Discarding the Hindrances

Root Text: What is meant by "discarding the hindrances" is discarding the five hindrances. The first is discarding the hindrance of covetous desire. What was explained earlier concerned desire arising in the outward five sense-objects; what is meant here is desire arising within the inward mind-faculty itself — that is, while a practitioner sits upright cultivating dhyāna, a thought of desire arises in the mind, one thought following another without a break, covering over the wholesome mind and keeping it from growing. Once this is recognized, it should be discarded.

Commentary: The two chapters above, being provided with the five conditions and rebuking the five desires, are now complete; this third chapter explains discarding the five hindrances. What is meant by "the five hindrances" is precisely: covetous desire, anger, drowsiness, restlessness and regret, and doubt. These five things are able to cover over our own mind's inherently pure nature. Chapter 2's rebuking of the five desires kept the outward dust of the senses from entering; this chapter's discarding of the five hindrances keeps the inward mind itself from arising in this way — so that the ground of the mind becomes pure, and, once pure, is fit to be a vessel for the path.

First, discarding the hindrance of covetous desire: what was explained before concerned desire arising amid the outward five sense-objects, that is, the five faculties giving rise to craving attachment when they meet the five sense-objects. What is meant here is desire arising within the inward mind-faculty itself — that is, the mere afterimage of a sense-object already passed, now carried over into the ground of the mind, chasing after the past and anticipating the future. Though this differs from the five faculties directly grasping and clinging to the five sense-objects, idle thoughts still crowd up within the mind — and because one chases after an image of a sense-object already gone, a further, separate kind of covetous desire arises from this; hence it is said that desire arises within the mind itself.

This means: while a practitioner sits with body upright, cultivating dhyāna — body, hands, and feet all seemingly settled and unmoving, seeming every bit a genuine practitioner of the path — little do they know that this is merely an outward show; though outwardly composed and dignified, within the mind wild, disordered thoughts run this way and that — perhaps drawn into a fantasy by some pleasing sound once heard, or recalling someone's fine, dignified appearance from before and giving rise to attached longing. Thoughts of this kind, discriminating one thing from another, follow one after the next without a break, exactly like a cascading torrent, one thought after another, never resting, until one hardly even knows what this body sitting upright actually is anymore — and in this way, the wholesome mind one already possesses is permanently submerged, unable to grow. This is, in truth, a great obstruction for a practitioner; but once it is recognized, it can be dissolved. As the ancients said: "Do not fear a thought arising — fear only that recognizing it comes too late." One must recognize it early, and discard it at once.

Root Text: Why is this so? Just as, with Śūrpaka, when desire arose from within, it was still able to burn the body itself — how much more so when a fire of desire arises in the mind, is it not able to burn away every wholesome quality? A person given to covetous desire is very far indeed from the path. Why is this so? Because desire is the very dwelling-place of every kind of vexing disturbance; if the mind clings to desire, there is no way to draw near the path at all.

Commentary: Covetous desire and idle thought — the harm they do is very great indeed. Śūrpaka was a courtesan of India; when desire arose in her from within, her very body was burned and ruined by it — how much more, then, is a fire of desire arising within the mind able to burn away every wholesome quality? One should know that a person given to covetous desire is very far indeed from the path, for desire is the very dwelling-place of every kind of afflicted disturbance, while the bodhi-path is the dwelling-place of every kind of pure, settled peace. One is defiled, the other pure; one is birth-and-death, the other nirvāṇa — the two as far apart as heaven from earth, ordinary being from sage utterly remote — hence it is said that one is very far indeed from the path. If the mind clings in fondness to covetous desire, there is no way to make progress on the path at all. Hence a verse says: "Covetous desire is exactly like water, able to drown the very ford of prajñā; if you wish to walk the bodhi-path, guard your true mind against the cover of desire." This is enough to show how greatly the hindrance of desire obstructs the path — one cannot be too careful of it.

Root Text: As a verse on discarding the hindrances says:
"One who enters the path with a sense of shame carries the alms-bowl to bring blessing to all beings — why, then, indulge the desire for the senses' dust, sinking down into the five feelings?
Having already renounced the pleasure of the five desires, casting it off without a backward glance — how could one wish to have it back again? This is like a fool eating their own vomit.
Every desire brings suffering while it is sought, brings much dread once it is obtained, and brings burning distress when it is lost — nowhere in it is there any true pleasure at all.
Such is the trouble every desire brings — by what means, then, can one cast it off? Attain the deep pleasure of dhyāna-concentration, and one will no longer be deceived by it."

Commentary: The line "one who enters the path with a sense of shame" speaks precisely of one who takes up practice and enters the path: they ought to feel great shame over desire, feel dread of it, grieve for sentient beings still lost in delusion, lament that birth-and-death remains unresolved, and earnestly seek to bring their own practice to completion soon — casting desire aside and carrying the alms-bowl instead, bringing blessing to every sentient being, planting broad fields of merit on their behalf, becoming a landmark pointing the way for the buddhas of past, present, and future.

"Why, then, indulge the desire for the senses' dust, sinking down into the five feelings" — "why" here is a word of reproach: why indulge and give free rein to feeling amid the five desires and six sense-objects? For a practitioner, these five desires ought to be cast off entirely, set down completely without the slightest backward glance — how, then, could one wish to seek them back again? Know that this is a person doubly lost in delusion, exactly like a foolish person eating their own vomit — is this not both sorrowful and absurd at once?

"Every desire brings suffering while it is sought, brings much dread once it is obtained, and brings burning distress when it is lost" — look at sentient beings everywhere: who does not, in seeking the five desires, climb mountains and cross seas, travel by starlight and moonlight, rushing back and forth? And even once it is obtained, it brings much dread, much fear — and once it is lost, the mind is left holding distress and anxiety all over again. Seen in this light, there is not a single inch of ground within the three realms that is a place of true happiness — hence one should know that this is exactly the trouble every desire brings. By what method, then, can one cast it off? There is no other way: if one can attain the deep pleasure of dhyāna-concentration, one will no longer be deceived by it at all.

