Ten Displays of Seeing, Part One

Sūtra: Having heard this, Ānanda wept once more in grief. He prostrated himself fully on the ground, knelt at length with palms joined, and said to the Buddha: "Ever since I first resolved on the path and left home to follow the Buddha, I have relied on the Buddha's own majestic power, constantly thinking to myself that there was no need for me to cultivate on my own — supposing that the Tathāgata would simply grant me samādhi as a gift. I did not realize that body and mind can never truly stand in for one another, and so I lost my own original mind. Though my body has left home, my mind has never entered the path — like the poor son in the parable, who abandoned his own father and fled. Only today do I understand: however much one has heard, if one does not put it into practice, it is exactly the same as never having heard it at all — like a person who talks about food but can never be filled by the talking alone."

Commentary: Where the sūtra earlier showed Ānanda clinging to the false mind as though it were true, and the Buddha thoroughly refuted this to make him let go of it, here the movement reverses: Ānanda has now awakened to the falseness of that mind and asks to be shown the true one, and the Buddha will now thoroughly reveal it so that he can put it to use. The true mind was always there — near at hand, present in the very root of the senses; far-reaching, encompassing the ten thousand phenomena — but, deluded about it for so long, it seemed lost though never actually lost. Without some skillful means to reveal it, it could never be seen at all. This is exactly the "true root" among the sūtra's two roots: the false root has now been refuted, and the true root must now be revealed — starting from the eye-faculty, and eventually drawn together with the four categories and seven great elements, all returning to the one substance of the tathāgatagarbha.

Ānanda, on hearing this, had entered the cessation of sensation and perception, yet his mind was still not the true mind — so his ordinary, habitual, grasping, discriminating mind goes without saying. This is exactly why he wept once more and bowed to the Buddha, recounting his grief and remorse. In anyone whose awakening runs deep, grief inevitably follows — grieving the long suffering once falseness is recognized, or grieving the long loss once the truth is recognized. Here, Ānanda has fully recognized that the discriminating mind he clung to was entirely false, yet has not yet awakened to the true mind — hence this grief and remorse.

His confession — regretting having relied on the Buddha rather than truly cultivating the great samādhi himself — states plainly: he relied on the Buddha's majestic power, constantly assuming, since he was the Buddha's own younger cousin, bound by natural affection, that the Tathāgata would simply grant him samādhi as a gift — not realizing that body and mind can never substitute for one another, just as a father and son climbing a mountain must each make their own effort; no one can climb in another's place. "I lost my own original mind": the original mind is the inherently existing true mind, which, from beginningless time, one is deluded about without ever noticing — like a drunken man with a jewel sewn into the lining of his own robe: deluded about it, it seems lost though never truly lost. Having thus overlooked the true, one inevitably clings to the false — hence, though his body left the household life, his mind never entered the path at all.

Leaving home has three senses: leaving the household of worldly life (severing family bonds, taking refuge in the Buddha's gate); leaving the household of the three realms (realizing the undefiled path, no longer subject to rebirth); and leaving the household of affliction (severing every deluded tendency, the mind wholly pure). Ānanda has so far only left the first of these three households — which is exactly why his mind has not yet entered the path. "Like the poor son in the parable, who abandoned his own father and fled": Ānanda, deluded about the truth, likens himself to a poor son who has lost his own inherited family treasure, turned his back on awakening to join with worldly dust, exactly like abandoning his father and fleeing. The father stands for original awakening; the son for deluded awakening — turning from truth to give rise to falseness, turning one's back on awakening to join with dust, is exactly like abandoning one's father and fleeing. From this, delusion arises, karma is created, and retribution is received in turn, cycling through the various destinies, undergoing every kind of suffering — hence this grief and remorse. Seen this way, the Buddha himself is not something to be relied upon passively; only seeking his blessing while never cultivating on one's own is exactly the failure being warned against here.

This second confession — regretting having relied on broad learning with nothing genuinely gained — states: only today, through this very awakening, does he understand that broad learning, however extensive, if not put into practice, amounts to exactly the same as never having heard anything at all — like a person who talks about delicious food: talking about it, without ever eating it, can never actually fill the stomach. However much one has heard, unless one truly advances through the three kinds of wisdom — learning, reflection, and cultivation — hearing alone brings no benefit, exactly the same. Better to walk one foot than to talk about walking ten miles. Seen this way, mere learning is likewise not something to be relied upon; attacking the words alone while never truly practicing is exactly the failure being warned against here.

Sūtra: "World-Honored One, we who are here are bound by the two obstructions — truly because we do not recognize the still, ever-abiding nature of mind. I beg only that the Tathāgata, in compassion for our destitute, unsheltered state, open up this wondrous, bright mind, and open within me the very eye of the path."

Commentary: The two obstructions are the affliction obstruction, arising from clinging to a self (with coarse forms — deliberate discrimination — and subtle forms — spontaneous, habitual afflictions like greed and anger), which disturbs body and mind, perpetuates birth and death, and obstructs nirvāṇa; and the cognitive obstruction, arising from clinging to phenomena (likewise coarse and subtle), which obstructs right knowledge and view, and thereby obstructs bodhi itself. The Sūtra of Perfect Enlightenment says: "First remove the affliction obstruction; without yet severing the cognitive obstruction, one can only enter the realm of the two lesser vehicles; once both obstructions are permanently extinguished, one enters the Tathāgata's own great, perfect enlightenment ocean." Ānanda, having attained only the first fruit, has broken only the deliberate portion of self-clinging — the spontaneous portion remains, so he is still bound by the affliction obstruction, and has not begun to free himself from the cognitive obstruction at all — hence "bound by the two obstructions." Yet any obstruction must have some cause behind it, and that cause is truly not recognizing the still, ever-abiding nature of mind — this very true mind, still and unmoving, free of arising and ceasing, present within every sentient being's own sense-faculties. It is because of delusion about this true mind and true nature that one instead clings to the false consciousness, and so becomes bound by these two obstructions.

Ānanda has now recognized that the discriminating mind is agitated, not still, subject to arising and ceasing, not constant — hence he reproaches himself for not recognizing the still, ever-abiding nature of mind, wishing now to set the false aside and seek the true, a request entirely different from his earlier request merely to be told "where" the true mind was located. Before, he still took discriminating consciousness for mind, and only reproached himself for not knowing where it was; now, having heard that this consciousness has no substance at all, he reproaches himself for not recognizing the true mind itself. "I beg only that the Tathāgata, in compassion, [attend to] our destitute, unsheltered state": to have no spiritual wealth is destitution; to have no shelter to return to is homelessness — like being utterly poor and without even a roof to settle one's body and life under. "Open up this wondrous, bright mind" means the mind that is originally wondrous, originally bright. "Wondrous" carries the sense of stillness; "bright" carries the sense of illumination — still and yet ever illuminating, illuminating and yet ever still. Speak of its stillness, and it is a single expanse of light illuminating heaven and earth; speak of its illumination, and it has no visible form, no audible sound. As Master Yunqi put it: "still, submerged, ever-constant; luminously bright, utterly penetrating." Though every sentient being already possesses this mind, delusion keeps it unrecognized — hence Ānanda now seeks the Tathāgata to open it up on his behalf, hoping thereby to remove both obstructions.

