A Conversation About Buddhism
Author: Anup Poudyal
Publisher: The Middle Way Publications
Edition: Authorised Machine-Accessible Edition
Section: Chapter 12
Chapter Title: Right Samādhi: Part Two
Pāli Title: Sammā Samādhi
Copyright: © 2026 Anup Poudyal. All rights reserved.

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CHAPTER TEXT

Chapter 12: Right Samādhi – Part 2 Sammā Samādhi

Author’s Note 12.1

This chapter turns toward training. The focus here is practical: the methods that steady attention, unify the mind, and allow stillness to arise naturally.

The core practices explored are:

1. Ānāpānasati: mindfulness of breathing

2. Walking meditation

3. Vipassanā: clear seeing as understanding deepens

4. Jhāna: the four absorptions

5. The formless attainments

As explained in the previous chapter, the Buddha also taught several contemplations designed to address specific obstacles that arise in practice. They help address defilements when they arise, allowing the mind to return to balance and clarity. The intention throughout is to stay close to the early teachings while keeping the guidance practical for everyday life. With that, the training begins.

Question 1

I want to examine ānāpānasati in detail, going carefully through every sentence and phrase. The Buddha often repeats key ideas within a single discourse, suggesting that these elements carry the greatest importance. Other

phrases seem secondary and should not distract us. English translations can sometimes obscure cultural nuances, so understanding the original context may clarify the practice.

Let Us Begin with the Opening Instruction:

Majjhima Nikāya 118* The Discourse on Mindfulness of Breathing

English translation by Bhikkhu Sujato (CC0 public domain), from SuttaCentral

‘Here, a bhikkhu, gone to the forest or to the root of a tree or to an empty hut, sits down, having folded his legs crosswise, set his body erect, and established mindfulness in front of him. Ever mindful, he breathes in, mindful he breathes out.’

The Pāli here is mostly straightforward, yet there is confusion around the phrase ‘in front of him.’ Some teachers interpret this as focusing on the ‘tip of the nose’ or the ‘nostril entrance’, but such a narrow point can create tension or headaches. A relaxed awareness that includes the whole face seems more natural, and the sutta appears to support this broader interpretation. Is this understanding correct?

Answer

A careful reading of the Pāli supports the direction you are pointing toward, though it is worth being precise about what the text does and does not specify. The term translated as ‘in front of him’ is parimukhaṃ, which literally means ‘to the fore,’ ‘in front of,’ or ‘at the forefront.’ In the early discourses, it does not denote a precise anatomical point, nor does it instruct the meditator to narrow attention to a single location, such as the nostril tip.

The phrase appears to describe an orientation of attention rather than a physical target. Mindfulness is established so that it is present, unobstructed, and ready, placed ‘to the fore’ of experience. The sutta itself does not instruct to confine awareness to a tiny point, and nothing in the wording requires such narrowing.

The later emphasis on the nostrils or nose tip seems to arise from pedagogical choices in some traditions, likely as a way to train steadiness in minds prone to distraction. That approach can be effective for certain tempera-

ments, but it should be recognised as an interpretive development rather than something explicitly mandated by the discourse.

From the standpoint of the sutta, what matters most is that mindfulness of breathing is steady, clear, and free from strain. If fixing attention on a very small area produces tension, constriction, or discomfort, that is already a sign that the practice is drifting away from the qualities the Buddha consistently emphasised. A broader, relaxed awareness that includes the face or the felt sense of breathing more generally remains fully consistent with establishing mindfulness ‘to the fore,’ provided it supports calm, continuity, and clarity.

Seen this way, the instruction is less about where exactly one watches the breath, and more about how mindfulness is established: present, balanced, and unforced.

Question 2

I also notice that the ānāpānasati instructions never explicitly tell us to close the eyes. This is interesting because open-eye and closed-eye meditation feel quite different in practice. With closed eyes, the body tends to relax more easily, but the mind can also drift. With open eyes, the body often stays more energetic, though the eyes themselves can sometimes strain.

In another sutta, the Buddha instructs Venerable Anuruddha to observe the appearance of light during meditation, which at least suggests that practice with the eyes open was known and acceptable. Do the early discourses support either approach more clearly, or do they deliberately leave it open?

Are there benefits or drawbacks, from a sutta-based perspective, to practising ānāpānasati with the eyes open or closed, and how might this relate to the balance between relaxation and alertness that the Buddha repeatedly emphasises?