Root Text: Second, discarding the hindrance of anger. Anger is the very root of losing the Buddhadharma, the cause and condition for falling into the evil destinies, the sworn enemy of the joy of the Dharma, the great thief of the wholesome mind, the storehouse of every kind of harsh, abusive speech. This is why, when a practitioner sits in meditation and reflects that this person now troubles me, or troubles those dear to me, or praises someone I hold as an enemy — and reflects that this has likewise held true in the past and will hold true in the future — this makes nine grounds for vexation, and so anger and resentment arise; from anger and resentment, enmity arises; and once the mind of enmity has arisen, one then gives rise to the thought of troubling that other person in turn. Anger of this kind covers over the mind — hence it is called a hindrance, and must be discarded at once, never allowed to grow.

Commentary: This is the second, discarding the hindrance of anger. This fire of anger burns a person — nothing is more severe. The ancients said: "Let a single thought of anger arise, and a hundred thousand gates of obstruction open at once." And again: "The blazing flame of anger burns away the whole forest of merit." And again: "Give rise to a single thought of anger, and the very seed of bodhi can be burned away entirely." This is enough to show that anger is the very root of losing the Buddhadharma, the cause and condition for falling into the evil destinies, the sworn enemy of the joy of the Dharma, the great thief of the wholesome mind — every kind of harsh, abusive speech arises from it, hence it is called its "storehouse." One should know that harsh, abusive speech carries an extremely grave fault. The ancients said: "A single word can raise up a kingdom; a single word can likewise bring one down." The offense created by verbal karma is not something to be careless about.

If, while a practitioner sits in meditation, before right mindfulness has yet become clear, they find themselves reflecting — perhaps recalling some past circumstance where their own feelings were crossed, and anger arises from it; or reflecting that this person now troubles me, or troubles my own relatives, or praises someone I hold as an enemy — these are the three present forms of anger. There are likewise three past forms — troubling me, troubling my relatives, and praising my enemy — and three future forms as well; extending across all three time periods gives nine in total, and these are the nine grounds for vexation. Through the condition of these nine grounds, anger and resentment arise; from anger and resentment, enmity arises; from enmity, further affliction arises — and so anger and resentment multiply, enmity and rage crowd up thick, until the true mind one already possesses is covered over almost entirely. Hence it is called a hindrance. A practitioner must discard it at once, and never let it grow.

Root Text: As Śakra, lord of the gods, once asked the Buddha in verse:
"What thing, killed, brings peace? What thing, killed, brings freedom from sorrow? What thing is the very root of poison, swallowing up and destroying every wholesome quality?"
And the Buddha answered in verse:
"Kill anger, and peace follows. Kill anger, and freedom from sorrow follows. Anger is the very root of poison; anger destroys every wholesome quality."
Knowing this, one should cultivate loving-kindness and patience to dissolve it away, so that the mind becomes pure.

Commentary: The opening question asks: what thing, killed, is able to bring peace? What thing, killed, is able to bring freedom from sorrow? "Peace" here is nirvāṇa; "freedom from sorrow" is bodhi — that is, the unsurpassed, still peace of nirvāṇa, and the unsurpassed joy of the awakened Dharma that is bodhi. If one can realize pure nirvāṇa, one thereby settles into peaceful happiness within the ever-still light, leaving far behind the distress of views, thought, dust-and-sand afflictions, and ignorance. Put the other way around: kill off peace, and one is left with an absence of peace; destroy freedom from sorrow, and sorrow returns once more — this passage speaks by negation, so that one knows an absence of peace is precisely birth-and-death, and the presence of sorrow is precisely affliction. What thing is the root of the three poisons? What thing is able to swallow up and destroy every wholesome dharma?

The Buddha then answers in verse — for the Tathāgata's own great compassion answers whatever is asked of it without fail, exactly like a great bell that rings the moment it is struck — and so answers: "Kill anger, and peace follows; kill anger, and freedom from sorrow follows." Anger is itself affliction; if one can dissolve away the mind of anger, one thereby attains pure nirvāṇa, and is likewise able to leave sorrow behind entirely. Hence one should know: anger is the very root of poison, and anger is able to subdue and destroy every wholesome quality. Hence an old verse says: "Anger is like a fire within the mind, able to burn away the whole forest of merit; if you wish to walk the bodhi-path, guard your true mind by abstaining from anger." A practitioner, knowing this, should cultivate loving-kindness and patience to dissolve it away, so that the mind becomes pure.

What was said above about anger and resentment, though it takes many forms, does not go beyond three: anger without any reasonable cause, anger with some reasonable cause, and anger arising from dispute and argument. What is now called "loving-kindness and patience" likewise has three forms: cultivating loving-kindness toward sentient beings directly counters anger without cause; cultivating loving-kindness grounded in the Dharma counters anger with cause; and cultivating loving-kindness with no object at all counters anger arising from dispute. Through cultivating these three skillful forms of loving-kindness, one is able to leave the hindrance of anger far behind — and once the mind of anger is exhausted, why should one worry that the mind will fail to become pure, or that calming and insight will fail to be accomplished?

Root Text: Third, discarding the hindrance of drowsiness. Dullness within the mind is called "drowsiness"; the five senses grown dark and obscured, the limbs left slack, lying prone in deep sleep, is called "sleep." For this reason it is called the hindrance of drowsiness-and-sleep, able to destroy the mind's own true joy in the Dharma both in this life and in lives to come, as well as the joy of being born in a heaven or attaining nirvāṇa in a life to come. An unwholesome state of this kind is the most unwholesome of all. Why is this? Every other hindrance can be removed once it is recognized — but drowsiness is like death itself, with no awareness at all; and precisely because there is no awareness of it, it is very hard to remove.

