The body is constantly being gnawed at by suffering

We have been practicing meditation for a long time—some of us for decades, and some since our youth, continuing well into old age. At most temples, you’ll notice mainly elderly people, as many started visiting temples when they were young and have stayed involved until old age. Many people do benefit from going to the temple, though for some, it may not make much difference. To truly and deeply understand the Dhamma is rare, but it is possible. It all depends on our dedication and how much effort we put into training ourselves. Some people come to the temple because of life problems, but once those problems are resolved, they become lax. Others are diligent in their meditation, but when life challenges arise, they find it too overwhelming to continue their practice.

The work of self-discipline is very challenging. Meditation practice is not about anything external; it’s about developing oneself. Therefore, it requires true perseverance. Even when suffering weighs heavily and you feel disheartened, you must endure. Whether in suffering or happiness, you still need to practice. It’s human nature to become careless and indulge in enjoyment when things are going well. It’s not that Dhamma isn’t good, but rather, those who study and practice it often aren’t very strong or determined enough. It’s something that can’t be easily judged—each person has different levels of merit and virtue accumulated over time.

When there is a chance to make merit, do it;
if not, cultivate wholesomeness

Some people are born into wealthy families, with parents who indulge their every desire. They get whatever they want, yet they eventually see the suffering and meaninglessness in it all. They realize that living a life of endless entertainment holds no substance. People like this have truly accumulated a lot of spiritual merit.

A great example is Yasa, the son of a wealthy merchant, who, after a life of singing and dancing, felt disillusioned with the emptiness of such a life. Similarly, Upatissa and Kolita (later known as the Venerable Moggallana and Sariputta) were also born into wealthy families. They lived lives filled with music and pleasure, traveling and enjoying themselves. But one day, they came to see the futility of living a life wasted on fleeting pleasures. This wastefulness refers to squandering one’s own life without meaning. Temporary enjoyment quickly fades, only to be followed by suffering once again.

This is an example of individuals with immense spiritual merit and fortune. Despite having comfortable lives, they chose to renounce worldly pleasures to pursue spiritual practice. Take Prince Siddhartha, for instance. He had a luxurious life in the material world, yet he left it all behind to seek something greater. On the other hand, there are those whose lives are filled with hardship. Some struggle to survive as beggars or even suffer from diseases like leprosy. Many of these people follow others into temples, simply hoping to receive food when it is distributed. Their only thought is to come to the temple in search of something to eat.

At that moment, the Buddha had not yet finished teaching, so everyone stayed to listen instead of going to eat. The beggar also stayed and listened. As he listened, he began to understand the Dhamma. Although with challenging life, he had come to the temple with no intention of learning Dhamma, his accumulated spiritual merit had matured enough. Just a brief encounter with the Dhamma touched his heart, and he understood. These situations are hard to explain. We cannot know how much spiritual foundation or merit we each carry. Some may have great wisdom but lack generosity (giving), leading to lives of material scarcity. Others, however, may enjoy abundant wealth and resources.

Each master or teacher has their own unique qualities. For example, Luang Pu Dulya possessed extraordinary wisdom. He was highly skilled, not only capable of helping himself achieve liberation but also guiding many disciples along the path. Luang Pu Mun even praised him, saying that Dulya was a man of great wisdom and particularly adept at teaching his disciples.

However, Luang Pu Dulya lived a life of poverty. His circumstances were challenging, especially with food and other basic necessities. This was because, in those days, the people of Surin were very poor. I used to visit and pay respects to him often, sitting at his feet and observing his way of life. His robe was patched over and over again. This shows that each teacher’s journey is different.

Some masters live as if they were royalty. They don’t demand anything, nor are they driven by cravings, yet they are abundantly supported by people. Despite living with the finest food and luxurious items, they remain unattached to these things. This illustrates the differences among them.

Although these masters have attained the same purity, their external circumstances differ. What distinguishes them? It is karma. Karma is what separates beings. Some emphasize wisdom and care little for generosity. Others focus solely on giving but neglect the cultivation of wisdom. And there are those who practice both generosity and wisdom development. Each person follows a unique path.

Therefore, the masters teach, “Whenever you have the chance to do good, take it. It will never be a waste.” If an opportunity arises, act upon it. This is how Luang Pu Dune taught. However, he didn’t encourage blind or obsessive actions, nor did he advocate doing good out of desperation or craving. Such actions, even if meritorious, yield only minor benefits because they lack mindfulness and wisdom. Without discernment, one won’t know what is appropriate or to what extent it should be done. Thus, whenever the opportunity arises, we should cultivate virtue. But if that opportunity passes, he advised that it’s fine to remain still and composed. There’s no need to be restless or agitated.