Answer

The suttas themselves are notably silent on whether the eyes should be open or closed during meditation. In the ānāpānasati instructions, the Buddha describes the practitioner as going to the forest, the foot of a tree, or an empty hut, sitting down, crossing the legs, and establishing mindfulness in front, keeping the body upright. He then says, ‘Mindful, one breathes in; mindful, one breathes out.’ Beyond this upright posture and suitable setting, no further details are given regarding eye position or finer bodily adjustments. This

silence appears intentional. It suggests that the Buddha did not regard the state of the eyes as essential to cultivating mindfulness or concentration.

Elsewhere in the discourses, however, we find indications that meditation can unfold in different perceptual configurations. In his instruction to Venerable Anuruddha, the Buddha speaks of the arising of light and luminous appearances as concentration deepens. The texts do not specify whether Anuruddha’s eyes were open or closed. Still, they do suggest that visual phenomena can arise naturally as the mind becomes unified, without deliberate manipulation of perception. This implies flexibility rather than a fixed prescription.

At the same time, many passages emphasise withdrawal from the senses and the calming of sensory input as concentration develops. This supports practices in which closing the eyes encourages inwardness, reduces stimulation, and allows the mind to settle more easily. Other passages, especially those concerned with maintaining alertness and continuity of mindfulness, are compatible with practising with the eyes open or with softly resting the eyes, particularly when guarding against dullness or sleepiness.

Taken together, the early teachings do not mandate a single correct approach. Closed-eye meditation tends to support quietude, inward gathering, and deep stillness. Open-eye meditation tends to support alertness, balance, and continuity of awareness. What matters in the suttas is not the position of the eyes, but whether mindfulness is steady, relaxed, and free from strain. The Buddha appears to have left this detail open so that practitioners could adapt the practice to what best supports clarity and composure in their experience.

Question 3

In the next two paragraphs of the sutta, we have:

‘Breathing in long, he understands: “I breathe in long”; breathing out long, he understands: “I breathe out long.” Breathing in short, he understands: “I breathe in short”; breathing out short, he understands: “I breathe out short.” He trains thus: “I shall breathe in experiencing the whole body of breath”; he trains thus: “I shall breathe out experiencing the whole body of breath.” He trains thus: “I shall breathe in tranquillising the bodily formation”; he trains thus: “I shall breathe out tranquillising the bodily formation.”

‘He trains thus: “I shall breathe in experiencing rapture”; he trains thus:

“I shall breathe out experiencing rapture.” He trains thus: “I shall breathe in experiencing pleasure”; he trains thus: “I shall breathe out experiencing pleasure.” He trains thus: “I shall breathe in experiencing the mental formation”; he trains thus: “I shall breathe out experiencing the mental formation.” He trains thus: “I shall breathe in tranquillising the mental formation”; he trains thus: “I shall breathe out tranquillising the mental formation.”’

From these two paragraphs, it seems clear that the emphasis is not on focusing attention on a point in front of the face. Instead, the emphasis is on experiencing the whole breath and cultivating calm, rapture, pleasure, and tranquillity. We are not simply waiting for these states to arise; we are actively training the mind and body to enter them. Is this the correct understanding?

Answer

Yes, that is the correct understanding, and the sutta itself makes it unmistakably clear. In these two paragraphs, the Buddha does not direct the meditator to narrow attention to a single point in front of the face. Instead, the emphasis is entirely on participation, training, and shaping the inner conditions of calm and clarity.

First, the meditator learns to recognise the breath as it is, long or short, without forcing it. Then the training shifts to something broader: experiencing the whole body of breath. This is not a tiny spot on the nostrils; it is the full movement of breathing throughout the body. As the practice deepens, the Buddha does not tell the meditator to intensify concentration on a specific location. He encourages the cultivation of inner qualities: tranquillising the bodily formation, experiencing rapture, pleasure, and then tranquillising the mental formation.

What this shows is that ānāpānasati is not a passive waiting for pleasant states to appear. It is an active training of the mind and body, gradually guiding them toward ease, stability, and joy. The meditator is shaping the conditions that allow tranquillity and clarity to arise naturally.

In this sense, the emphasis is not on ‘where’ to focus, but on ‘how’ to train. The instructions direct attention to the inner progression toward calm, rather than an external point of physical fixation.