Commentary: This third is discarding the hindrance of drowsiness. This is the person who, sitting upright, gives rise to no covetous desire and no anger in their own mind, yet whose six consciousnesses spend the whole day dull and craving sleep — going about their business, so to speak, in a dark demon's cave the entire day.

What is "drowsiness-and-sleep"? Dullness within the mind is called "drowsiness"; the five senses grown dark and obscured, letting the hands, feet, and four limbs go entirely slack — one's whole bodily frame left to sprawl, sunk in unrestrained sleep — is called "sleep." For this reason it is called the hindrance of drowsiness-and-sleep. One should know that this hindrance does not merely leave one dull and pass the time emptily — it is also able to destroy the mind's own true joy in the Dharma both in this life and in lives to come, and destroy, too, the joy of a future birth in the heavens or of nirvāṇa itself. One should know that this unwholesome state is the most unwholesome of all, worse even than the other hindrances. A hindrance such as covetous desire can be dissolved the moment it is recognized — but drowsiness leaves one dark and unaware, oblivious to everything around one, exactly like a dead person, with not the slightest awakening at all. As the ancients said: "Deep sleep is like a small death — never let the mere circumstance of sleep pass an entire lifetime by in emptiness." This is why the World-Honored One rebuked the Venerable Aniruddha: "Tsk, tsk — why do you sleep like this, snail-and-clam kind? Sleep a thousand years at a stretch, and you will never once hear the Buddha's name."

Root Text: As a verse in which the buddhas and bodhisattvas rebuke a sleeping disciple says:
"Get up — do not go on lying there embracing a reeking corpse, a mere heap of unclean things given the borrowed name of 'a person.' It is as though a grave illness had already set in, an arrow already lodged in the body, every kind of pain and suffering already gathering — how can you sleep through this?
It is as though you had already been bound and were being led away to execution, disaster already bearing down upon you — how can you sleep through this? The bandit of the fetters is not yet destroyed, the harm not yet removed — it is like sharing a room with a venomous snake.
It is also like standing between two blades in the midst of battle — at such a time, how could you possibly sleep? Sleep is a great darkness in which nothing at all is seen, deceiving a person day after day, robbing them of their own clarity.
With sleep covering the mind, nothing at all is seen — with a loss as great as this, how can you sleep?"

Commentary: You should all constantly press forward with diligence — rouse yourselves early with a sharp reflection, and never spend the whole day burying your head in sleep. One should know that this body is exactly like a reeking corpse, a mere gathering of every kind of unclean thing — the body's own excretions, and even the eighty-four thousand mite-dwellings within it, all of it unclean.

Stated briefly, there are five kinds of impurity. First, the impurity of its seed: this body arises when a wind of deviant thought, blown from father and mother, fans the fire of desire, and marrow and fluid flow and change into seminal fluid — through a mind of contending craving, this becomes the seed for a new birth; that is, "taking hold of a thought forms an embryo, the flowing of craving becomes its seed." This is the impurity of the very first seed. Second, the impurity of the place of birth: once conceived, the body dwells within the mother's womb, below the digestive organs and above the raw organs, until, at ten months, this hell-like confinement is complete, and it is born through the birth-canal. As the Chéng Lùn says: "This body is not born of lotus flowers, nor nourished by sandalwood — it is nourished by filth, and emerges only through the passage of urine." This is the impurity of the place of birth.

Third, the impurity of its outward appearance: from head to foot, inside, outside, and in between, there are thirty-six constituent things in all, every one of them unclean — constantly flowing out without cease, like a leaking sack holding its contents; the outward appearance, too, is impure. Fourth, the impurity of its own inherent nature: this body, at its very root, arises from defiled karma and is founded on defiled matter; its very nature is, as a matter of course, impure, and this cannot be changed — hence it is called the impurity of its own inherent nature. Fifth, the impurity of its ultimate end: once this body's karma is exhausted and its retribution complete, the four elements disperse, and in the end it is utterly empty, with nothing left at all — observing the ordinary body exactly as it truly is, it must in the end return to a place of death; this is the impurity of its ultimate end.

Reflecting in this way, one sees that this body of ours has a name but no substance — it is merely a borrowed name. In truth, its very substance is illusory, empty, with nothing there at all — why, then, cling to it without letting go, and spend the whole day asleep? One should know: it is exactly like a person already gravely ill, soon to die, or like one with a heavy arrow already lodged in the body, every kind of pain and suffering already gathering — how could such a body possibly lie at ease asleep? It is also like a person already bound and about to be led off for execution, with disaster already bearing down — how could their mind possibly be at ease enough to sleep? It is also like sharing a single room with a venomous snake — a venomous snake being an ill-omened creature, whose venom, once it strikes a person, brings death at once. It is also like standing between two blades in the midst of battle, in a state of utter terror — at such a time, how could one possibly lie down at ease and sleep?

This is why a practitioner should know that sleep is a great darkness in which nothing at all is seen, deceiving a person day after day, robbing them of their own clarity. Before a person falls asleep, every scene of the world stands present before them, utterly clear and distinct — but the moment sleep sets in, the whole earth goes dark, since sleep covers over one's own mind, so that nothing at all, neither subject nor object, is seen. With a loss as great as this, how can one sleep again?

Root Text: Causes and conditions such as these rebuke the hindrance of drowsiness, awakening one to impermanence, so that one reduces sleep and allows no dullness to cover the mind. If drowsiness weighs heavily on the mind, one should use a meditation staff to drive it off.