"Open within me the very eye of the path" means to open the eye that sees the path — a matter of the eye of wisdom, the eye of mind, not the coarse, physical eye-faculty, nor even the superior eye-faculty either. Ānanda, by this point, already recognizes that his earlier claim — that seeing belongs to the eye, and mind is the discriminating consciousness — was one and the same error, and so he now asks that the eye of the path be opened, so that he can discern clearly the path of śamatha, and give rise to the subtle, hidden contemplation that illuminates the very substance of the Śūraṅgama samādhi. Everything that follows — the Tathāgata's ten displays of seeing, drawing together the four categories and unfolding the seven great elements — is all in answer to this same request: opening the wondrous, bright mind, and opening the eye of the path.

Sūtra: At once the Tathāgata, from the svastika mark upon his chest, sent forth a jeweled light, its radiance blazing with a hundred thousand colors, spreading at once throughout every buddha-world in the ten directions, numerous as dust motes, pouring down upon the crowns of every Tathāgata in every jeweled land of the ten directions, and then circling back to settle upon Ānanda and the whole assembly. He said to Ānanda: "I will now raise, for your sake, the great banner of the Dharma, and cause every being of the ten directions likewise to attain this wondrous, subtle, hidden nature — this pure, bright mind — and to gain the pure eye."

Commentary: As the Jeweled Mirror commentary observes: "Here the Buddha first shows a sign of light, and only afterward grants consent to teach." Earlier, light was emitted to signal the breaking of falseness; here, light is emitted to signal the revealing of truth. The svastika mark represents the undefiled virtue of the Buddha's own nature — in Sanskrit, Srivatsa, meaning "possessing joy," since wherever this mark appears, it is certain to bring peace and joy. According to the Huayan glossary, the svastika was never originally a written character at all; it was Empress Wu, in the second year of Changshou [693 CE], who officially designated this symbol and placed it upon the celestial pivot, because the Buddha's chest bears a mark of exactly this pattern, called "the auspicious ocean-cloud mark" — the convergence of every kind of good fortune and virtue — and this character was created and placed there in hopes of drawing out that same good fortune.

Light stands for wisdom; that it wells up from the svastika mark on the chest signifies fundamental, correct wisdom arising from the very substance of true suchness itself — as the Buddha himself later says, "I take the unborn, unceasing nature, joined with the tathāgatagarbha; and the tathāgatagarbha is nothing but wondrous enlightenment's own bright nature, perfectly illuminating the whole Dharma-realm." This is "wondrous enlightenment's own brightness"; what follows is "perfectly illuminating the whole Dharma-realm." "Blazing radiance" describes its intense brilliance. "A hundred thousand colors" signifies that its substance contains ten thousand virtues, its function reaching as far as the sands of the Ganges. "Spreading at once throughout every buddha-world in the ten directions, numerous as dust motes" signifies precisely this: the light of wisdom perfectly illuminating the whole Dharma-realm, so that boundless lands, self and other, are never separated even by the width of a hair. "Pouring down upon the crowns of every Tathāgata in every jeweled land of the ten directions" signifies its reaching equally up to every buddha; "circling back to settle upon Ānanda and the whole assembly" signifies its reaching equally down to every sentient being — showing plainly that this light is one and the same for both buddhas and beings, lacking nothing in either direction.

A banner signifies subduing the deviant and establishing the correct. The "great Dharma banner" is none other than the Great Buddha's Crown, Śūraṅgama King — the supreme teaching, capable of subduing every false delusion and establishing the true cause. "Attain" governs both of the following two phrases equally: attaining the wondrous, subtle, hidden nature, and attaining the pure, bright mind. Calling this nature "subtle and hidden" means exactly this: deeply subtle and secret — the very substance of the essential consciousness, originally bright, which every single being already possesses, though used all day long without ever being noticed — belonging to the realm of true suchness, like a treasure hidden within one's own house that cannot be found without someone pointing it out; hence "subtle and hidden." Calling the mind "pure and bright" means: pure and perfectly luminous — the very substance of original awakening's own illumination, standing independently, already fully present in every single being, merely obscured by false consciousness and so unable to manifest — like the wish-fulfilling jewel, which already possesses its own illuminating substance, yet must still take on color according to whatever surrounds it; hence "pure and bright."

As for "gaining the pure eye": this belongs to the wisdom of true suchness, set here in direct contrast with the two phrases just given — principle and wisdom paired against one another. This wisdom, according with principle, is exactly the subtle, hidden contemplation, remote from all discrimination, untouched by any sense-object — hence "pure." According with principle and pervading the whole Dharma-realm, this is exactly the wisdom-eye of the great, perfect understanding opened later in the sūtra. Notice, too: Ānanda sought the still, ever-abiding nature of mind, and the Buddha grants him attainment of the wondrous, subtle, hidden nature; he sought the wondrously bright mind, and the Buddha grants him attainment of the pure, bright mind; he sought to have the eye of the path opened, and the Buddha grants him attainment of the pure eye — every single request answered exactly as asked, since the Buddha possesses the unobstructed eloquence that lets question and answer correspond so perfectly.

Long ago, Guishan asked Yangshan: "The wondrous, pure, bright mind — how do you understand it?" Yangshan said: "Mountains, rivers, the great earth, the sun, the moon, the stars." Guishan said: "You have only grasped its function." Yangshan said: "What, then, did the master just now ask about?" Guishan said: "The wondrous, pure, bright mind." Yangshan said: "Can this be called its function?" Guishan said: "Just so! Just so!" It was precisely because Yangshan had understood the wondrous, pure, bright mind that he was able to attain the pure eye.

Sūtra: At once the Tathāgata raised his golden-hued arm, curled his five fingers into a fist, and said to Ānanda: "Do you see this?" Ānanda said: "I see it." The Buddha said: "What do you see?" Ānanda said: "I see the Tathāgata raise his arm and curl his fingers into a fist of light, dazzling my mind and eyes." The Buddha said: "What did you see it with?" Ānanda said: "I, together with the whole assembly, saw it with the eyes."

Commentary: This picks up the earlier image of the raised fist, testing where Ānanda ultimately locates seeing itself. Having just raised the great banner of the Dharma, granting consent to open the true mind and the eye of the path, the Tathāgata cannot help but first put Ānanda's own understanding to the test — hence these three linked questions. Though three in form, they carry a single intent: to make Ānanda investigate for himself exactly who it is that sees. This is precisely the method of "pointing directly at the human mind, seeing one's own nature to become Buddha" — the very principle behind the Chan school's practice of investigating a single phrase. Ānanda still fails to grasp that seeing itself is mind, and so the Tathāgata, with no other recourse, resorts to example and analogy to reveal it.

