I had the flu and couldn’t speak for several days. My voice still hasn’t fully returned. The air is damp today. Don’t place your life in my hands—I too must grow old, fall ill, and die. You have to be able to rely on yourself.
The starting point is to uphold the Five Precepts well.
If the precepts are broken, meditative development (bhāvanā) won’t progress. Samādhi will instantly collapse. So just resolve to uphold the Five Precepts—that alone is enough. Without moral discipline [sīla], Dhamma practice cannot genuinely progress. Then train yourself to practice whenever the opportunity arises. Have mindfulness (sati) to observe your body and mind as they are. Many laypeople—and even monks—develop slowly in bhāvanā, or not at all. They start practicing, then stop, start again, and stop again. In front of a teacher, they’re diligent. Behind the teacher’s back, they get lazy.
Whenever there’s time, be mindful—read yourself. When you have the chance to practice, don’t waste it. For example, when we sit down in the Dhamma hall, we sit—and the mind drifts off, thinking of this and that. We just get lost. It’s all wasted. When we eat, the mind takes delight in the food—this bite we like, that bite we don’t. Each mouthful gives rise to a different feeling.
We eat and talk without awareness—lost in the world of thought and conversation. We don’t notice the tongue tasting each bite. Every sensation is different. Driving or riding in a car and stuck in traffic—we get irritated. Irritation leads to anger, and we suffer needlessly. But if we see that the mind is upset by the traffic, and we know it’s upset—that is practice.
Practice isn’t difficult—it’s only difficult for those who don’t practice. And for those who think practice only starts when sitting in meditation or doing walking meditation. With that view, progress is very limited—because the mind stays lost all day. So we must bring practice into real life. If we can’t do that, there’s no way. No way to attain the noble path and its fruits.
This was taught by Luangpu Mun. I wasn’t fortunate enough to meet him, but I heard it from Luangpu Suwat, who learned from him. Luangpu Mun said: too much samādhi brings lethargy; too much thinking brings restlessness. The heart of the practice is having sati in daily life. If you can’t do this, your chances are slim. Being good only while sitting in the meditation hall is of no use. The rest of the time, the defilements eat up every moment. Why do they consume everything? Because we surrender to them—just give in.
But if you’re determined, whenever there’s time, you’ll read yourself. If you can see the mind, read the mind. If you can’t, feel the body. Don’t let the mind wander off into pointless thoughts. Since I trained under Luangpu Dule, I’ve been observing my own mind—I never stopped. Whenever I had time, I watched. The moment I woke up, the mind would meet a thought—“Oh, it’s Monday. Gotta hurry to work.” Back then, Mondays in Bangkok meant heavy traffic. So I’d scramble, anxious about being late. I could see the worry, the fear of not making it. Whether I was bathing, going to the toilet, or doing anything—I kept observing my own feelings.
Once, an attendant to a teacher asked me (when I was still a layperson): “How can you, as a layman, practice like this? In one year, you’ve developed more than monks do in ten or twenty.” I replied, “Because I practice all day.” Practicing all day doesn’t mean I neglected my job. When it was time to work, I worked. But all the time outside of that—I practiced. I used to work at the National Security Council—coordinating, gathering information, organizing meetings. It took a lot of time—meetings, brainstorming, pulling information from various agencies. Before the meetings began, while waiting for members to arrive, most people sat around chatting or drinking coffee—passing time. Sometimes the wait lasted ten, twenty minutes. I didn’t waste that time. I drank coffee like everyone else—but I kept reading my feelings.
Sitting and waiting—there would be anticipation: “Which official will show up today? If that person comes, it’ll be great.” And when that person came—I felt joy. I saw that. Or I’d be sitting there, restless. Seeing that restlessness—that’s practice. Not just sitting still, but reading the mind. Sometimes someone would walk in, and I’d feel irritated. Some people hold high positions, but—excuse me for saying—don’t say anything worthwhile. They talk and talk, but no substance, no data, no useful ideas. They just point out problems: “This is an issue… that’s a problem…” If you’re only good at identifying problems, you’re not doing the job. You must be skilled at finding solutions.
Read your own mind—not force it.
If you see someone and feel annoyed, know you’re annoyed. That’s practice. Not knowing—and getting swept up in it—is not. Even while listening, your eyes may be open, seemingly attentive, but the heart isn’t engaged. You know there’s nothing of value. Others smile, so you smile. They nod, you nod. But your practice is happening inside. No one sees it.
Now and then, bring the mind out to check—“Where are they now?” Still going in circles. So I’d bring it back inside and keep practicing. Even in the meeting room—I practiced. Sometimes, walking past the ordination hall on a pleasant day, I’d feel peaceful. I’d know that I was feeling joy. And I’d keep reading my feelings. That is real practice in real life.
Practicing in real life is hard. We use all six sense bases.
Eyes see.
Ears hear.
Nose smells.
Tongue tastes.
Body feels.
Mind thinks.
The mind spins through all six sense doors. Trying to track each one—“Now the mind is seeing form”—you can’t keep up. It sees for a flash, then it’s hearing sound. The mind is too fast for that. So adjust the method. When the eye sees something, notice the change in the heart. You see a beautiful flower—delight arises. Know that delight. This one mind knows it. You hear a bird sing—it’s lovely. Joy arises. Know the joy. That’s practice.
Let the senses function normally. Let them encounter the world. But when contact stirs a shift in the heart—be aware. This is the heart, the key, the secret of cultivating *sati* in daily life. It lies in reading the heart—not in forcing yourself. Not in avoiding sights, sounds, smells, tastes. No need to run. Let contact happen as it naturally does. But when it does, and the heart shifts— If happiness arises, know it. If suffering arises, know it. If wholesome or unwholesome states arise, know them.
Before long, wisdom (paññā) will arise. Everything in our life—arises and passes away. You will see it clearly. When the mind understands this, it will live in the world with less suffering. Much less suffering.
Keep practicing. One day, attachment will end. When there’s no clinging to the body, there’s no suffering from the body. When there’s no clinging to the mind, there’s no suffering from the mind. This letting go comes from seeing the three characteristics [tilakkhaṇa: impermanence, suffering, and non-self] again and again. Eventually, you’ll see more deeply—into the Four Noble Truths. You’ll see that craving (taṇhā) brings suffering. And when craving ceases, suffering ceases.
See it for yourself—within your own mind.
Wat Suansantidham
10 March 2025