Commentary: What follows now explains that, once one has recognized this fault, one must urgently apply a skillful method to drive it away. Hence it says: given causes and conditions of this unwholesome kind, one must rebuke the hindrance of drowsiness. A practitioner must awaken themselves to the fact that every dependent and direct retribution within the three realms is exactly like the moon reflected in water, or a flower conjured in empty space — impermanent and unreal through and through — so what is there left to cling to fondly? One must reduce sleep, and allow no dullness to cover the mind. But this demon of drowsiness carries too great a power to be dissolved without rousing oneself to a determined, forceful effort against it.

If the drowsiness weighing on the mind is light, one need only reflect and discriminate among the marks of things, or fix the mind on the tip of the nose, or open both eyes wide — any of these can subdue the demon of sleep. If the drowsiness weighing on the mind is heavy, one should use a meditation staff, or a walking-stick, to strike it away — whether striking oneself, or being struck by another, either will do. Methods of this kind are the one and only way to drive off the demon of sleep.

Root Text: Fourth, discarding the hindrance of restlessness and regret. Restlessness is of three kinds. The first is bodily restlessness: the body given to wandering about, every kind of idle horseplay, unable to sit settled even for a moment. The second is verbal restlessness: delighting in humming and reciting, competing over rights and wrongs, useless idle talk, worldly chatter, and the like. The third is mental restlessness: the mind given to laxity, indulging in unrestrained mental grasping, dwelling on literary arts, worldly talents and skills, and every kind of unwholesome discursive thought — this is called mental restlessness. Restlessness as such destroys a renunciant's own mind. If even a person who has gathered the mind in is still unable to attain concentration, how much more so one whose mind is restless and scattered! A person of restless, scattered mind is like an intoxicated elephant with no hook to guide it, or a camel with no ring through its nose — impossible to restrain.

Commentary: Restlessness is being unable to sit or stand at ease, mind and mouth unable to settle on any one thing, the six faculties unable to be gathered in to a single place — spending the whole day following one's own feelings, indulging the mind in idle amusement — hence it is called restlessness. "Regret" means remorse, or resentful self-blame, as when a person regrets something already done. Yet regret is not, in itself, a hindrance — why, then, must it be discarded? One must understand: regret is, in itself, a good thing, but once this regret is lodged in the mind, causing anxiety and distress from morning to night, it covers over the true mind in just this way, and thereby becomes a hindrance — hence it too must be discarded.

Restlessness, though it takes many forms, does not go beyond three. First, bodily restlessness: the body given to wandering aimlessly east and west, roaming about with no purpose, and every kind of idle horseplay, or being unable to sit or stand settled — this is bodily restlessness. Second, verbal restlessness: as in singing loudly or humming tunes, arguing over rights and wrongs, delighting in useless chatter and laughter, worldly talk, and the like — these are the marks of verbal restlessness. Third, mental restlessness: the mind following its own feelings into laxity, indulging the mind's own whims, whether dwelling on some mental image of a dharma-object, or grasping at some scene from the past, and every kind of unwholesome discursive thought — all of this is called mental restlessness.

One should know that restlessness as such is able to destroy a renunciant's own mind. A person who has left the household life to cultivate the path ought, above all, to have a mind that is deeply still — but once restlessness sets in, the mind is thereby thrown into confusion, and settling the mind on one's own practice becomes very difficult to accomplish at all! And consider a beginner just entering the path, wishing to gather the mind and return it to oneness — their mind is, even so, still unable to settle — how much more so once it has become restless and scattered! One should know that a person of restless mind is exactly like an intoxicated elephant with no hook to guide it — even without drink, an elephant is difficult enough to restrain, how much more so once intoxicated and without a hook at all: wild disorder and calamity need hardly be said. It is also like a camel with no ring through its nose, dashing about east and west, impossible to restrain.

Root Text: As a verse says:
"You have already shaved your head and put on dyed robes, taking up the clay bowl to walk the alms-round —
Why, then, delight in the frivolous state of restlessness, indulging your feelings in laxity and losing every benefit of the Dharma?"
Having lost the benefit of the Dharma, and lost worldly pleasure besides, once one recognizes this fault, one should discard it at once.

Commentary: One who has left the household life has already shaved away hair and beard, already put on dyed robes, square-cut collar and rounded gown, every bit the figure of one who has left the world behind. As such, one ought to lead by one's own example, taking up the clay bowl and constantly walking the alms-round, bringing blessing to sentient beings — why, then, delight in the frivolous state of restlessness, indulging one's own feelings in laxity? A person who indulges their feelings in laxity in this way loses the benefit of the Buddhadharma in this very life. Once this fault is recognized, it should be discarded at once.

Root Text: As for regret: regret is able to become a hindrance, but if restlessness occurs without any regret following it, no hindrance is formed. Why is this? Because at the time restlessness occurs, it is not yet within the scope of a settled mind's reflection — only afterward, when one wishes to enter concentration, does one come to regret what was done before, and this anxious distress then covers the mind, hence it is called a hindrance. Regret, however, is of two kinds. The first is regret arising after restlessness, as explained above. The second is like a person who has committed a grave offense, and constantly carries a sense of dread — the arrow of regret lodges in the mind and cannot be pulled free.

Commentary: What follows explains the two characters that make up "the hindrance of regret." What is meant by "regret" is that regret is able to become a hindrance; if restlessness occurs without regret following it, in the end no hindrance is formed at all. Why is this? Because at the time restlessness occurs, it has not yet come within the scope of a settled mind's own reflection. Only later, when one wishes to sit upright and enter concentration, does one come to regret the offense committed before — whether regretting the seven kinds of bodily and verbal misconduct, or regretting greed, anger, and delusion arising within the mind — and anxious distress of this kind then covers over the true mind, hence it is called a hindrance.