Sūtra: Ānanda said: "But those who are blind see only darkness before their eyes — how can that be called seeing?" The Buddha said to Ānanda: "Those who are blind, having no eyes, perceive only blackness — is that blackness any different from the blackness perceived by a sighted person sitting in a dark room, or is it not different at all?" "It is not different at all, World-Honored One. Comparing the two kinds of blackness, that of the man in the dark room and that of the blind, there is truly no difference between them." "Ānanda, suppose a person with no eyes, who has always perceived only blackness before him, suddenly gains his eyesight and once again sees all the various colors of what is in front of him — this we would call 'seeing with the eyes.' Now suppose the person sitting in the dark room, who has likewise been perceiving only blackness, suddenly obtains a lit lamp, and likewise sees all the various colors of what is in front of him — by the same logic, this should be called 'seeing with the lamp.' But if it is the lamp that sees, then the lamp itself has seeing, and could no longer be called a mere lamp; and besides, if it is the lamp doing the seeing, what would that have to do with you at all? You should therefore know: a lamp can reveal colors, but what actually does the seeing is the eye, not the lamp; in just the same way, the eye can reveal colors, but what actually has the nature of seeing is the mind, not the eye."

Commentary: Seeing that Ānanda still takes the eye itself for seeing — a mistake even worse than his earlier one of taking consciousness for mind — the World-Honored One skillfully demonstrates that even one without eyes still has seeing, so that Ānanda will recognize that seeing is not the eye at all: the nature of seeing is ever-abiding, entirely independent of whether the eye-faculty exists or not — with eyes, there is seeing; without eyes, there is still seeing. If one can awaken to this nature of seeing as the true mind, then its ever-abiding, wondrous brightness, unmoving and all-pervading, and every one of its boundless, wondrous meanings, can all be revealed. This display shows the nature of seeing as free of both sense-faculty and sense-object, standing utterly alone, its own spiritual light shining independently — among the four meanings [running through all ten displays], this belongs to the meaning of wondrous brightness.

Sūtra: Though Ānanda had now heard these words, he and the whole assembly fell silent, their minds not yet fully awakened, still hoping and longing for the Tathāgata's own compassionate voice to explain further. They joined their palms, settled their minds, and waited for the Buddha's compassionate instruction.

Commentary: "Not yet fully awakened" does not mean entirely without any insight at all, only that a great, thorough awakening had not yet occurred. Ānanda had already recognized that the grasping, conditioned mind was neither still nor constant, neither wondrous nor bright, and so had gone looking for a mind that was still, constant, wondrous, and bright. Now, hearing the Buddha reveal that seeing itself is mind, its independent spiritual light already carrying the sense of wondrous brightness, he still does not know whether this mind also carries the sense of stillness and constancy — this is the very question left hanging, which the second display now takes up.

Sūtra: At that time the World-Honored One extended his hand, soft as cotton-down, marked with a webbed pattern of light, and, opening his five wheel-marked fingers, instructed Ānanda and the whole assembly: "When I first attained the path, in the Deer Park, I said to Ājñāta-Kauṇḍinya and the other four monks, and to your own fourfold assembly: every sentient being fails to accomplish bodhi, or even arhatship, entirely because of the affliction of 'guest and dust.' At that time, what was it that led you to awaken, and to accomplish the fruit of sagehood?"

Commentary: This is the Buddha inquiring into the original awakening of his very first disciples, borrowing the old images of "guest" and "dust" to illuminate the present body and its surroundings, and the old image of "host" and "space" to illuminate the very nature of seeing now under discussion. The Deer Park lies within the kingdom of Vārāṇasī, an ancient royal preserve where kings once kept deer. After the Buddha's six years of ascetic practice in the snow-covered mountains, he went to the site of enlightenment and, on the night of the eighth day of the twelfth month, beheld the morning star and suddenly awakened, accomplishing the unsurpassed Buddha-path. He then turned the great wheel of the unsurpassed root-teaching with the wisdom he had directly realized, expounding the perfect, complete Avataṃsaka teaching — but the lesser-capacity beings present, though they had eyes, could not see Vairocana's own body, and though they had ears, could not hear the perfect, sudden teaching; so, with no other choice, the Buddha relied on the fundamental to expound the derivative, and, without stirring from the still place of enlightenment, traveled instead to the Deer Park to teach the five monks. Ājñāta-Kauṇḍinya and his four companions had originally been sent by King Śuddhodana to persuade the young prince to return to the palace; when he refused, they followed him instead for five years of wandering, then six years of ascetic practice together in the snow mountains — until, unable to bear the austerity, three of them left for the Deer Park to practice a different discipline, and, when the remaining two later saw the prince accept an offering of milk-porridge from a herding girl, they too abandoned him and joined the others there.

Having taught the great, perfect Avataṃsaka — his own true intent, though not suited to the capacities present — the Buddha, recalling the skillful means used by past buddhas, resolved to open a gate of expedient teaching and expound the lesser vehicle instead, considering who should be liberated first: grieving that the two hermit-sages [who had first sought him out] had already passed away, and glad that the five companions still remained, he went to the Deer Park and turned the Dharma-wheel of the four noble truths through three revolutions and twelve aspects, for the sake of these five monks — showing the mark of the truth, urging its cultivation, and bearing witness to its realization. In showing the mark of the truth of accumulation [the second noble truth], the coarse view-based afflictions were compared to a "guest," and the subtle habitual afflictions to "dust" — this is exactly the meaning of "guest" and "dust" taught there in the Deer Park.

"And to your own fourfold assembly" refers to the fourfold assembly gathered at the teachings recorded in the Āgamas. The Buddha told them: every sentient being fails to accomplish unsurpassed, correct enlightenment, or even arhatship, entirely because of the error caused by the afflictions of "guest" and "dust." "Guest" and "dust" liken the coarse and subtle afflictions to a guest who never settles and to dust that is never still — this self-clinging is what the Tiantai school calls the afflictions of view and thought, a shared affliction across the three vehicles that both greater and lesser vehicles alike must sever; without severing it, one cannot even become an arhat, much less attain unsurpassed bodhi. What was originally taught there as "guest" and "dust" served as an analogy for the affliction belonging to the truth of accumulation, in contrast to "host" and "space," which served as an analogy for the truth of cessation. Here, the Buddha takes up only the analogy itself, setting aside what it originally illustrated: "guest" and "dust" both signify motion, likened here to the body and its surroundings, and to the mind that conditions upon them; "host" and "space" both signify stillness, likened here to the nature of seeing itself. The Buddha now asks what led them to awaken upon first hearing these two words, "guest" and "dust," so that Ānanda might, by this same example, come to see the difference between motion and stillness in the body and its surroundings, in the conditioned mind, and in the nature of seeing.

Sūtra: At that time Ājñāta-Kauṇḍinya rose and said to the Buddha: "I am now the elder among this assembly, the very first to be given the name 'one who has understood' — and it was through awakening to these two words, 'guest' and 'dust,' that I attained the fruit. World-Honored One, it is like a traveler who stops at a wayside inn, either to lodge for the night or to take a meal — and once the lodging or the meal is finished, he packs his things and moves on, with no leisure to remain settled there. The true host of the inn, by contrast, has nowhere else to go at all. Reflecting on this, I understood: what does not remain is called 'the guest'; what remains is called 'the host' — and it is this very quality of not remaining that gives the word 'guest' its meaning.