Question 4

The final paragraph of the ānāpānasati instructions deserves particular attention, as it is not commonly taught with the clarity found in the sutta itself:

‘He trains thus: “I shall breathe in contemplating impermanence”; he trains thus: “I shall breathe out contemplating impermanence.” He trains thus: “I shall breathe in contemplating fading away”; he trains thus: “I shall breathe out contemplating fading away.” He trains thus: “I shall breathe in contemplating cessation”; he trains thus: “I shall breathe out contemplating cessation.” He trains thus: “I shall breathe in contemplating relinquishment”; he trains thus: “I shall breathe out contemplating relinquishment.”’

My question is: what does this actually look like in practice? Is there a concrete example?

When I reflect on these instructions during meditation, what arises for me is a sense of everything gently dissolving: body, breath, thoughts, like mist thinning in the air. I notice thought vibrations before they take root and let them fall away. I relax my hold even on pleasant bodily sensations. Although the words ‘fading away’ and ‘cessation’ might sound bleak or undesirable, the lived experience feels freeing, almost like drifting upward as smoke disperses. It is peaceful rather than sad.

Am I understanding this correctly, or am I missing something essential?

Answer

Your description is much closer to the sutta’s intention than you may realise. The final tetrad of ānāpānasati is neither an intellectual exercise nor a pessimistic contemplation. It refers to a direct, felt experience of impermanence, fading, cessation, and letting go as they naturally unfold in deep meditation.

Here is what each step looks like in practice, grounded in both the instructions and lived experience.

1. Contemplating Impermanence (Aniccānupassanā)

This is not a visualisation. It is the simple recognition, moment by moment, that everything within your field of experience is shifting. The breath changes texture, warmth rises and falls, the body softens, and small movements appear and vanish. Even attention itself flickers. You are not forcing anything; you are

noticing the inherent instability of experience.

2. Contemplating Dispassion (Virāgānupassanā)

As the mind settles, the usual pull of pleasant sensations, thoughts, and subtle intentions begins to ease on its own. Dispassion here is not an act of pushing away. It is a felt softening of the grip, a natural cooling of emotional heat.

The sense of ‘I must hold this together’ weakens, and experience begins to feel lighter, less solid, and less urgent. This aligns precisely with the Buddha’s instruction: virāga is not the destruction of phenomena, but the fading of craving toward them and the quiet waning of the mind’s insistence.

Across Sanskrit, Hindi, and Nepali, virāga carries related meanings associated with fading, loss of attachment, dispassion, and diminishing interest. It never means suppression or aversion. It describes what happens when the fire runs out of fuel. The English term ‘dispassion’ is close, but virāga is gentler and more organic, more like the steady cooling of embers when nothing further is added to sustain the flame.

Although the sutta uses the phrase ‘he trains thus,’ what is being trained here is not the production of these states, but the capacity to recognise them and stop interfering with their natural fading.

3. Contemplating Cessation (Nirodhānupassanā)

Here, aspects of experience simply stop presenting themselves. Thoughts cease without effort. The body becomes spacious and quiet. Background tension drops out. There is no sadness in this; it is relief, ease, and silence. Cessation does not mean the end of existence; it means the ending of stress, pressure, and fabrication in that moment.

4. Contemplating Relinquishment (Paṭinissaggānupassanā)

This is the natural outcome of the first three. As things are seen as impermanent, fading, and ceasing, the mind gently releases its grip. You let go of pleasant sensations, subtle identity movements, and the desire to control. It feels open, light, and unburdened, exactly as you described: like drifting, spacious, smoke-like.

None of this is morbid. The Buddha did not intend sadness; he intended freedom. These instructions describe the mind becoming lighter, clearer, and less entangled. What you are experiencing is consistent with the sutta: when clinging loosens, the sense of ‘solid me’ softens, and experience becomes gentle, fluid, and enjoyable.

Question 5

Let us now look at walking meditation. The Buddha repeatedly emphasised its importance, and it was a natural part of monastic life, even for the Buddha himself. In one sutta, he praises it highly, saying it offers specific strengths even greater than those cultivated while sitting.