Regret, however, is of two kinds. The first is regret arising after restlessness, as explained above — regretting some evil act committed before. The second is like a person who has committed some grave and serious offense, whose mind constantly carries a sense of dread and terror, spending the whole day in remorse and self-reproach, until the arrow of regret has lodged deep in the very organs of the heart, unable to be pulled free — and by this the correct path is obstructed, the gate of affliction opened, the nature of wisdom sinks down, and nirvāṇa itself grows dim. This is why anyone who cultivates calming and insight must recognize this fault, and, above all, never let the mere circumstance of restlessness obstruct this great matter.

Root Text: As a verse says:
"What should not be done, is done; what should be done, is left undone — burned by the fire of regret and distress, one falls, in a life to come, into an evil destiny.
If a person's offense can be repented, then having repented it, one should not go on worrying — with the mind at ease in this way, one should not keep dwelling on it constantly.
To have these two failings — leaving undone what should be done, and doing what should not be done — this is the mark of a foolish person.
It is not that regretting in the mind can undo what was already left undone, or make it now done; whatever evil deed has already been done, regret cannot make it into a deed never done."

Commentary: "What should not be done, is done; what should be done, is left undone" — these two lines describe precisely the upside-down state of sentient beings, turning their back on awakening and joining themselves to the dust of the world. "What should not be done, is done" — the body should not kill, steal, or engage in sexual misconduct; the mouth should not engage in divisive speech, harsh speech, false speech, or idle chatter; the mind should not give rise to greed, anger, or delusion — such ten evils as these ought never to be done at all, and yet one indulges oneself in laxity and does them with all one's strength regardless. "What should be done, is left undone" — such as the world's own various charitable works, repairing bridges and roads, caring for orphans and widows, or transmundane wholesome deeds, such as listening to sūtras, bowing, burning incense, and scattering flowers — the body ought to bow to the Buddha, the mouth ought to recite the Buddha's name, the mind ought to contemplate the Buddha — every wholesome deed of this kind, mundane and transmundane alike, ought to be done wholeheartedly, with real effort, yet one instead puts it out of mind and refuses to do it. This is what is meant by "wishing to do every evil, and failing to carry out any good" — this is what is called a person doubly lost in delusion, truly to be pitied.

One should know that a person given to restlessness and regret is burned by the fire of regret and distress, and must, in a life to come, fall into an evil destiny — constantly keeping company with the instruments of affliction and suffering. Is this not the very depth of being upside-down? Yet if there is someone who, having committed an offense, is able to give rise to regret over it, this is, in itself, a rare and admirable thing — for who but a sage is entirely without fault? To know one's own fault and correct it — nothing is more excellent than this! But one must, having repented, not go on repeating the same regret — from this point forward, one should press ahead with one's own practice, settling the mind in the sacred realm, so that body and mind naturally become pure, the light of wisdom opens up of itself, and one is at ease and free, with no burning distress left at all. This is what is meant by "having repented, one should not go on worrying" and "one should not keep dwelling on it constantly."

But if one instead lets the body and mind grow restless again, and the arrow of regret once more lodges in the mind, this is truly the mark of a foolish person: regretting in the mind does not make some undone wholesome deed suddenly done, nor can it make some evil deed already done into one never done at all — the very root of this sickness lies simply in being unable to let go.

Root Text: Fifth, discarding the hindrance of doubt. Because doubt covers over the mind, one is unable to attain a mind of faith with regard to the various dharmas — and lacking a mind of faith, one gains nothing at all within the Buddhadharma, exactly like a person who enters a mountain of treasure but, having no hands, is unable to take any of it. Now, the faults of doubt are many, and not every one of them obstructs concentration — but the doubt spoken of here is precisely the kind that obstructs concentration.

Commentary: The four hindrances above are now complete; this fifth is discarding the hindrance of doubt. "Doubt" means a state of doubtful confusion, unable to decide either way. With this doubting mind present, one is unable to give rise to correct faith with regard to the Buddhadharma, and so loses the Tathāgata's own unsurpassed knowledge and vision — hence this doubting mind is, in truth, the root of every evil.

One should know, however, that this doubt is not only the root of every evil, but is also, in another sense, the very forerunner of every good — as in the Chan tradition's own practice of watching the meditation topic, where one is first made to give rise to a state of doubt, and this very doubt is prized as a treasure: as it is said, "great doubt brings great awakening, small doubt brings small awakening, no doubt brings no awakening at all" — so that this doubt is, in that context, the very head of the whole undertaking. But the doubt spoken of here is not the Chan tradition's own kind of doubt; it is, rather, the doubt of being unable to decide either way, which is able to cover over the true mind, and cause one to retreat from faith and aspiration, unable to give rise to a mind of faith within the buddhas' own unsurpassed, wondrous Dharma.

One should know that faith is what enables one to enter the great ocean of the Buddhadharma at all. The Avataṃsaka Sūtra says: "Faith is the very source of the path, the mother of merit, nourishing and raising up every wholesome root." Without a mind of faith, one gains nothing at all within the Buddhadharma. To study the profound principles of Buddhist teaching, one has no choice but to begin from faith — hence it is said: "However abundant the rain from heaven, how can it moisten a rootless tree? However vast the gate of the Buddhadharma, it is hard indeed to bring across a person without faith." A person without faith is exactly like a rootless tree; the ocean of the Buddhadharma is vast, like an abundance of rain from heaven — but this vast rain of the Dharma cannot moisten a person with no root of faith, even should measureless kalpas pass, to no benefit at all.