"And it is also like a sky newly cleared after rain, the bright morning sun rising, its light streaming in through a crack, revealing every mote of dust suspended in the air. The substance of that dust is in constant motion; the empty space itself remains perfectly still. Reflecting on this, I understood: what is still and settled is called 'emptiness'; what moves and stirs is called 'dust' — and it is this very quality of stirring motion that gives the word 'dust' its meaning." The Buddha said: "Just so!"

Commentary: This is Kauṇḍinya recounting his own awakening. Elsewhere he is called Ājñāta-Kauṇḍinya — Ājñāta being his given name, meaning "one who has understood the source," or "the very first to understand." He is called "elder" here because, in the Deer Park, he was the very first to be so named, having become an arhat, a "long-standing elder" in the Dharma's own nature. "The very first to be given the name 'one who has understood'" glosses the meaning of Ājñāta itself — through awakening to the principle behind these two words, "guest" and "dust," he attained the fruit of sagehood, entering by way of the truth of accumulation.

This account first explains the word "guest," then the word "dust." The Buddha likened the afflictions of the truth of accumulation — the afflictions of view and thought — to "guest" and "dust": the affliction of view conditions upon its object through discrimination, turning its back on awakening to join with dust, coarse, restless, unsettled, exactly like a traveler stopping at a wayside inn — lingering over one object is like lodging there, a brief attention is like taking a meal, and the word "or" itself shows how irregular, how varied in duration, this coming and going is. Once one object has been discriminated, the mind moves on to condition upon another, leaving this one for that one, exactly as the traveler, once lodging or the meal is finished, packs up and sets off toward the next stage of the journey, with no leisure to settle down and remain. "The true host," by contrast, likens the small vehicle's realization of bare, true reality — remaining in its own place, going nowhere at all.

This next passage explains the word "dust": the afflictions of thought, arising spontaneously, stir and move exactly like dust — and dust requires sunlight to be seen at all, hence "a sky newly cleared after rain, the bright morning sun rising." A long rain just clearing is "newly cleared"; the early sun is "bright morning." The sun emerging from the clouds is likened to having already severed the affliction of view, and thereby gaining the sun of wisdom on the path of seeing, rising in the sky of one's own nature — though this wisdom is still slight, only partially corresponding to the principle of true reality, hence likened to "light streaming in through a crack." A crack is a gap in a door or wall; without sunlight, the dust cannot be discerned at all — just as, without the wisdom of the path of seeing, the afflictions of thought cannot be discerned either; but once the affliction of view is severed, the light of that wisdom lets one perceive the afflictions of thought, arising and ceasing subtly within the principle of the empty, partial nature, exactly like dust — while that same true nature remains still and unmoving, exactly like empty space; hence the analogy of sunlight revealing the dust suspended in the air. The very substance of that dust is in motion; empty space is perfectly still — the two shown against one another, each making the other clear.

The Buddha's confirmation — "Just so!" — seals this account. The Buddha's whole intent was simply to have Kauṇḍinya spell out "guest" and "dust," "host" and "space," and which of these moves and which remains still, so that Ānanda, hearing it, would come to trust that the nature of seeing within his own eyes does not move — the body and surroundings, and the conditioned, discriminating mind, being what moves instead. Kauṇḍinya's analysis matched the Buddha's own intent exactly, hence this confirmation.

Two further points should be noted. First, this analogy of "guest" and "dust" carries both a specific and a general sense. Specifically, as Kauṇḍinya analyzed it: the affliction of view, being discriminated and unsettled, is likened to "guest" — easily removed; the affliction of thought, arising spontaneously and stirring, is likened to "dust" — difficult to brush away. Generally: both the affliction obstruction and the cognitive obstruction, both the deliberate and the spontaneous forms of delusion, arise and cease in dependence on their objects rather than being any true, constant nature — all of this is the sense of "guest"; and, being able to defile what is wondrously bright and disturb what is empty by nature, all of this is the sense of "dust." Second, this section — revealing that seeing does not move — uses "guest" and "dust" throughout to signify motion, and "host" and "space" to signify stillness. The Buddha's question about guest and dust is a hidden answer to Ānanda's own request for the still, ever-abiding nature of mind: the guest who does not remain is likened to the body, its surroundings, and the discriminating mind, while the true host, who goes nowhere, signifies the constancy of the nature of mind; the dust that stirs and moves likewise signifies the body, its surroundings, and the discriminating mind, while empty space, still and unmoving, signifies the settled stillness of the nature of mind.

Sūtra: At that moment the Tathāgata, in the midst of the assembly, curled his five wheel-marked fingers into a fist, then opened them, then curled them again, and said to Ānanda: "What do you see now?" Ānanda said: "I see the Tathāgata's own hundred-jeweled, wheel-marked palm, opening and closing before the assembly." The Buddha said to Ānanda: "You see my hand opening and closing before the assembly — is it my hand that has this opening and closing, or is it your own seeing that opens and closes?" Ānanda said: "It is the World-Honored One's own jeweled hand that opens and closes before the assembly; it is the Tathāgata's hand that opens and closes on its own — it is not my own nature of seeing that opens and closes." The Buddha said: "Then what is moving, and what is still?" Ānanda said: "It is the Buddha's hand that does not remain still; but as for my own nature of seeing, it does not even have a 'stillness' to speak of — how, then, could it have any 'not remaining still' either?" The Buddha said: "Just so."

Commentary: Here the Buddha uses his own hand as Ānanda's external object, to reveal that the nature of seeing does not move. Since Kauṇḍinya's account has already made motion and stillness, "guest" and "host," perfectly clear, the Buddha now wants Ānanda to lay hold, within these very same moving "guests" and "dusts," of the unmoving "host" and "space" that is the nature of seeing — hence, before the assembly, he curls his five fingers into a fist once more, then opens them, then curls them again, showing that the external object does not remain fixed, drawing out Ānanda's own nature of seeing to appear directly before him, and directing his attention to it. Hence the question: "What do you see now?" The Buddha's intent is to have Ānanda personally recognize, at the very place where seeing occurs, the naturally unmoving original substance — yet Ānanda, answering only from the facts, says: "I see the Tathāgata's own hundred-jeweled, wheel-marked palm, opening and closing before the assembly," since the Buddha's palm bears the mark of a thousand-spoked wheel, hence "wheel-marked palm."

The Buddha, seeing that Ānanda's answer seemed correct but was not yet fully certain, presses him more directly still, wanting to make sure Ānanda distinguishes clearly between "host" and "guest" in the matter of external object and nature of seeing. Ānanda's answer here shows he has finally realized, after this prompting, that the Buddha's hand opens and closes like a guest, while the nature of seeing does not move, like the host.

Seeing that Ānanda's response, though close, was still not entirely settled, the Buddha will not let the matter pass so easily, and so tests him once more, more precisely still: "Then what is moving, and what is still?" — since "motion" and "stillness" go a full level deeper than mere "opening" and "closing," being harder to discern; the Buddha asks in order to see whether Ānanda's own footing is genuinely secure. Watching the Buddha's hand open and close, the hand itself — like a guest — does not remain fixed within Ānanda's own seeing, while that seeing itself has no opening or closing at all — like the host. This distinction between motion and stillness, Ānanda has now genuinely grasped, and so answers accordingly: the Buddha's hand opens and closes, not remaining fixed — this is motion; while his own nature of seeing has, from the very start, never moved at all. But note the qualifying phrase, "it does not even have a stillness [to speak of]" — this does not mean that the nature of seeing is somehow not still; rather, "stillness" only has meaning in contrast to motion — something must first have moved, and then, no longer moving, be called "still." The nature of seeing has never, from the very beginning, moved at all — having never moved, there is no need even to speak of "stillness," hence "it does not even have a stillness to speak of; how, then, could there be any 'not remaining still' either?" This means: where, then, could there possibly be any motion at all?