For example, right now, with the floods happening, many people are out there helping. If we don’t have money, resources, or items to donate, just feeling joy and appreciation for others doing good deeds is also merit. This is called merit from rejoicing in others’ good deeds (anumodana). So, merit doesn’t always require spending money. In cases like the floods here, we sent what we have—supplies or financial aid—to help, doing what we can, helping as much as possible. If we have the opportunity, we act; if we don’t, we focus on something else. Wholesomeness matters. Doing good and making merit is beneficial, serving as a foundation for our path.

Wholesomeness is a tool that purifies our minds across lifetimes. If there’s an opportunity to make merit, we should do it. If not, we can still cultivate wholesomeness. How do we generate wholesomeness? Through mindfulness. Whenever mindfulness arises, the mind becomes wholesome. But when mindfulness is absent, the mind ceases to be wholesome.

Thus, mindfulness is essential. We must train ourselves in mindfulness because it plays a crucial role. The Buddha taught that as long as the practice of satipatthana (mindfulness meditation) continues, the Dhamma will not fade, and the fruits of practice will remain attainable. However, if mindfulness is entirely absent, the essence of the Dhamma will be lost, reduced to worldly activities—merely about making merit, giving donations, or performing good deeds.

We are here to train in mindfulness. However, before we can successfully cultivate mindfulness, we must commit to maintaining our moral precepts. If our precepts are flawed and we claim to develop mindfulness and wisdom, it will result in what is called “thief-like wisdom”—using Dhamma and principles to justify wrongdoing and deceive others.

Therefore, the foundation for our practice must be the Five Precepts. Notice the word “must.” It’s not optional. The Five Precepts are non-negotiable. The Eight Precepts are recommended to be observed occasionally, but the Five Precepts are mandatory. Even for monastics, they must still adhere to the Five Precepts.

In the past, I heard Luang Pu Dulya mention that some monks boasted about keeping 227 precepts but forgot the Five Precepts. This shows how essential the Five Precepts are. We must commit to maintaining them with the intention to abstain from the five unwholesome actions. This intentional abstinence is called virati—the essence of the precepts. We set this intention firmly and then strive to develop mindfulness.

Mindfulness arises from the mind’s ability to accurately recall phenomena, not from commanding it to arise. We cannot force mindfulness to occur because mindfulness, like the mind itself, is anatta—beyond control. However, we can cultivate the causes for mindfulness to arise frequently. One such cause is training the mind to recognize phenomena precisely. This is not ordinary mindfulness but satipatthana— the four foundations of mindfulness.

Observing within the body and the mind,
defilements have less opportunity to take control

Ordinary mindfulness refers to being aware and not forgetful in everyday activities, such as not getting lost while walking, or driving without accidents—this is called worldly mindfulness (sati lokiya). However, the more crucial mindfulness is satipatthana—mindfulness with full awareness of oneself, of both the body and mind.

The body’s conditions are physical phenomena (rupadhamma), while thoughts, emotions, and mental perceptions are mental phenomena (namadhamma). When we cultivate mindfulness that observes both physical and mental phenomena, that is the practice of satipatthana.

The key difference between satipatthana and ordinary mindfulness lies in where the attention is directed. Satipatthana focuses on knowing and understanding one’s own body and mind, not external matters. It emphasizes turning awareness inward, observing oneself instead of being preoccupied with what’s happening outside.

However, if we are well-practiced, we can still maintain satipatthana while observing external things and recognize the Three Characteristics as well. But this approach is risky. For example, let’s say we watch a beauty pageant, claiming that we are practicing satipatthana by observing the contestants. Is it possible? Yes, it’s technically possible to practice satipatthana even while watching a beauty pageant—if we are sufficiently skilled.

However, for most people, it’s extremely difficult. As soon as they see a beautiful woman, their mind becomes attached and drawn toward her, losing mindfulness in the process. Therefore, focusing on external objects carries a risk.

This is why teachers often recommend knowing inward. Although the sutras mention internal and external Dhamma, near and far Dhamma, in truth, both internal and external practices are valid. However, knowing external objects without the supervision of a teacher carries a high risk of losing mindfulness. On the other hand, when we observing our body and mind, the defilements have less opportunity to take control.

For example, if we feel proud of being attractive, we can examine the body closely. Observe it carefully and ask, “Is this beauty really as perfect as I think it is?”

The body is like a sack, a leather bag with countless leaks. There are nine large openings, along with innumerable smaller ones scattered throughout. Through every opening, whether big or small, filthy substances constantly seep out.

