Where, Exactly, Is the Mind?

Thus have I heard: at one time the Buddha was staying at Jetavana, Anāthapiṇḍada's Grove, in the city of Śrāvastī, together with a great assembly of twelve hundred and fifty monks — all of them great arhats free of outflows: sons of the Buddha who upheld his teaching, who had thoroughly transcended all states of existence, and who were able to display right conduct throughout the land; who, carrying on the Buddha's turning of the Dharma wheel, were fit to receive his final trust; who kept the monastic discipline pure and strict, and stood as models for the three realms; whose manifested bodies were beyond number, freeing beings and reaching into the future to rescue them, having gone beyond every worldly entanglement. Foremost among them were Śāriputra of great wisdom, Mahāmaudgalyāyana, Mahākauṣṭhila, Pūrṇamaitrāyaṇīputra, Subhūti, and Aupanishada.

There were also, along with them, countless pratyekabuddhas beyond further training, and those still in training, come together to the Buddha's place. As it was the day the monks concluded their rains-retreat and made their confession of faults, bodhisattvas from the ten directions also came to resolve doubts in their minds, reverently attending the Buddha's compassionate solemnity, hoping to seek his hidden meaning. At that very time the Tathāgata arranged his seat and sat in peaceful stillness, expounding what was deep and profound to the whole assembly. The pure congregation at this Dharma feast obtained what they had never had before, as the Buddha's voice, like the call of the kalaviṅka bird, resounded through the worlds of the ten directions. Bodhisattvas numerous as the sands of the Ganges gathered at the place of practice, with Mañjuśrī foremost among them.

At that time King Prasenajit, it being the anniversary of his late father's death, was holding a memorial feast, and had invited the Buddha to the palace. He went in person to receive the Tathāgata, laying out a lavish spread of the finest delicacies, and personally invited the great bodhisattvas as well. Elders and householders throughout the city likewise prepared meals for the monks at the same time, waiting for the Buddha's assembly to respond to their invitations. The Buddha commanded Mañjuśrī to divide the bodhisattvas and arhats into groups and lead them to the various donors' feasts.

Only Ānanda, having previously accepted a separate invitation elsewhere, was away on a distant journey and had not yet returned, so he missed his place in the monks' order. With no senior monk or preceptor beside him, he made his own way back alone, and, having no meal arranged for that day, took up his begging bowl and went from house to house through the city he was passing through, begging in due order.

In his mind he resolved to seek out whoever the very last donor might be to serve as the host of his meal, without asking whether the household was pure or humble, of noble kṣatriya lineage or of the outcast caṇḍāla. He meant to practice impartial compassion, not picking and choosing among the lowly, so as to perfect the boundless merit of all sentient beings without exception. Ānanda already knew that the World-Honored One had once reproached both Subhūti and Mahākāśyapa — arhats though they were — for not begging with an even mind, and, reverencing the Tathāgata's teaching of unobstructed openness, he wished by this practice to put doubt and reproach to rest. So he passed through the city moat, walked slowly toward the outer gate, and kept his bearing solemn and correct, respectfully observing the proper conduct for begging.

Just then, as Ānanda continued begging in order, his path took him past a house of ill repute, where he was caught by the great sorcery of Mātaṅgī. Using the ancient Brahmā-heaven spell of Kapila, she drew him onto her own bed and pressed her body against him, on the verge of destroying the substance of his precepts.

The Tathāgata, knowing that Ānanda had been caught by this sorcery, returned to Jetavana as soon as the meal was over, and the king, his ministers, elders, and householders all came following the Buddha, eager to hear the essentials of the Dharma. At that moment the World-Honored One sent forth from the crown of his head a hundred-jeweled light of fearlessness, and within that light appeared a thousand-petaled jeweled lotus, upon which sat a manifestation-body of the Buddha, cross-legged, proclaiming a sacred spell.

He commanded Mañjuśrī to take the spell and go to Ānanda's protection. The evil spell was dissolved, and Mañjuśrī brought Ānanda and Mātaṅgī back together to where the Buddha was. Ānanda, on seeing the Buddha, bowed at his feet and wept in sorrow, regretting that through beginningless time he had devoted himself only to broad learning and had never fully cultivated the power of the path. He earnestly begged the Buddha to explain the very first steps by which the Tathāgatas of the ten directions attain bodhi through wondrous śamatha, samādhi, and dhyāna. At that time bodhisattvas as numerous as the sands of the Ganges, along with great arhats and pratyekabuddhas from every direction, all wished to hear the same teaching, and withdrew to sit in silence, ready to receive the sacred instruction.

The Buddha said to Ānanda: "You and I are of one blood, bound as brothers by nature. When you first resolved on the path, what excellent mark did you see in my teaching, that made you cast aside all at once the deep bonds of worldly love and affection?"