The Buddha's confirmation, "Just so," shows Ānanda's understanding here to be genuinely different from before, having personally grasped that the nature of seeing does not move — and this understanding, in itself, is not mistaken. Whoever wishes to seek the samādhi by which the Tathāgatas of the ten directions attain bodhi should, without doubt, take up exactly this nature of seeing as the mind that serves as the ground of practice. The Buddha reveals this much now without yet spelling it out in full, waiting instead until Ānanda specifically requests instruction in practice before pointing out explicitly that the sense-faculty's own nature must be taken as the mind that grounds cultivation.

Sūtra: The Tathāgata then sent a jeweled ray of light flashing from his wheel-marked palm to Ānanda's right side, and at once Ānanda turned his head to look to the right; then he sent another ray of light to Ānanda's left, and Ānanda again turned his head to look to the left. The Buddha said to Ānanda: "Why is your head moving today?" Ānanda said: "I saw the Tathāgata send forth this wondrous, jeweled light, appearing now to my right and now to my left, and so I looked right and left, and my head moved on its own." The Buddha said: "Ānanda, as you followed the Buddha's light, turning your head left and right — was it your head that moved, or was it your seeing that moved?" "World-Honored One, it was my own head that moved on its own; but as for my own nature of seeing, it does not even have a 'stopping' to speak of — how, then, could it have any 'moving' either?" The Buddha said: "Just so."

Commentary: The previous section distinguished motion from stillness using an external object, which is a somewhat looser test; this section does so using Ānanda's own body, which is far more intimate and searching, since with one's own body serving as one's own substance, distinguishing its motion from the stillness of one's own seeing becomes far more difficult. The Buddha wants Ānanda to see, even more directly, the unmoving substance within his own person — hence sending a ray of light flashing to Ānanda's right, prompting him to turn and look right, and then another to his left, prompting him to turn and look left, and asking why his head was moving — wanting Ānanda to state plainly, from watching the light and turning his head, the very distinction between the seeing's motion and stillness.

Having already received confirmation, in the previous section, of the distinction between motion and stillness in an external object, Ānanda is now tested by the Buddha on this same distinction within his own body — head and seeing, which moves and which is still — to see whether, amid his own body's own motion, he can personally recognize the unmoving, true substance. As the Correct Meridian commentary observes: worldly people take seeing to be the eye, and so, when the head turns and the eyes shift, it seems as though seeing itself has moved as well. But Ānanda, having just been shown by the Buddha that seeing does not belong to the eye, already senses that this seeing stands independent of the eye, perfectly clear and present before him regardless — so when he tests his own head's turning, what could that possibly have to do with seeing itself? Hence his direct answer: "It was my own head that moved on its own; but as for my own nature of seeing, it does not even have a 'stopping' to speak of — how, then, could it have any 'moving' either?" — meaning exactly this: my own nature of seeing does not even have a "stillness" that could be spoken of — how, then, could it have any "moving" either?

Head and seeing both belong, equally, to this same person, Ānanda; that he is now able to distinguish their motion and stillness within his own body is naturally a further advance beyond his earlier mistake of taking the eye for seeing. Ānanda, at this point, is able, amid his own moving body and surroundings, to discern the unmoving nature of seeing — this follows from what he has already heard: that even one without eyes is not entirely without seeing, and that, being able to perceive darkness, seeing suffers no diminishment at all — from which he has already grasped that seeing stands free of both sense-faculty and sense-object, independent of any condition at all. Having further heard Kauṇḍinya's own explanation of "guest" and "dust," "host" and "space," he now further understands the meaning of ever-abiding stillness — so that, once tested by the Tathāgata, he is able, amid this moving body and its surroundings, to give voice to the unmoving nature of seeing.

Yet, examining closely, Ānanda's understanding at this point, though confirmed by the Buddha, in truth entered from without rather than arising spontaneously from within. How can we tell this is so? Because, in the section that follows, Ānanda goes on to ask the Buddha to reveal, within body and mind, what is the truly false, arising-and-ceasing, impermanent nature, and what is the truly real, unborn, unceasing, ever-abiding nature — which shows clearly enough that his understanding here was not yet fully his own.

Chan masters likewise often use the sense-faculties and body to draw students toward realization in just this way. Long ago, Chan Master Wuye, on first meeting Mazu, said: "Though I have roughly grasped the meaning of the three vehicles' teachings, I have long heard of the Chan school's teaching that mind itself is Buddha, but have truly never understood it!" Mazu said: "Just this very mind that does not yet understand — that is it, nothing further." Wuye asked: "What is the secret mind-seal that the patriarch brought from the West?" Mazu said: "Great virtuous one, you are quite agitated just now — go, and come another time." As Wuye was leaving, Mazu called out: "Great virtuous one!" Wuye turned his head. Mazu said: "What is this?" Wuye at once awakened, and bowed.

So too Chan Master Wuxie Lingmo, traveling far to visit Shitou, asked at once: "If a single word matches, I will stay; if not, I will leave." Shitou simply sat there without answering. Wuxie turned to go. Shitou called after him: "Reverend!" Wuxie turned his head. Shitou said: "From birth to death, it is only ever this — why do you keep turning your head?" Wuxie was greatly awakened at these words, and broke his own walking staff, settling there to stay. Consider, then, how far apart Wuye and Wuxie's own head-turning awakenings really stand from Ānanda's own experience here.

Sūtra: The Tathāgata then addressed the whole assembly: "For any being who does not yet understand — take whatever moves and stirs to be called 'dust,' and whatever does not remain to be called 'guest.' Observe Ānanda: his head moves on its own, but his seeing does not move at all. And observe me: my hand opens and closes on its own, but seeing neither stretches out nor draws back at all. Why, then, do you still take what moves to be your own body, and take what moves to be your own surroundings — arising and ceasing, thought after thought, from beginning to end? You have lost your own true nature, and act in an upside-down way, mistaking things for your own self, caught in the wheel of rebirth because of it, bringing this endless turning entirely upon yourselves."

Commentary: The Buddha's proclamation to the whole assembly is meant to ensure that everyone understands the meaning of "guest," "dust," "host," and "space" together. For any being who has not yet understood: take whatever moves and stirs — not only the head's own turning, but every mark of motion whatsoever — to be called "dust"; and take whatever does not remain fixed — not only the Buddha's hand opening and closing, but everything that fails to stay fixed in place — to be called "guest."