Despite this emphasis, I cannot find a detailed, step-by-step description of how walking meditation is practised in the early discourses. This suggests that the method may have been transmitted primarily through direct demonstration, or that its simplicity made extended explanation unnecessary. It appears to be a practice of mindful walking itself, grounded in awareness of stepping, balance, and movement, rather than in inward absorption of the breath or mental objects, since walking requires alert, embodied attention to remain steady and safe.

Is this a fair reading of the early texts? Are there any canonical sources, or later traditions closely grounded in them, that offer a clearer instructional framework for walking meditation?

Answer

Walking meditation is one of the most understated yet deeply valued practices in the Buddha’s path. It stands beside ānāpānasati as a natural companion, a way to settle attention in the body while remaining connected to the world around us. The Buddha practised it regularly, and the monastic communities that followed him treated walking meditation as an essential part of daily training. In one discourse, he praised it for strengthening concentration, stabilising health, and supporting mindfulness over long periods. This was not a secondary practice but a core part of the contemplative life.

Yet the suttas do not give a step-by-step method. There is no detailed instruction about lifting the foot, placing it down, or coordinating it with the breath. The early texts simply say that a practitioner should be mindful while walking, standing, sitting, and lying down, and that one should be clearly aware while moving forward or returning. At first, this seems incomplete, almost as if something is missing. But the more one studies the monastic context, the clearer the picture becomes. Walking meditation was a living demonstration tradition. It was taught by example, not by verbal instruction. Monks learned by walking behind their teacher, by watching how mindfulness was carried in the body and how attention was stabilised through gentle movement.

This also explains why the practice is described so simply. It is not meant to be complicated. A quiet path, a steady pace, and continuous awareness of movement are enough to sustain mindfulness. The attention is not forced inward in a narrow way, because walking requires balance, sensitivity to the environment, and a soft relationship with the body. This is why the suttas do not emphasise directing attention to the breath during walking. The focus is simply the act of walking itself: feeling the lifting, feeling the movement, feeling the placing, or simply remaining aware of the whole body in motion. In this way, the mind remains present without drifting into thought, yet relaxed enough not to strain.

Later traditions developed more elaborate techniques, such as noting each phase of the step or coordinating phrases with movement. These methods are helpful and produce strong results, but they are not found in the early texts. The sutta-based practice is far simpler. It is mindfulness of the body moving through space, moment by moment, without distraction and without tension.

When understood in this way, walking meditation becomes an anchor in daily life. It trains mindfulness in an upright posture, grounds attention in the body, and reveals the subtle chain of sensations, intentions, and movements that normally pass unnoticed. Many practitioners find that insights arise more naturally in walking than in sitting, because the mind is alert, open, and steady without becoming heavy or dull.

Walking meditation is therefore not a lesser practice. It is one of the Buddha’s direct methods for cultivating mindfulness and concentration in a balanced and embodied way. The suttas may not describe it in technical detail, but they point to something even more important: a practice simple enough to blend with life, yet powerful enough to shape the path from the ground up.

Question 6

In modern Buddhism, vipassanā is often presented as a distinct meditation system, sometimes even separated from practices that develop calm, stability, and concentration. Yet when I read the early Pāli discourses, I struggle to find vipassanā described as a separate technique in the way it is taught today. This makes me wonder whether insight practice was ever meant to stand on its own.

So how does vipassanā actually function in the early texts? Is it some-

thing practised separately from breath meditation, or is it already contained within ānāpānasati as the practice matures? In other words, did the Buddha teach calm and insight as different methods, or as different dimensions of the same training that naturally unfold together?

Answer

The Pāli Canon does not present ‘vipassanā meditation’ as a distinct system in the modern sense. The word vipassanā does appear, but in the early texts it refers primarily to a way of seeing rather than to a specific technique. It describes the mind’s capacity to look directly into experience and understand impermanence, unsatisfactoriness, and the absence of a fixed self.

When the Canon uses the term, it is often paired with calm. The Buddha speaks of samatha and vipassanā together, not as rival methods but as complementary qualities within the same training. Calm steadies and gathers the mind, while insight reveals the nature of what is observed.

Although the Buddha does not label a practice ‘vipassanā meditation,’ the substance of insight practice appears throughout the discourses. The Satipaṭṭhāna Sutta teaches observing body, feelings, mind, and dhammas with clear awareness and recognising their arising and passing. This functions as insight practice. The Ānāpānasati Sutta makes this especially clear: after calming the body and mind through the breath, the final steps guide contemplation of impermanence, fading, cessation, and letting go, themes later traditions group under the name vipassanā.