It is like a person who enters a mountain of treasure to gather jewels, but, having no hands, is in the end unable to take any of it. Why is this? Because they have no hands. One should know that a person without a mind of faith is exactly the same. The hand here stands for faith; the mountain of treasure stands for the treasury of the Buddhadharma. And what is this treasury? It is the three insights and six supernormal powers, the Four Noble Truths and six pāramitās, the thirty-seven factors of the path, the ten powers and four fearlessnesses, the eighteen distinctive qualities, and every such dharma — all of it the Tathāgata's own treasury. Without a mind of faith, one finds it hard to gain any real benefit at all within this ocean of the Buddhadharma.

"Now" signals a shift: doubt, as a path, takes many forms, and not every one of them obstructs dhyāna-concentration — this qualifies the discussion, distinguishing the doubt now being discussed, the hindrance of doubt that specifically obstructs concentration.

Root Text: Doubt is of three kinds. The first is doubting oneself, thinking to oneself: "My own faculties are dull, my offenses and defilements grave — surely I am not the right kind of person for this?" Giving rise to a doubt of this kind, the dharma of concentration will, in the end, never open up. If one wishes to cultivate concentration, one must not belittle oneself in this way, since the depth of one's own wholesome roots from past lives is impossible to fathom.

Commentary: Doubt differs into three kinds. The first is doubting oneself: while a practitioner sits upright cultivating contemplation, a thought like this arises in the mind: "My own wholesome roots are so slight, my karmic obstructions so grave — surely I am not fit to be a vessel for the path at all — how dare I aspire to the Great Vehicle and cultivate a teaching such as this?" If a thought of doubt like this arises in one's own mind, the dharma of dhyāna-concentration will, in the end, never open up. When cultivating concentration, one must, above all, never give way to self-abandonment — one should know that across measureless kalpas, when have we ourselves never once given rise to a great resolve, never once cultivated a great practice? Wholesome roots have certainly already been planted long ago — and besides, without any wholesome roots at all, how could one have obtained this human body now?

One should know that every sage and worthy became so from an ordinary being; every buddha of the ten directions likewise became a buddha from being a sentient being — there is no such thing as a Maitreya who was simply born a buddha, or a Śākyamuni who became so of himself, without cause. One ought, then, to trust that one's own wholesome roots from past lives already run deep, and never belittle oneself — every one of us is a true child of the Elder, and this is exactly the moment to give rise to great courage from here, and press forward in cultivating this excellent teaching — why, then, worry that the fruit of buddhahood will not be realized, or that nirvāṇa will not be attained?

Root Text: The second is doubting the teacher: "That person's own bearing and appearance are just so-so — they themselves have no genuine attainment of the path, so how could they possibly teach me?" Giving rise to a doubt and disdain of this kind is itself an obstruction to concentration. As for the method of removing it, the Mahāyāna treatise explains it thus: it is like gold within a foul-smelling sack — out of desire for the gold, one does not discard the foul sack because of it. A practitioner should be exactly the same: even if the teacher is not himself pure, one should still give rise to the thought of a buddha toward him.

Commentary: This second, doubting the teacher, is doubting another person. It means doubting a great virtuous elder or good spiritual friend one has ordinarily kept close to, observing their bearing, their movements, and their appearance, and finding them no different from an ordinary person, with not the slightest quality that surpasses others — and thinking, from this, "they themselves have no genuine attainment of the path, so how could they possibly teach me? One must first establish oneself before one can establish another — since they show nothing that surpasses others, and yet wish to teach and transform others, I fear this is a case of one blind person leading a crowd of blind people, pulling each other down into a pit of fire together; if I serve this person, in the end it can only bring harm and no benefit." If a doubt and disdain of this kind takes hold in the mind, it becomes an obstruction to dhyāna-concentration; and once concentration fails to open up, the gate of prajñā is thereby shut fast.

As for the method of driving away this doubt of the teacher, the great Mahāyāna treatise explains it thus: "It is like gold within a foul-smelling sack — one does not, out of loathing for the foul sack, discard the genuine gold along with it; and if one truly desires the gold, one does not discard the sack either." A practitioner should be exactly the same: the teacher corresponds to the foul-smelling sack, and whatever teaching he expounds corresponds to the gold — one must never, because of the person, discard the teaching itself; that is, one relies on the Dharma, not on the person. Otherwise, giving rise to idle criticism, arguing over this fault and that at random, is precisely what is called the conduct of a greatly foolish and reckless person.

Have you not heard how the sages and worthies of old sought the Dharma from others? Just as the Great Snow-Mountain Ascetic sought the teaching from a demon, and Śakra, lord of the gods, bowed to an animal and took it as his own teacher — this is, in truth, proof of relying on the Dharma and not on the person! One must understand that even if the teacher is not himself pure, one should still give rise to a certain thought of the buddhas toward him — for although he himself is an ordinary being, what his mouth speaks is precisely the buddhas' own Dharma, the buddhas' own conduct. One should regard the teacher with the very same mind with which one contemplates a buddha, listening to the teaching with earnest, respectful sincerity, as though facing the Buddha himself. Hence it is said: "Even if the teacher is not himself pure, one should still give rise to the thought of a buddha toward him."

Root Text: The third is doubting the teaching. People of the world mostly cling to their own original assumptions, and are unable to place immediate faith in a teaching once received, receiving and practicing it with a reverent mind. If hesitant doubt arises in the mind instead, the teaching cannot color the mind at all. Why is this? The meaning of this obstruction of doubt is as a verse says:
"Like a person standing at a fork in the road, doubtful and confused, with nowhere to go — so too is doubt amid the true mark of every dharma.
Because of doubt, one fails to diligently seek out the true mark of every dharma; the view of doubt is born from delusion, the very worst among evils.
Amid what is wholesome and what is not, amid birth-and-death and nirvāṇa, there is, with certainty, a real dharma present — give rise to no doubt in the midst of it.
If you go on harboring doubt and confusion, you will be bound by the king of death and his gaoler-officers, like a deer seized by a lion — with no way to escape.
While still in the world, though doubt may arise, one should rejoice in wholesome dharmas all the same — just as, surveying a fork in the road, one should follow whichever path is truly favorable."