This next passage redirects the whole assembly's attention, in case they have not yet grasped the meaning of "host" and "space," the ever-abiding and unmoving, by having them verify it directly through Ānanda's own body and its surroundings: observe Ānanda — his head moves on its own, this is "dust"; his seeing does not move at all, this is "space." And observe me — my hand opens and closes on its own, this is "guest"; Ānanda's seeing neither stretches nor draws back, this is "host." Are not the meanings of "guest" and "dust," "host" and "space," now perfectly, distinctly clear? Once one awakens to "host" and "space," one is naturally no longer misled by the affliction of "guest" and "dust."

"Why" here carries the sense of reproach and rebuke. Given that the meaning of "guest," "dust," "host," and "space" is now as plain as the palm of one's hand, one ought to set aside the moving, restless body and its surroundings — "guest" and "dust" — and take up instead the unmoving nature of seeing — "host" and "space." Why, then, do you all still take what moves to be your real body, and take what moves to be your real surroundings, still clinging to the "guest-and-dust" of body and surroundings rather than taking up the "host-and-space" of the nature of seeing — going on, from beginning to end, falsely clinging to the body as a real self (this is the clinging to a self), and falsely clinging to your surroundings as existing genuinely outside the mind, not understanding that the ten thousand phenomena are mind alone (this is the clinging to phenomena)? Do you not see how, thought after thought, you arise and cease along with these two kinds of clinging, self and phenomena, bringing this error entirely upon yourselves?

Having thus clung to the false, one inevitably loses the true — hence, "you have lost your own true nature." "Upside-down" describes clinging to the false while losing the true, so that true and false are turned inside out — this is delusion; "acting" describes acting on this upside-down delusion, falsely grasping and rejecting within a false body and false surroundings — this is karma. Having thus given rise to delusion and created karma on that basis, one comes, with regard to one's own originally still and constant nature, one's own wondrously bright and true mind, to genuinely lose sight of the truth — mistaking the false four-elements body within for one's own self, and the false four-elements world outside for one's own possessions; this is exactly what is meant by "mistaking things for one's own self" — and, following this, creating every kind of karma through body, speech, and mind. "Caught in the wheel of rebirth because of it" means: taking on body after body, caught within a false body and false surroundings, falsely bound and entangled, unable to find liberation, undergoing the suffering of birth and death. Since this all follows from delusion and karma created and received entirely by oneself, genuinely neither fashioned by heaven and earth nor given by another person, it is rightly called "bringing this endless turning entirely upon yourselves." "Turning" here means flowing onward; "wheel" means revolving — birth following death, death following birth, cycling around without loss, carrying, too, a note of deep warning. This display shows the nature of seeing as apart from both body and surroundings, settled and utterly unmoved — among the four meanings, this belongs to the meaning of stillness and constancy.

Sūtra: Ānanda then rose from his seat ... wishing to hear the Tathāgata reveal, of body and mind alike, what is true and what is false, what is empty and what is real, and to make plain the nature of what before us arises and ceases and what does not. King Prasenajit rose and said to the Buddha: "In the past, before I received the guidance of the buddhas, I heard Kātyāyana and Vairaṭīputra both claim that after this body dies it is utterly annihilated, and that this is what is called nirvāṇa. Though I have now met the Buddha, I still harbor this doubt. How can it be shown and proven that this mind reaches a state beyond birth and death? All those with outflows still remaining in this assembly wish equally to hear the answer."

Commentary: Ānanda has already awakened to the fact that, while his head moved, his nature of seeing did not — having recognized the true nature even amid his own false body, and having already received the Buddha's confirmation of this. Why, then, does he still ask the Buddha to reveal what is true and false, empty and real? Because the Buddha had earlier reproached the assembly for losing their true nature and acting upside-down, and Ānanda now suspects: if he already possesses this unmoving nature of seeing, why is he still reproached for having lost it? Hence he wishes the Buddha to reveal, within body and mind together, exactly which is the false, arising-and-ceasing, impermanent nature, and which is the true, unborn, unceasing, ever-abiding nature, so that the assembly may settle, once and for all, what to take up and what to set aside.

The king here confesses his own doubt, rooted in the heretical view of annihilationism, and asks to be shown the true, constant principle. Kātyāyana was a family name; this teacher held the deviant view that all sentient beings were created by Maheśvara. Vairaṭīputra was the third of the six [heterodox] teachers, holding the deviant view that present suffering and joy have no cause, and future retribution has no effect — both of these teachers holding annihilationism as their core doctrine, hence both claiming that this body, once dead, is utterly extinguished, and calling this "nirvāṇa" — a truly heretical teaching! The king, previously taken in by this view, now hears of the still, ever-abiding, unmoving nature of seeing, and doubt stirs in his mind once more — hence his admission that, though he has now met the Buddha, he still harbors this uncertainty. The Buddha will now, working directly within the king's own aging, changing body, reveal the unwrinkling, unchanging nature of seeing as the true mind itself, proving that this mind reaches a state beyond birth and death — truly a single stroke of ink from which the Tathāgata paints two dragons at once [answering both Ānanda's and the king's requests together].

Sūtra: The Buddha said to the great king: "Your body still exists here before me — let me ask you: is this fleshly body of yours as everlasting and indestructible as vajra, or does it change and decay?" ... "World-Honored One, this body of mine will, in the end, change and perish. ... I observe that, moment after moment, it is passing away, never for an instant staying the same — like a fire that gradually reduces itself to ash, extinguishing itself without rest. I know for certain that this body must, in the end, come to a complete end." ... The Buddha said: "Great king, surely your appearance did not decay all at once?" The king said: "World-Honored One, the change has crept along in secret; I truly never noticed it happening — the cold and the heat passing, little by little, until it came to this. ..."

Commentary: The Buddha first examines the king's understanding of arising and ceasing, using the king's own aged appearance as an easy occasion to show change, and to demonstrate that impermanence spares no one, not even a king. Though the king had once been taken in by heretical teaching, everything he answers here is entirely in accord with the Buddha-dharma. From "I observe" onward, this is precisely the contemplation of impermanence — exactly the aggregate of formations among the five aggregates: all formations are impermanent, this is the very nature of arising and ceasing. This is exactly the mark of momentary, instant-to-instant arising and ceasing that belongs to the aggregate of formations — imperceptible to anyone lacking real insight. That the Buddha confirms the king's account with "Just so" is proof enough that the king is in truth a bodhisattva of the fourth ground, come to assist in spreading the Buddha's own teaching — which is exactly why, even without having yet received the guidance of the buddhas, he was able to describe this subtle mark of the aggregate of formations so precisely. Confucius, standing once by a river, said: "That which passes on is like this, is it not! Never ceasing, day or night." Those who truly understand recognize that Confucius, too, was speaking of exactly this aggregate of formations, flowing on, moment after moment, never remaining still.

Sūtra: ... The Buddha said: "I will now show you the nature that neither arises nor ceases. Great king, at what age did you first see the water of the Ganges?" ... The Buddha said: "Great king, though your face is wrinkled, this essence of seeing has never once been wrinkled! What wrinkles is subject to change; what does not wrinkle is not subject to change. What changes is subject to perishing; what does not change is, from the very beginning, beyond birth and death — how could it undergo your birth and death? And yet you still cite the likes of Maskarin Gośālīputra, who claim that after this body dies everything is utterly annihilated!" Hearing this, the king came to believe and know that after this body is given up, one goes on to another rebirth, and he, together with the whole assembly, leapt for joy, having gained what they had never had before.

