertaking. Mindfulness: a compassion that pierces to the very marrow, like a mother's own mindfulness of her child. Skillful means: skillfully knowing every sickness, clearly recognizing the Dharma-medicine for it, matching remedy to occasion exactly as fitting. One-mindedness: resolutely transforming others, vowing to bring about their deliverance, the mind neither wavering nor divided.

Furthermore, aspiration: as with Sadāprarudita, who wished to hear prajñā and spared not even his own body or life for it. Effort: for the sake of hearing prajñā, he wept in a quiet forest for seven days and seven nights; for seven years he stood and walked, never sitting, never lying down. Mindfulness: constantly mindful of when he might come to hear prajñā, with no other thought at all. Skillful wisdom: though obstacles and difficulties arose, no obstacle was ever able to truly obstruct him — as when he sold his own body, māra was unable to conceal it from him; and, hiding water from him, he was still able to pierce his own flesh and draw blood instead. Turning every demonic obstruction into an occasion for the Buddhadharma is precisely skillful wisdom. One-mindedness: a resolve that never wavered, never again giving rise to a second thought.

Furthermore, speaking once more of aspiration: the aspiration to pass directly from the two extremes into the middle way. Not mixing in either extreme is "essential exertion"; flowing effortlessly onward is "advancing." Binding one's object to the dharma-realm, a single thought upon the dharma-realm itself, is "mindfulness." Cultivating the preliminary expedient of the contemplation of the middle is named "skillful means." Stilling both extremes, the water of the mind grown clear and pure, one is able to know the marks of arising and ceasing throughout the mundane world; the mind no longer divided in two, pure and ever one, one is able to see prajñā itself. These twenty-five methods generally serve as the preliminary expedient for every kind of dhyāna and wisdom alike. Since contemplations differ from one another, their preliminary expedients, too, shift accordingly — just as different melodies require the strings to be tuned differently for each. Examined in fine detail, the preliminary expedients are truly without limit; the text grows too voluminous to record them all, and the sense may be grasped without further elaboration. Here, these twenty-five methods are taken as the preliminary expedient apart from formal samādhi itself, also named "the remote expedient." Through this, one regulates the mind, and, all at once, sees principle clearly. At the moment principle itself is seen, who could still speak of inward or outward at all? How could there be any remote or near left to distinguish? The Larger Sūtra says: "It is not through inward contemplation that this wisdom is attained; nor through outward contemplation, nor through contemplation both inward and outward; and yet it is not apart from outward contemplation, not apart from inward contemplation, nor apart from contemplation both inward and outward either; nor, again, is this wisdom attained through the complete absence of contemplation." Here, this passage is used, for the moment, to clarify the outward expedient. Yet one should not cling fixedly to any one position and thereby give rise to contention over right and wrong. Should one grasp this sense, sinking and floating each find their proper place, and inward and outward alike become the preliminary expedient together; but failing to grasp it, neither one is the preliminary expedient at all.