Ānanda answered the Buddha: "I saw that the Tathāgata's thirty-two marks were so surpassingly fine that his very form seemed translucent, like lapis lazuli. I often reflected: 'Such a form could not have arisen from desire and lust. Why? Because the energy of desire is coarse and turbid — a tangle of foul odors, blood, and pus — and could never give rise to something so pure, wondrous, bright, and radiant as purple-gold light.' It was out of this longing admiration that I followed the Buddha and shaved my head."

The Buddha said: "Good, Ānanda! You should all know that every sentient being, from beginningless time, has continued through birth and death solely because it does not recognize the ever-abiding true mind, whose nature is pure and bright, and instead makes use of false thinking. Because such thinking is not true, one keeps turning in the wheel of transmigration. Now that you wish to investigate the true nature that reveals unsurpassed bodhi, you must answer my questions with a straightforward mind. The Tathāgatas of the ten directions leave birth and death behind by this same one path — all of them by a straightforward mind. Because mind and word are both straightforward in this way, from beginning to end, through every stage, there is never, in between, any crooked or evasive appearance."

"Ānanda, I now ask you: when you first resolved on the path, taking the Tathāgata's thirty-two marks as your object, what did you see with, and what loved and delighted in them?" Ānanda answered the Buddha: "World-Honored One, this love and delight came about through my mind and my eyes. Seeing the Tathāgata's excellent marks with my eyes, my mind gave rise to love and delight, and so I resolved on the path, wishing to leave birth and death behind."

The Buddha said to Ānanda: "As you have said, this love and delight truly arises from mind and eyes; but if you do not know where mind and eyes actually are, you cannot subdue the dust of worldly affliction. ... I now ask you: where, exactly, are this mind and these eyes now?"

Ānanda answered the Buddha: "World-Honored One, all the ten kinds of beings in the world alike hold that the discriminating mind dwells inside the body. Even looking at the Tathāgata's own blue-lotus eyes, I see they are set in his face. So too, my own eyes are simply set in my face, and this discriminating mind of mine truly dwells within my body."

The Buddha said to Ānanda: "You are now sitting in the Tathāgata's lecture hall — where, then, is the Jeta Grove?" "World-Honored One, this great two-storied hall of pure teaching stands within Anāthapiṇḍada's park, and the Jeta Grove is actually outside the hall." "Ānanda, what did you see first, on entering the hall?" "World-Honored One, inside the hall I first saw the Tathāgata, then the assembly; only after looking outward did I see the grove and the park." ... "Ānanda, it is just the same with you. Your mind is said to understand all things clearly — if the mind that presently understands so clearly is truly inside your body, then it ought first to know what is inside that body. Yet has any being ever first seen what is inside the body, and only afterward observed things outside it? Even granting that one cannot see the heart, liver, spleen, or stomach, still, the growing of nails, the lengthening of hair, the turning of sinews, the pulsing of veins — these at least ought to be plainly known. Why, then, are they not known at all? If what is within is not known, how could what is without be known? You should therefore know that your claim — that the mind which is aware and able to know dwells inside the body — does not hold up."

Ānanda bowed his head and said to the Buddha: "Hearing the Tathāgata's teaching, I now realize that my mind must actually dwell outside the body. Why? It is like a lamp lit within a room: such a lamp must first illuminate the inside of the room before its light, passing through the door, reaches the courtyard beyond. In the same way, all beings, not seeing what is inside the body but seeing only what is outside it, are like a lamp set outside a room, unable to light the room within. ..."

The Buddha said to Ānanda: "... If body and mind know each other in this way, how could the mind be outside? You should therefore know that your claim — that the mind which is aware and able to know dwells outside the body — does not hold up either."

Ānanda said to the Buddha: "... Since this mind that is aware and knows does not know what is inside yet can see what is outside, I now think it must be hidden within the sense faculty itself — just as, if a man takes a crystal bowl and covers both his eyes with it, though something now covers the eyes, it does not obstruct them; the eye can still see and discriminate right through it. ..."

The Buddha said to Ānanda: "As you say, the mind hidden within the faculty is like a crystal covering the eye — would such a man, looking at mountains and rivers through the crystal, also see the crystal itself?" "Just so, World-Honored One — such a man, looking through crystal placed over his eyes, would indeed also see the crystal." The Buddha said to Ānanda: "If your mind were joined to the eye the way crystal is, then, seeing mountains and rivers, it should also see the eye itself. ... You should therefore know that your claim — that the mind which is aware and able to know lies hidden within the faculty like crystal fitted over the eye — does not hold up either."

Ānanda said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, I now think of it this way: in the body of any being, the internal organs lie within, while the openings — eyes, ears, and so on — face outward; where there are organs, it is dark, and where there are openings, it is bright. Now, facing the Buddha, when I open my eyes and see brightness, this is called seeing outward; when I close my eyes and see darkness, this is called seeing inward. What of this idea?"