Commentary: What is meant by "doubting the teaching" is doubting the very teaching one has received and taken up in practice. Most people of the world cling to their own first assumptions as correct, and cannot give rise to faith in a teaching received afterward. As with cultivating calming and insight — one doubts whether this dharma-gate of calming and insight is genuine or false, whether cultivating it can actually free one from suffering or not. Or, as with one who recites the Buddha's name — one doubts whether this dharma-gate of reciting the Buddha's name can actually bring about rebirth in the Western Land, or a vision of Amitābha Buddha, or doubts whether this teaching was spoken by Māra himself, or genuinely proclaimed by the Tathāgata's own mouth. If doubt arises with regard to the teaching itself, one constantly changes course, fickle from morning to evening, doubt and delusion covering over the true mind. This is what is meant by "sitting at the very edge of the Buddha's own ocean, and dying of thirst" — is this not the conduct of a truly common, unremarkable person? In this way the teaching fails to color the mind at all, and one permanently loses the Tathāgata's own unsurpassed nirvāṇa.

"Like a person standing at a fork in the road" — a fork is a three-way junction; with many roads before one, one does not know which way to go, and doubtful confusion inevitably leaves one with nowhere to head toward. Doubt amid the true mark of every dharma is exactly the same. "Every dharma" refers to every teaching, great and small, ordinary and sagely, partial and perfect, gradual and sudden, provisional and real. "True mark" means the markless — that is, suchness, true reality itself. One should know: true reality having no mark is the meaning of emptiness; true reality having no mark that is not also a mark is the meaning of the conventional; true reality being neither marked nor unmarked, neither unmarked nor marked, is the meaning of the middle. One must understand that every dharma does not go beyond emptiness, the conventional, and the middle, and that emptiness, the conventional, and the middle are themselves never separate from any dharma — that is, every dharma is suchness, every dharma is true reality; hence it is said, every dharma is exactly as true reality itself. If doubt arises with regard to the true mark of every dharma, one has, quite literally, nowhere to put one's hand. Yet the eighty-four thousand dharma-gates the Tathāgata taught each, without exception, enter into this same true reality — nothing but gates of true suchness and perfect penetration, since the Buddhadharma is like a great ocean, measureless and boundless. Should doubtful confusion arise, one simply cannot enter it — hence it is said, "so too is doubt."

Again it says: "Because of doubt, one fails to diligently seek the true mark of every dharma." One should know that every view, craving, and doubtful confusion arises entirely from foolish delusion — that is, further evil arises out of evil already present, so that one passes from delusion into further delusion, evil arising on top of evil; hence it is said, "the very worst among evils." "Amid what is wholesome and what is not, amid birth-and-death and nirvāṇa" — the wholesome dharma is the dharma of nirvāṇa, the unwholesome dharma is the dharma of birth-and-death; birth-and-death is the dharma of delusion, nirvāṇa is the dharma of awakening — yet within every dharma without exception, there is, with utter certainty, a real, genuine dharma actually present: that is, within birth-and-death there is nirvāṇa, within affliction there is bodhi, within arising-and-ceasing there is the unarisen and unceasing, within the wave there is the water's own wetness — and one must not, in the midst of this, give rise to doubt on either side.

If you constantly harbor doubtful confusion, covering over your own true nature, then a person of this kind will be commanded by Yama, the king of death, and bound by his gaoler-officers — and, like a deer seized in the jaws of a fierce lion, seeking to be set free will be entirely futile. From beginningless time until this very day, the root of our own doubtful confusion runs deep, and to ask that no doubt arise at all is, in truth, extremely difficult. But even while doubt may still arise in the midst of worldly life, one should constantly rejoice in wholesome dharmas all the same, and never, because of the mere circumstance of doubtful confusion, let go of the wondrous Dharma of prajñā.

It is like standing before a crossroads with many forking paths — which, in the end, is the right one, and which the wrong one? One must, of necessity, possess the power to discern the Dharma for oneself, and simply follow whichever path is truly favorable — that is, whichever genuinely benefits oneself — with no need for doubtful hesitation at all, but advancing with courage and diligence instead. For although the Buddha's own teaching offers many gates, traced to their ultimate point every one of them returns to the one single reality — as it is said, "there are many gates of skillful means, but no second road back to the source" — what matters is single-minded diligence, entering deeply through one gate alone, entering the one without giving rise to any false discrimination, and pressing straight ahead; the day one arrives home will come of itself.

This is why, within the Buddhadharma, faith is what enables entry, and wisdom is what enables one to cross over — and if one lacks a mind of faith, then even while remaining within the Buddhadharma, one fails to accord with it at all, and is unable to gain any true benefit from it; hence it is said, "one gains nothing at all." Given causes and conditions of this kind, one must recognize the fault of doubt and regret, and cast it away at once.

Root Text: Question: unwholesome dharmas are vast, numberless as motes of dust — why, then, discard only these five things? Answer: within these five hindrances are already contained the three poisons and the "equal-portion" affliction, four things forming the root, which are able, between them, to encompass all eighty-four thousand gates of dusty toil. (1) The hindrance of covetous desire is the poison of greed. (2) The hindrance of anger is the poison of anger. (3) Drowsiness and doubt, these two, are the poison of delusion. (4) Restlessness-and-regret is encompassed by the "equal-portion" affliction. Together these form four divisions of affliction. One division holds twenty-one thousand, and the four divisions together hold eighty-four thousand — this is why removing these five hindrances is precisely removing every unwholesome dharma there is. A practitioner, for causes and conditions such as these, discards the five hindrances.