When we develop mindfulness of the body and truly see it as it is, we realize that the body is not beautiful or attractive. By continuously being mindful of the body, we see it as impure, as asubha (unattractive). Seeing it this way, the mind attains concentration and gains the power to suppress kāmacchanda nivarana (sensual desire). Suppressing this hindrance allows us to restrain sensual craving effectively.

As we continue to develop our practice and observe more deeply, we see that this body is full of impermanence. After exhaling, we must inhale again, and after inhaling, we must exhale. Whether standing, walking, sitting, or lying down, we must constantly change postures. Movement and stillness alternate continuously within the body.

When we maintain mindfulness of the body consistently, we begin to see beyond its impurities and unattractiveness (asubha). We come to perceive the three characteristics (tilakkhaṇa). Observing the impure and unattractive nature of the body serves as a valuable tool to subdue lust and sensual desires.

However, when we truly see the three characteristics (tilakkhaṇa) within the body, attachment begins to loosen and eventually fades away. We start to see that the body is impermanent—observe carefully, where in the body is there permanence? After exhaling, it’s impermanent. After inhaling, it’s also impermanent. Standing must give way to walking, sitting, or lying down. Even when lying down, we have to shift positions, turning left or right.

As we bring mindfulness into the body, we see that it is nothing but impermanence. Why is it impermanent? Because it is constantly pressured by suffering. Sitting for too long brings suffering. Walking for too long brings suffering. Even lying down for too long brings suffering.

Therefore, the body is like a deer or a muntjac being chased all day by a pack of hunting dogs, relentlessly biting and pursuing it. The deer keeps running, trying to escape until it becomes too injured to continue and eventually collapses and dies. In the same way, this body is constantly attacked by suffering. We attempt to fix and alleviate the pain in various ways. When sitting for too long becomes uncomfortable, we change our posture. When it gets too hot, causing discomfort, we go take a bath. We keep making adjustments to ensure the body’s survival, just like the deer trying to outrun the hunting dogs.

Suffering constantly bites at us, and no matter how hard we try, we cannot escape it. Over time, the body accumulates more and more wounds. As we grow older, the injuries become overwhelming, covering us entirely.

Our faces also bear the marks of these wounds—crow’s feet, wrinkles, and sagging skin. The flesh is drained away, leaving the entire body shriveled and worn. These are the traces, the scars, inflicted by the relentless hounds of time. Observing closely, we see that this body is void of any true essence. It is impermanent and constantly pressed by suffering. One day, when we can no longer flee, death will come, just like a deer hunted and bitten repeatedly by dogs, collapsing when it can no longer run, only to be devoured in the end.

This body is no different. It is ceaselessly gnawed at by suffering. With mindfulness, when we observe the body, we realize that it is not something special or sacred. It is merely a burden, filled with suffering, requiring constant care and upkeep.

Before becoming a monk, I wasn’t inclined toward contemplating the body, as I was more skilled at observing the mind. However, the mind naturally began to contemplate the body on its own. It sensed things clearly—from head to toe, everything is a burden.

What burdens do we carry on our heads? We need to wash our hair, and some people dye it. We have to style it in this way or that. What do we do when it turns gray? It becomes another burden to manage. What about hair loss? Some people start losing hair in patches, even at a young age. Is this not suffering? It is. Is it physical suffering or mental suffering? It’s mental suffering. The head itself isn’t bothered, but the mind is already troubled.

Luang Por reflected on the body and realized, “This body is such a burden.” Every morning, we must follow a routine—washing our face, taking a shower, and going to the bathroom. After that, we have to get dressed, and once we’re ready, we travel.

Why do we need to get in the car? To transport the body. The mind doesn’t need to get in the car. If the mind thinks of America, it reaches there instantly. But the body? It has to be carried along, constantly weighing us down. From head to toe, it’s all burdens. If toenails grow too long, they must be cut. If dirt gets under the nails, we need to scrape it out, clean them. This body is filled with countless tasks and responsibilities to maintain.

“‘Bhara have pancakkhandha’—the five aggregates are suffering.” And this is just one aggregate, rupa khandha, the physical body. Even counting the burdens of this single body reveals countless sufferings.

Sometimes, you wake up with dry eyes—there’s discomfort in the eyes again. Another morning, your ears feel blocked—now the ears aren’t well. Another day, it’s hard to breathe—the body feels congested, the breath doesn’t flow easily. This body is filled with burdens that demand constant care. You have to find food to eat, and once you’ve eaten, you need to go relieve yourself. Eating alone isn’t enough; everything must follow in its order.

In those moments, the mind turns inward, looking at the body, and feels disgust. It becomes weary and disenchanted.