The Buddha said to Ānanda: "When you close your eyes and see darkness, does that dark realm face the eyes, or not face the eyes at all? ... You should therefore know that your claim — that seeing darkness is called seeing what is within — does not hold up either."

Ānanda said: "I have often heard the Buddha teach the fourfold assembly: 'Because mind arises, all the various dharmas arise; because dharmas arise, all the various minds arise.' I now think: this very capacity for thought is truly the nature of my mind — wherever it joins with something, mind is there accordingly; it exists in none of the three places, inside, outside, or in between, taken separately."

The Buddha said to Ānanda: "You now say that because dharmas arise, all the various minds arise, and that wherever mind joins something, it exists there accordingly — but if this mind has no substance of its own, it has nothing to join with in the first place; and if something with no substance at all could still join with something else, then there would be a nineteenth sense-realm formed by a seventh kind of sense-object, which makes no sense. ... You should therefore know that the claim that mind exists wherever it happens to join something does not hold up either."

Ānanda said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, I have also heard the Buddha say to Mañjuśrī and the other Dharma-prince bodhisattvas, when speaking of true reality, that mind is neither within nor without. As I think of it: since nothing within is seen, and nothing without is felt in common with the body, the mind cannot be said to be within, for lack of any inward knowledge; nor can it be said to be without, since body and mind clearly do know each other. Since they do know each other, and yet nothing within is seen, the mind must be exactly in between."

The Buddha said: "You speak of 'in between' — such a middle cannot simply be vague; it must have some definite place. Now, as you propose this middle, where exactly is it? ..."

Ānanda said: "The middle I mean is neither of those two kinds. It is as the World-Honored One has said: 'eye and form, taken as conditions, give rise to eye-consciousness.' The eye has the capacity to discriminate, while form as an object has no awareness; consciousness arises between the two, and that is where mind is."

The Buddha said: "If your mind lies between faculty and object in this way, does this substance of mind combine both, or not combine both? ... You should therefore know that the claim that mind is exactly in between does not hold up either."

Ānanda said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, I once heard the Buddha, together with the four great disciples Mahāmaudgalyāyana, Subhūti, Pūrṇa, and Śāriputra, turning the Dharma wheel, say that the nature of the mind that is aware and discriminates is nowhere at all — not within, not without, not in between — and that attachment to nothing whatsoever is what is called mind. Would my own being attached to nothing, then, count as mind?"

The Buddha said to Ānanda: "You say that the nature of the mind that is aware and discriminates is nowhere at all. Everything in the world — empty space, and every creature of water, land, and air — is called 'everything.' Now, this 'nothing you are attached to' — does it exist, or not? If it does not exist, it is exactly like the fur of a tortoise or the horns of a rabbit — how could there be any attachment to speak of at all? But if there is a 'nothing' that you are not attached to, it cannot then be called nonexistent. What has no characteristic at all is nonexistent; what is not nonexistent must have some characteristic; and whatever has a characteristic must exist somewhere — so how could it be called 'attached to nothing'? You should therefore know that the claim 'the mind that is aware and knows is what is attached to nothing at all' does not hold up either."

At that time Ānanda rose from his seat in the midst of the assembly, bared his right shoulder, knelt with his right knee on the ground, and, joining his palms in reverence, said to the Buddha: "I am the Tathāgata's youngest cousin, and, favored with his kind affection, I left home relying still on his fondness for me — and so, although I have heard much, I have not attained freedom from outflows. I could not overcome the Kapila spell; I was carried off by it and nearly drowned in that house of ill repute, all because I did not know where true reality is actually to be found. I beg only that the World-Honored One, in his great compassion, take pity on us and reveal the path of śamatha, so that even the most incorrigible may be freed from base and mistaken views." Having said this, he prostrated himself fully on the ground, and the whole assembly, likewise longing and expectant, waited reverently to hear the teaching.

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."

The Buddha said to Ānanda: "You have just answered me that the Tathāgata's curled fingers, a fist of light, dazzled your mind and eyes — the eyes, one grants, can see; but what did you take as the mind, that it should be dazzled by my fist?" Ānanda said: "The Tathāgata is now asking me where the mind is to be found; and since it is by mind that I search everywhere for it, whatever it is in me that is doing the searching — that, I take to be my mind." The Buddha said: "Enough, Ānanda! That is not your mind!" Startled, Ānanda rose from his seat, joined his palms, stood, and said to the Buddha: "If that is not my mind, then what should it be called?" The Buddha said to Ānanda: "This is nothing but the false, insubstantial appearance of thought conditioned by what is in front of you, and it is deluding your true nature. Ever since beginningless time and continuing into this very life, you have mistaken a thief for your own son, losing your own original, ever-abiding nature — and so you have undergone this turning in the wheel."

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."