Commentary: This is a constructed question and answer, resolving a point of doubt. Someone might ask: unwholesome dharmas are very vast, numberless and boundless — why, then, discard only these five hindrances of greed, anger, and delusion? The answer: these five hindrances already contain within them the three poisons of greed, anger, and delusion, together with the "equal-portion" affliction — these four things serving as the root of everything else. Greed is covetous desire; anger is ill will; delusion is foolishness — these three each have their own distinct sphere. The single "equal-portion" affliction, however, gathers up all three of these — greed, anger, and delusion together — so that within a single moment, a single thought, greed, anger, and delusion may all be present at once: greed followed by anger, anger followed by delusion, or all three poisons rising together in mutual confrontation — hence it is called the "equal-portion" affliction.

Unwholesome dharmas, however many, do not exceed eighty-four thousand in number, and these eighty-four thousand likewise take greed, anger, delusion, and the equal-portion affliction as their root — hence it is said that the five hindrances are also able to encompass all eighty-four thousand gates of dusty toil. As for "the eighty-four thousand gates of dusty toil": "dust" here carries the sense of defilement, since every kind of wrong view and affliction is able to defile one's own mind's inherently pure nature, hence it is called "dust." "Toil" means being pressed into labor — meaning that ordinary sentient beings are constantly pressed into labor by wrong views and afflictions, revolving through measureless kalpas with no end in sight.

Yet traced to their root, these do not exceed the ten proclivities of greed, anger, delusion, pride, doubt, the view of a fixed self, extreme views, clinging to precepts and rituals, [wrong] views, and deviant views. Taking any one of these ten as the leading factor, the remaining nine serve as its support, so that each single proclivity already contains all ten within it, making one hundred in total. Reckoned across the three time periods, each with its own hundred, this makes three hundred afflictions — though the present period's own hundred, being so brief, is not reckoned together with the others, and remains simply a hundred; while the past and future periods, two hundred between them, each likewise take one proclivity as leading factor with the other nine as support, making two thousand together, which, combined with the present period's hundred, comes to two thousand one hundred. Reckoned again across the four kinds of being distinguished by greed, anger, delusion, and the equal portion, each with its own two thousand one hundred, this comes to eight thousand four hundred. Reckoned once more across the four great elements and six forms of decay — earth, water, fire, and wind being the four great elements; form, sound, smell, taste, touch, and mental objects being the six forms of decay, since they are able to diminish wholesome dharmas — each of these ten categories carries its own eight thousand four hundred, coming altogether to eighty-four thousand forms of dusty, toiling affliction in all.

Yet although afflictions number eighty-four thousand, the five hindrances are able to encompass almost the whole of them. Why is this said? Because all eighty-four thousand afflictions take the three poisons of greed, anger, and delusion as their root, and the three poisons themselves do not exceed the five hindrances — the five hindrances already encompass the three poisons: (1) the hindrance of covetous desire encompasses the poison of greed; (2) the hindrance of anger encompasses the poison of anger; (3) the hindrances of drowsiness and doubt, these two, are encompassed within the poison of delusion. As for why all three are called "poisons": poison here means a lethal venom — drinking it is able to destroy the very body and take one's life. One should know that the three afflictions of greed, anger, and delusion are able to poison the very father and mother of our own Dharma-body, destroying its merit for nothing — hence they are called the three poisons. The fourth, restlessness-and-regret, is encompassed by the equal-portion affliction, since restlessness has both an inward and an outward form — inwardly, mental restlessness; outwardly, bodily and verbal restlessness — this restlessness pervading all seven aspects of body, speech, and mind together, hence it is encompassed by the equal-portion affliction. Opened out, these become the five hindrances; gathered together, they become four divisions of affliction, each division containing twenty-one thousand gates of dusty toil, the four divisions together making eighty-four thousand — this, then, is what should be understood. If these five hindrances are removed and discarded, this is precisely removing and discarding every unwholesome dharma there is. A practitioner, for causes and conditions such as these, must discard the five hindrances at once, and never treat the matter lightly.

Root Text: It is like a debtor freed from debt, or a person gravely ill who has recovered; like a starving person who has reached a land of plenty; like one who has managed to free themselves from the midst of fierce bandits, settled and at peace, with nothing left to fear. A practitioner is exactly the same: once these five hindrances are removed, the mind becomes settled, cool, and joyful. It is like the sun and moon obscured by five things — smoke, dust, cloud, mist, and the eclipsing hand of the asura-king Rāhu — unable, in any of these five cases, to shine forth clearly. The five hindrances of the human mind are exactly the same.

Commentary: This borrows a series of similes to make clear what is actually gained by removing the five hindrances. A practitioner who still carries the five hindrances is like a debtor unable to free themselves — and once the five hindrances are discarded, one attains freedom and ease, exactly as a debt is cleared. To carry the five hindrances is like carrying a grave illness — and once the five hindrances are discarded, the grave illness is cured. Removing the five hindrances is also like a starving person reaching a land of plenty, or like one who has managed to free themselves from the midst of fierce bandits — in either case, body and mind alike become free, joyful, settled, and at peace.

Once a practitioner has removed the five hindrances, the mind becomes settled, cool, and joyful. If the five hindrances are not removed, how could there be any coolness or joy to speak of at all! One must understand that the five hindrances cover over one's own mind exactly as five things obscure the sun and moon. These five things are smoke, dust, cloud, mist, and the hand of the asura-king Rāhu. The hand of the asura-king Rāhu is the greatest of the five, able to block the very light of the sun and moon; the rest — smoke, dust, cloud, and mist — are likewise each able to block the light of the sun and moon, so that it cannot shine clearly upon the earth below. The five hindrances of the human mind are able, in exactly the same way, to obstruct one's own mind's inherently pure nature from manifesting at all — this is what this simile makes clear.