Throughout teachings on the aggregates and sense bases, the Buddha describes the disciple who ‘sees things as they really are,’ becomes disenchanted, and is freed. This mode of seeing is what later traditions systematised more explicitly.

In this light, vipassanā is not an additional technique layered onto breath meditation but the deepening of mindfulness itself. As ānāpānasati matures, practice can move from calming toward clear seeing. When the mind becomes stable enough to observe impermanence, fading, cessation, and relinquishment without distortion, insight arises, and this is what the Canon describes as vipassanā.

Question 7

Now let us turn to the jhānas. They appear repeatedly in the suttas, often with surprisingly precise descriptions. In general, I find the English transla-

tions reliable, except for one word that continues to trouble me.

The familiar formula for the first jhāna begins: ‘Quite secluded from

sensual pleasures, secluded from unwholesome states, a monk enters and dwells in the first jhāna, which is accompanied by applied and sustained thought, with rapture and happiness born of seclusion.’

The word that catches my attention is ‘secluded’. The Pāli term is viveka. To an Indo-language speaker, viveka naturally carries associations with discernment or the ability to distinguish wisely, rather than simply physical or situational withdrawal. So when I read this passage, I instinctively understand it as saying something more than ‘get away from sensual pleasures and unwholesome states’. I hear it as suggesting that before samādhi can deepen into jhāna, there must already be enough wisdom to recognise what is wholesome and what is unwholesome, and enough discernment for the mind to separate itself from what leads away from clarity.

This distinction matters in practice. If viveka is understood simply as seclusion, jhāna can appear to depend mainly on external withdrawal from sense objects and distracting conditions. But if discernment is also contained within its meaning here, then seclusion has an important inner dimension. The practitioner is not merely removed from certain surroundings; the mind itself has learned to recognise what disturbs it and to disengage from those tendencies.

Am I reading too much into a word because of its meaning in related Indo-Aryan languages, or is something of this sense actually present in the Pāli usage? In the jhāna formula, to what extent does viveka imply discernment and wise discrimination, and to what extent does it simply mean seclusion from sensuality and unwholesome states?

Answer

Yes, your interpretation is sound, and the distinction you are drawing is an important one.

In the broader Indo-Aryan linguistic context, viveka does indeed carry the sense of discernment, discrimination, or the capacity to distinguish wisely. In Pāli, especially in the jhāna formula, viveka and its verbal form vivicca are conventionally translated as ‘seclusion.’ Still, this seclusion is not limited to physical withdrawal or mere avoidance of sense objects.

In the context of jhāna, viveka primarily refers to mental seclusion, stabilised and sustained through understanding. The mind becomes seclud-

ed from sensuality and unwholesome states because it has clearly seen their nature and no longer inclines toward them. This withdrawal is not forced and not maintained by effortful suppression. It arises naturally when discernment has done its work.

This is why the formula speaks of being ‘secluded from sensual pleasures and unwholesome states’ rather than secluded from the world. The separation is internal. Sense contact may still occur, but the mind does not chase, elaborate, or feed on it. Sensuality loses its authority not through restraint alone, but through insight into its unsatisfactory and agitating nature.

Seen this way, viveka is indeed a continuous inner activity, not a onetime act of retreat. It is the ongoing discernment that keeps the mind disentangled from craving moment by moment. Physical seclusion may support this process, but it is not sufficient on its own.

So yes, your intuition is correct. In the jhāna context, viveka is best understood as seclusion grounded in wisdom, a quiet distancing that follows understanding, rather than mere isolation or withdrawal imposed from outside.

Question 8

Could you walk us through the Buddha’s explanation of the jhānas? I have no personal experience with them, so I am trying to understand what actually happens in practice. Are there early signs that a jhāna is beginning to arise? Does one simply continue practising ānāpānasati or walking meditation with steadiness and patience, allowing jhāna to emerge naturally, or is a deliberate intention required to move toward it?

When a jhāna develops, does the meditator still retain control over body and mind, or does everything become so still that the process unfolds on its own? How does progression from the first to the fourth jhāna occur, and does the faculty of intention continue to operate once absorption is established?