Commentary: The king, from his body's own decline, already knew for certain that this body must one day perish — why, then, should he not likewise infer, from seeing's own changelessness, that this same seeing, after death, must never perish at all? "What does not change is, from the very beginning, beyond birth and death" points directly to the nature of seeing, originally unborn and unceasing. "How could it undergo your birth and death" means: since the nature of seeing never changes along with the body, how could it possibly undergo birth and death together with your own body? One should know: though this body may perish, the true nature endures forever. This display, arguing that the nature of seeing never perishes, extending to the very end of future time, ultimately ever-abiding and imperishable, belongs, among the four meanings, to the meaning of constancy.

Sūtra: Ānanda then rose from his seat, bowed to the Buddha with palms joined, knelt at length, and said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, if this seeing and hearing are truly beyond birth and death, why does the World-Honored One say that we have lost our true nature and act in an upside-down way? I beg you, in your compassion, to wash away the dust that clouds us!" ... At once the Tathāgata lowered his golden-hued arm, turned his hand palm-downward, and, pointing it toward the ground, said to Ānanda: "Do you see this hand of mine, marked with the wheel-sign, as right-side up or upside down?" ... The Buddha then raised his arm and said to Ānanda: "If this is all it takes — head and tail simply switching places — for ordinary people in the world to see it doubly, one way and then the other, then you should understand, comparing your own body to the Tathāgatas' pure Dharma-body in just this way: the Tathāgata's body is called that of right and universal knowing, while your bodies are called, by their very nature, upside down. Look closely, then, at your own body and at the Buddha's body, and consider exactly where, in what you call 'upside down,' the name 'upside down' is actually to be found."

Commentary: This display — seeing is never truly lost — belongs, together with the previous display of imperishability, to the meaning of constancy. The previous display showed that seeing, to the very end of future time, remains ultimately ever-abiding and imperishable; this display shows that, from beginningless time onward, though seemingly turned upside down, it has never actually been lost. Ānanda, reasoning backward from what he has just heard, wonders whether this same nature might, after all, be subject to arising and ceasing, since only then would "losing" it make any sense — but if the nature of seeing is truly imperishable and unmoving, on what grounds does the Buddha reproach the assembly for having "lost" it at all? This shows that it was never truly lost — this whole display exists to demonstrate exactly this: speaking of "loss" where nothing is truly lost, the mark of something lost though never actually lost at all.

The true nature of every buddha and every sentient being is entirely equal — no greater in a sage, no lesser in an ordinary being; and if even lessened it is not truly lessened, how could it ever be truly lost? It is only because of this "upside-down-ness" that loss is spoken of at all, though nothing is truly lost. Since the mind's own rightness or upside-down-ness, and its not being lost, is hard to grasp directly, the Buddha borrows the arm's own rightness or upside-down-ness, easy to see, so that Ānanda can reason by analogy from one to the other. The arm itself, after all, has no inherent "right-side-up" or "upside-down" quality at all — it is only that Ānanda, following ordinary worldly convention, calls the Tathāgata's raised arm "right-side up." This "upside-down-ness," then, is merely a matter of head and tail switching places — even granting that the raised position is called "right," the arm itself gains nothing by it; and even granting that the lowered position is called "upside down," the arm itself loses nothing by it either. Ordinary people in the world, not understanding that the arm has no fixed "right" or "upside-down" at all, are already deluded once over — and then, insisting further on fixing "lowered" as upside down and "raised" as right-side up, they compound that same delusion a second time over, in how they look at it.

Sūtra: At this, Ānanda and the whole assembly stared fixedly at the Buddha, their eyes unblinking, unable to find where in body or mind this "upside-down-ness" actually was. The Buddha, moved by compassion, taking pity on Ānanda and the assembly, sent forth a voice like the ocean tide and proclaimed to the whole gathering: "Good sons! I have always taught that form, mind, all their conditions, the mental factors that mind employs, and all the objects these take hold of, are nothing but what mind itself manifests. Your body and your mind are both things manifested from within the wondrous, bright, true, essential, wondrous mind."

Commentary: The Buddha, knowing full well that neither body nor mind has any fixed mark of "right" or "upside-down" at all, asks Ānanda to observe this for himself — since a hand's own upside-down-ness is easy enough for anyone to see, while the mind's is something no one manages to understand at all; if he can come to see it clearly, he will awaken to it directly, and no longer lose his own true nature. Hence the question: compare your own body to the Buddha's own Dharma-body — where, exactly, in what is called "upside-down" about your body, does the name "upside-down" actually reside? This is meant precisely to have Ānanda trace the name back to the actual fact, and observe closely, in his own body, exactly where this so-called "upside-down" mark is to be found, and point it out clearly.

Struck by this question, Ānanda and the whole assembly are, for the moment, exactly like wooden dolls — unable to open their mouths, staring blankly up at the Buddha. "Staring" means gazing fixedly with both eyes; "blankly" means confused and uncomprehending; gazing up reverently at the Buddha, their eyes not even blinking — not knowing where, in body or mind, this "upside-down-ness" is to be found, waiting instead on the Buddha's own teaching. This "not knowing" carries a very deep meaning: first, though the name "upside-down" is applied to the body, its actual meaning arises from the mind — since it is the mind that gives rise to this upside-down-ness, one cannot find its mark anywhere in the body itself; second, its true mark does not lie in the mind either, but in clinging itself — since it is deluding the truth that gives rise to this clinging, called "upside-down," while the true mind, in fact, never becomes upside-down by depending on it at all, one cannot find its mark in the mind either; third, this cannot be sought as any kind of visible mark at all, only understood conceptually — since it is clinging born of delusion that gives rise to the very name "upside-down," and clinging born of delusion is not itself any kind of visible thing, how could its mark ever be pointed to directly? Hence: "unable to find where in body or mind this 'upside-down-ness' actually was."

The Buddha arouses great compassion, taking pity on Ānanda and the whole assembly. To arouse compassion means: loving-kindness bestows joy, compassion removes suffering; without even waiting to be asked, the Buddha extends unconditioned loving-kindness, bestowing the joy of right and universal knowing, and compassion born of the same substance as all beings, removing the suffering of this very "upside-down" nature. "Taking pity" describes seeing Ānanda and the whole assembly, unable to find where "upside-down-ness" was, staring fixedly up at the Tathāgata, confused and uncomprehending — truly a sight to be pitied. The voice like the ocean tide never fails to arrive at the proper time — since Ānanda and the assembly were waiting so earnestly for instruction, the Buddha does not let the moment pass, and addresses the whole assembly at once.