How long can a jhāna last? If an emergency arose, for example, a fire, could the practitioner emerge immediately? And is it accurate, as some teachers claim, that a jhāna can last only a few seconds in some cases, or extend for many hours or even days in others, depending on the strength of attainment?

Answer

The Buddha’s explanation of the jhānas is simple in structure but profound

in experience. The early texts describe them as natural developments that arise when the mind becomes unified, steady, and free from disturbance. Nothing in the Canon suggests forcing, straining, or ‘pushing’ toward them. The causes are created through practice, but the arrival itself is spontaneous.

Early Signs That a Jhāna Is Near

Before a jhāna arises, meditators typically report the same pattern described in the suttas. The breath becomes very subtle or seems to disappear. The body feels light, spacious, or effortless. Thought-activity quietens on its own. A gentle uplift, joy, or ease fills the mind without being created. These are not jhāna themselves, but they indicate that the mind is approaching unification.

Is Intention Required?

Strong desire does not help. In fact, craving for jhāna is one of the main obstacles to it. The Buddha’s instruction is to maintain steady mindfulness, through breathing or walking, and allow unification to emerge naturally when the conditions are right. A mild, wholesome intention, such as ‘may the mind settle,’ is fine, but grasping or trying to ‘push into’ jhāna prevents it. jhāna seems to arise when effort has done its work and then falls away.

Control During Jhāna

When jhāna arises, the mind does not lose control in a dangerous or unconscious way. Rather, the usual sense of effort and mental activity becomes increasingly quiet as the mind settles into a stable and unified state. The mind rests in stillness without the continual effort normally required to hold attention in place. This does not mean that the meditator becomes helpless or unconscious. The early discourses repeatedly describe practitioners entering, dwelling in, and emerging from states of concentration, with the Buddha himself emerging from concentration and then deliberately directing his attention elsewhere.

With familiarity, meditators develop a growing ease in relating to these states. Later Theravāda texts describe this practical competence as mastery in five respects: the ability to enter a jhāna, remain in it, emerge from it, determine its duration, and review the experience afterwards. This description simply recognises the skill that develops through repeated experience with collected states of mind. Absorption does not remove the capacity to respond. Instead, intention becomes quiet and unobtrusive, allowing the mind to rest in stillness while remaining capable of emerging when needed.

How progression happens

Progress from one jhāna to the next is guided by intention but not by brute force. As the mind becomes more unified, coarser factors, such as applied and sustained attention, naturally fall away. Joy becomes more refined, giving rise to deeper calm. Eventually, even joy quietens, leaving the equanimity and purity of the fourth jhāna. This occurs as the supporting conditions evolve, rather than through active manipulation by the meditator.

How Long Can a Jhāna Last?

The early texts do not give a fixed duration for jhāna. Its length can vary according to the stability and development of the meditator, and there is no requirement that an absorption last for a particular amount of time to qualify as jhāna. The discourses do, however, describe extraordinarily prolonged states of concentration. The Buddha himself is described as remaining in concentration for seven days, and elsewhere states that he could remain without moving his body or speaking for as long as seven days and nights. Duration, however, is not presented as a measure of spiritual attainment. What matters is the quality and stability of the mind and how that collectedness contributes to the development of the path.

Question 9

Now let us turn to the formless meditations. How does the Buddha explain these attainments, and how does the progression through them actually unfold in practice? Must a meditator pass through all four jhānas before entering the formless spheres?

Venerable Sāriputta describes in detail how he entered these states. Yet it is not entirely clear whether he began from the first jhāna or simply focused on a very small object and gradually expanded the field of awareness until it opened into the formless.

Once within these attainments, is it possible to remain there by intention, or do the transitions arise naturally when the supporting conditions mature, much like the jhānas deepen on their own? And if movement does occur, does the meditator apply effort from within the absorption, or does the shift happen without deliberate intervention?

Answer

The Buddha explains the formless attainments as refinements of perception that become possible when the mind is already extremely steady, unified, and subtle. In the discourses, they are introduced not as new techniques, but as shifts in what the mind attends to. Having steadied itself on a particular mode of experience, the mind ‘surmounts’ that perception and inclines toward something more subtle:

Form → Boundless Space → Boundless Consciousness → Nothingness → Neither-Perception-nor-Non-Perception

The emphasis is always on refinement of perception rather than on manipulation of objects.

Sequence and Foundation in the Early Discourses

On whether one must pass through all four jhānas first, the early suttas do not make this a strict requirement. Although the formless attainments are often presented after the four jhānas in standard training sequences, the Buddha never explicitly states that they can arise only after mastery of jhāna. jhāna

is clearly presented as a reliable and balanced foundation for entering these states, but not as the sole possible means.

Interestingly, the suttas also show that the formless attainments were known and mastered outside the Buddha’s teaching. Figures such as Āḷāra Kālāma and Uddaka Rāmaputta are described as attaining formless states, and the texts do not present them as teachers of the four jhānas. This leaves open the possibility that deep stillness and refined attention, however they are developed, can support entry into the formless.

Venerable Sāriputta’s accounts fit this pattern. His descriptions emphasise the refinement of perception itself: attending to ever subtler domains until the formless is entered. The texts do not spell out whether this refinement always begins from a named jhāna, and they do not need to. What matters is the quality of the mind at the moment of transition: unified, malleable, and free from disturbance. Whether one calls this ‘being in jhāna’ or simply ‘deep collectedness’ is secondary to recognising the level of stability involved.

How the Mind Moves Between Formless States

Once within the formless attainments, the role of intention becomes very subtle. One does not maintain these states through effort in the ordinary sense. Gross intention would disrupt them. Instead, the mind abides as long

as the supporting conditions remain intact. Transition from one formless attainment to the next can occur in two ways. Sometimes it happens naturally, as the mind loses interest in coarser perceptions and settles into subtler ones. At other times, the meditator gently inclines the mind toward a new perception. This inclination is not a push or a command; it is more like allowing attention to rest where it is already tending.

If the conditions are sufficient, the shift occurs. If they are not, nothing happens. In this way, the formless attainments resemble the jhānas themselves: they are shaped by prior training, sustained by balance rather than force, and governed by conditionality rather than will. The Buddha’s teaching consistently points away from control and toward understanding how perception refines itself when the mind is properly prepared.

Question 10

Could you explain how the Buddha taught the following practices as they appear in the early discourses, and clarify which were intended as formal contemplative exercises and which were meant to be integrated into ordinary daily life?

The practices I am referring to are:

1. The Brahmavihāras

2. The contemplation of the thirty-two parts of the body

3. Cemetery contemplations

4. The contemplation of the four elements

5. Food contemplation and sense restraint

6. Mindfulness of death

7. Recollection of the Buddha, the Dhamma, and the Saṅgha

Some of these appear to be deep, formal contemplations, while others seem designed to function as ongoing reflections woven into daily activity. I would appreciate clarity on how each was originally practised and how they fit into the overall training.

Answer

The Buddha did not teach these practices as a fixed sequence to be mastered one after another. Instead, they function as complementary trainings, each addressing different tendencies and conditions of the mind. Some are practised mainly in formal meditation, others are woven into ordinary life, and several function in both ways. Together, they reduce obstacles, cultivate wholesome qualities, and prepare the mind for samādhi and liberating insight.

Although they all support samādhi, each does so differently. It is therefore useful to look at them one by one.

The Brahmavihāras

The brahmavihāras develop four qualities of the heart: loving-kindness (mettā), compassion (karuṇā), appreciative joy (muditā), and equanimity (upekkhā). They can be cultivated formally in meditation and expressed throughout daily life.

In meditation, these qualities are deliberately extended beyond the practitioner’s usual circle of concern. The Buddha describes this as pervading one direction with a mind imbued with loving-kindness, then the second, third, and fourth, above, below, around, and everywhere. The same pattern is applied to the other brahmavihāras.

As these qualities become established, they also influence speech, behaviour, and relationships. Ill will, envy, and emotional friction gradually lose some of their strength, creating conditions in which the mind can settle more readily.

Contemplation of the Thirty-Two Parts of the Body

This practice contemplates the body through its thirty-two natural constituents: hair of the head, hair of the body, nails, teeth, skin, flesh, sinews, bones, bone marrow, kidneys, heart, liver, diaphragm, spleen, lungs, intestines, mesentery, contents of the stomach, faeces, bile, phlegm, pus, blood, sweat, fat, tears, grease, saliva, mucus, synovial fluid, and urine.

The purpose is neither disgust nor anatomical analysis, but a more realistic perception of the body. Rather than encountering it primarily through beauty, attraction, or identity, the practitioner sees it as a collection of natural components. As infatuation and identification weaken, sensual desire can lose some of its force and the mind becomes easier to settle.