The Buddha here quotes his own often-repeated teaching, to make clear the meaning of "right and universal knowing." This is the Great Vehicle's own complete teaching, which the Buddha constantly proclaims, each listener understanding it according to their own capacity — as the saying goes, "the Buddha speaks in a single voice, and each being, according to its own kind, understands it in its own way." Now, drawing on its deeper meaning, the Buddha restates this teaching once more. "Form, mind, all their conditions, and the mental factors that mind employs" makes clear that the ten thousand phenomena are, without exception, manifestations of mind alone. Your body — Ānanda's own sense-organs — and your mind — Ānanda's own discriminating consciousness — together with every other phenomenon, gathered within the word "all," are here pointed to directly by the Tathāgata as the present body and mind, in order to reveal the very fundamental substance every phenomenon depends upon. Undivided in its illumination, its brilliance reaching through every age past and present, this is called "wondrous and bright"; its nature free of any false defilement, purely undivided, this is called "true and essential"; unchanging while according with every condition, according with every condition while unchanging, beyond ordinary conception, this is called the "wondrous mind." "Within" refers to within this wondrous mind — the wondrous mind is what manifests; every phenomenon is what is manifested — so that even Ānanda's own body and mind are themselves nothing but objects manifested from within this same wondrous mind.

Sūtra: "Why is it, then, that all of you have lost this originally wondrous, perfectly wondrous, bright mind — this precious, bright, wondrous nature — and instead mistake a trace of delusion within awakening itself for your own mind? [It began when] obscuring darkness became empty space, and, within that dark obscurity, a further darkness congealed into form. Form mixed with false thought, and thought's own appearance became a body. Gathered conditions stir within, and rush restlessly outward, and this confused, agitated appearance is taken to be one's own nature of mind. Once mistaken for mind, one becomes certain it must lie within this physical body — never realizing that this body and its surrounding form, and, further out, the mountains, rivers, empty space, and the great earth itself, are all, without exception, objects manifested within this same wondrously bright, true mind."

Commentary: Ānanda had earlier asked: "If this seeing and hearing are truly beyond birth and death, why does the World-Honored One say that we have lost our true nature?" — not understanding on what grounds "loss" could even be spoken of. This present passage supplies exactly that explanation: it is because of upside-down-ness that "loss" is spoken of — a loss that is not truly a loss but only seems like one; and though nothing is truly lost, this very upside-down-ness treats what is not, in itself, any kind of "turning" at all as though it were a turning — hence the rebuke: "Why is it, then, that all of you have lost..." "Originally wondrous" means wondrous of its own accord, from the very start, without needing any cultivation to bring it about. "Perfectly wondrous, bright mind": "perfect" refers to original awakening's own illuminating function — this is the wondrousness of function. "Precious, bright, wondrous nature": "precious" refers to the still substance of original nature itself — this is the wondrousness of substance. This mind and nature, whole in substance and complete in function, was always one's own inherited family treasure — how, then, could it ever be lost?

"Mistake a trace of delusion within awakening itself": the word "mistake" here belongs to the category of upside-down clinging — clinging where one ought not to cling at all. Sentient beings ought to turn delusion back toward awakening — why, instead, do they mistake this single trace of delusion within awakening itself for their own nature of mind? This is exactly the upside-down-ness, exactly what is meant by losing one's own true nature — one delusion. And if one then clings further still to this mistaken trace of delusion, taking it as the very fullest measure of the true mind itself, this amounts to mistaking a thing for one's own self — delusion compounded upon delusion, a doubled delusion.

From the very first false stirring of a single thought, this luminous nature became obscured, and so ignorance came to be — hence "obscuring darkness" refers exactly to this ignorance. Because of this ignorance, the luminously clear, penetrating true emptiness was transformed into a dull, obscured, dark emptiness — hence "became empty space." "Within that dark obscurity, a further darkness congealed into form": within this same dull emptiness, obscured and dark, and further relying on the power of this same ignorance, the originally possessed light of wisdom is turned into a false, seeing-capable view; wishing, within this dull, dark obscurity, to see something, yet this underlying pattern of activity has nothing there to see at all — straining until fatigue sets in, this dark condition congeals into the form of the four elements, giving rise in turn to mountains, rivers, the great earth, and the whole world — hence "a further darkness congealed into form."

"Form mixed with false thought, and thought's own appearance became a body": "form" here is the form of the four elements just congealed from darkness; "false thought" is the mind capable of bringing this about. This false mind, gathering up a small portion of this false, four-elements form, mixes form and mind together, giving rise to the sentient being's own inward, personal form — hence "thought's own appearance became a body." "Gathered conditions stir within, and rush restlessly outward, and this confused, agitated appearance is taken to be one's own nature of mind": internally, one conditions upon the shadow-traces left behind by the five sense-objects, calculating and discriminating, stirring without rest; externally, one conditions upon the various phenomena of the five sense-objects themselves, discriminating them clearly, rushing outward without cease, chasing after external objects, racing about unrestrained. Gathering conditions inwardly produces confusion; rushing outward produces agitation — and it is exactly this confused, agitated appearance that one mistakes, in error, for one's own mark of mind, taking the false, discriminating consciousness that conditions upon dust for one's own true mental nature.

"Once mistaken for mind, one becomes certain it must lie within this physical body": having once mistaken this gathered, accumulated conditioning energy for one's own mind, one becomes certain, in delusion, that this mind lies within one's own physical body, with the ten thousand phenomena all existing outside the mind — the exact opposite of right and universal knowing. "Never realizing that this body and its surrounding form, and, further out, the mountains, rivers, empty space, and the great earth itself, are all, without exception, objects manifested within this same wondrously bright, true mind": if one knew that mind encompasses the ten thousand phenomena, and that every phenomenon exists within mind itself, this would be exactly right and universal knowing; it is only because one does not know this that one mistakes things for one's own self, and so becomes upside-down by nature.

Sūtra: "It is like abandoning the whole vast, clear ocean and recognizing only a single floating bubble as the entire tide, thinking it exhausts the whole sea. You are, in this delusion, doubly lost — just as with my hand turning one way or the other, no real difference at all — and this is why the Tathāgata calls you objects of pity."

Commentary: The vast, clear ocean is likened to the great true mind, encompassing empty space, the great earth, and all things — and to abandon it is to illustrate losing the true. To recognize only a single floating bubble is to recognize only that one bubble's own small substance within the ocean, likened to clinging only to this one trace of delusion within awakening, taken as though it existed within one's own physical body — this illustrates clinging to the false. To recognize only that one bubble, yet take it for the entire tide of the whole sea, exhausting the whole vast expanse, is likened, in the matter at hand, to mistaking the false, discriminating consciousness for the true mind, and treating that false consciousness as though it exhausted the true mind's own fullest measure.

In the analogy, abandoning the ocean to recognize only the bubble is one delusion; taking the bubble for the whole sea is a person doubly lost within that same delusion. In the matter itself, losing the vast, wondrous mind and clinging instead to the shadow-conditioned false mind is one delusion; clinging further to this false mind as though it were the whole substance of the true mind — is this not delusion compounded a second time over? Just as with my own hand turning one way or the other: not understanding that the arm itself has no fixed "right" or "upside-down" at all is one delusion; and then insisting further that raised means right and lowered means upside-down is likewise a person doubly lost within that same delusion — hence, "no real difference at all." As stated earlier, "losing one's true nature" comes about entirely through upside-down-ness — a loss that is not truly a loss but only seems like one, unrecognized in one's own daily use, so that "loss" is spoken of though nothing is truly lost — exactly like a beggar who carries a priceless jewel within his own robe yet suffers destitution needlessly: this is why the Tathāgata calls such a person an object of pity!