Cemetery Contemplations

Cemetery contemplations bring attention directly to death, bodily dissolution, and impermanence. In the Buddha’s time, practitioners could observe bodies at different stages of decay and reflect that their own body was of the same nature and could not escape the same fate.

The purpose is not to create fear or disgust. It is to weaken the tendency to treat the body as permanent or exempt from the conditions affecting every other body. In a modern setting, this contemplation will usually be approached through careful reflection rather than direct observation. Practised with balance, it can loosen attachment to the body and bring the reality of impermanence out of abstraction.

Contemplation of the Four Elements

Here the body is contemplated through the qualities traditionally described as earth, water, fire, and air. These correspond broadly to solidity, cohesion, temperature, and movement.

Instead of experiencing the body simply as ‘me’ or ‘mine’, the practitioner learns to recognise these impersonal qualities as they appear. This can weaken identification with the body while strengthening mindfulness and collectedness. The practice may be undertaken formally or emerge naturally from deeper contemplation of bodily experience.

Food Contemplation and Sense Restraint

These are ongoing disciplines practised primarily in daily life. The Buddha repeatedly encouraged moderation in eating and careful restraint in relation to sensory experience.

Their purpose is practical. Continually pursuing stimulation through sights, sounds, tastes, conversation, entertainment, or food — all of this

can make it difficult for the mind to settle when formal meditation begins. Moderation reduces unnecessary agitation and creates conditions in which concentration can develop more naturally.

Mindfulness of Death

Mindfulness of death (maraṇasati) differs from cemetery contemplation. Rather than contemplating stages of bodily decay, it recollects the simple reality that death is certain while its timing is unknown.

This need not be pessimistic or frightening. Practised calmly, it brings urgency and perspective to life, weakening procrastination and reminding us

that the time available for practice cannot be assumed. It can be undertaken as a formal contemplation or recollected briefly during ordinary life.

Recollection of the Buddha, Dhamma, and Saṅgha

Finally, recollection of the Buddha, Dhamma, and Saṅgha strengthens confidence and steadies the mind. These recollections can be practised formally or returned to whenever doubt, discouragement, or uncertainty arises.

Recollection of the Buddha brings to mind the qualities associated with awakening. Recollection of the Dhamma recalls the teaching and the possibility of liberation. Recollection of the Saṅgha recalls those who have practised the path and realised its fruits. In this way, confidence becomes itself a support for samādhi: as doubt weakens, the mind becomes more willing to settle.

How These Practices Work Together

These seven practices differ considerably in method and emphasis. None replaces ānāpānasati, jhāna, or insight. Instead, each responds to particular conditions of the mind. Body contemplation can weaken sensual infatuation. The brahmavihāras address ill will and emotional conflict. Mindfulness of death challenges complacency. Recollection strengthens confidence when doubt arises. Sense restraint reduces the stimulation that keeps the mind scattered.

The question, therefore, is not which practice is most important, nor where each belongs within a rigid sequence. Rather, the appropriate practice depends on the condition of the mind at that particular time. Used skilfully, these different trainings make the mind lighter, steadier, and more receptive to samādhi and liberating understanding.

Author’s Note 12.2

Right Samādhi is an immense subject, and any explanation of it remains incomplete without direct experience. One of the central challenges is that samādhi unfolds in a mode of awareness that lies beyond the ordinary operations of the conceptual mind. Language, however refined, belongs to that conceptual domain. At best, it can circle the experience, outlining its contours without ever entering its centre.

For a long time, I assumed this limitation reflected the inadequacy of our scientific or analytical tools. Perhaps, I thought, if physics advanced further, or if more precise mathematical or computational languages were

developed, samādhi could eventually be described with clarity. While these disciplines have indeed progressed, the core difficulty remains. Samādhi is not merely a phenomenon to be analysed. It is a transformation that must be entered.

In the next chapter, we will approach this territory from addition-

al angles, including insights drawn from contemporary neuroscience and models of mind. These perspectives may illuminate aspects that the ancient texts could only gesture toward. Even if the heart of samādhi cannot be fully articulated, careful inquiry can still clarify the conditions, patterns, and limits of understanding.

With that orientation, let us continue the exploration.