This body truly is repulsive. The mind feels disgust. Then, in another moment, the mind grows wiser and realizes: The body is the one that has to work to earn a living, not the mind. The mind doesn’t go to work, so why does it trouble itself on behalf of the body? It’s the body that needs to eat, so let it earn money to buy food. The body is the one that has to put food into the mouth and chew it on its own.

So why should the mind feel weary or burdened on behalf of the body? The body and the mind are separate entities. The body suffers, it has responsibilities—but the mind is merely the observer. Why get entangled with the body’s affairs?

As the practice deepens, at first, we see the body as something unattractive. Then, we begin to see that the body is nothing but a burden. The mind grows weary and disenchanted. Once disenchanted, the mind begins to wonder, How can I escape from this body? But it can’t escape—it still has the body, it’s not dead yet. So, it is forced to remain with it.

It’s like living with something poisonous, but you can’t yet escape from it. It’s similar to someone whose house is near a mountain of garbage. They want to move, but they don’t have the means to relocate. So, they are forced to stay. Living with it, they come to see all the suffering and harm that it brings.

The body is like a heap of garbage. We fill it with waste until it overflows, and then it must expel it. As we observe closely, we see that this body is suffering. The body suffers, but has it ever complained? No, it never complains. Instead, it shows its deterioration—it ages, it aches, and eventually it dies, but it does so silently. It simply demonstrates these changes for us to see.

The mind, however, does not age with the body. It does not share in the body’s pain, nor does it die with the body.

The problem is not the body; the real issue is the mind

The mind tends to complain and make a fuss. When the body experiences even minor discomfort, the mind laments, becoming restless and chaotic. It’s the mind that complicates things.

We notice that the body comes with its burdens. Take, for example, our head—we need to comb our hair. But does the mind go and comb the hair for us? No, it doesn’t. The body takes care of that on its own. As we groom ourselves, we often feel, “Ugh, how tiresome.” The mind grows bored on behalf of the body, even though the body itself doesn’t complain—it just carries out its tasks.

This is where the practice of observing and discerning comes in. As Luang Por did, the body experiences suffering, but whether the mind suffers along with it is another matter entirely.

If we train well, the mind becomes free from the body. The body will experience suffering according to its natural conditions—it ages, gets sick, dies, feels hunger, cold, heat, thirst, the need to relieve itself, fatigue, and many other discomforts. However, the mind merely observes and knows; it doesn’t get caught up in pleasure or displeasure with the body.

This is why, when the Buddha teaches, he says that his disciples may experience suffering in the body, but that suffering doesn’t reach the mind. In contrast, ordinary people—those who haven’t studied the Dhamma—when the body suffers, their mind suffers along with it.

Therefore, as we practice developing mindfulness, continuously observing the body, we begin to see the body as a source of suffering and burdens. Over time, as mindfulness strengthens, we recognize that the mind is separate. Mindfulness catches the mind in the act—it stands apart and constantly fabricates experiences. One moment, it complains on behalf of the body; another moment, it becomes infatuated with the body. Then it complains about something else or becomes attached to or dislikes other things. It’s always entangled and restless.

Therefore, all this fabrication, struggle, and restlessness lie entirely within the mind. The body is merely a material form—not a person, not a being, not “me,” not “them.” Thus, the problem isn’t the body; the real issue is the mind. Luang Por realized this before meeting Luang Pu Dune—I saw clearly that the mind was the true problem. The body is just a physical object; it doesn’t really suffer or get troubled by anything or anyone. So, how do we cultivate more advanced meditation practices? It begins by observing the body and seeing that it is filled only with suffering.

Let me share a story to shake off the drowsiness. One day, while meditating, I had a vision. I saw an old monk—thin and very aged—holding a round fruit about this size. He came over to give it to me. Just as I was about to receive it, he paused and said, “Whether this fruit is sour or sweet depends on its essence. Whether the mind is good or bad depends on its core. If defilements are still hidden within, it will be bad.” Then he handed me the fruit. At the time, I had no idea who he was.

A year later, I went to pay my respects to Luang Pu Dune. Suddenly, I recognized him—it was him! He was the one who had come to teach me about the mind. His teaching was simple: whether a person is good or bad depends entirely on their mind. That was his lesson.

Before I met him in person, I came across a book from Wat Samphanthawong. It was a publication listing various sets of Luang Pu Waen’s amulets. At the end of the book, there was some unrelated content—it had nothing to do with the book itself. I have no idea why the publisher included it, but it ended up benefiting someone. After reading that section, a group of people decided to seek out Luang Pu Dune to learn from him.

First, Luang Pu Sujin. Do you know him? Luang Pu Sujin Sujinno? He’ll be coming here next month. Once a year, we invite him for a water-pouring ceremony on his birthday. And, of course, there’s another person—Luang Por.

The reason I went to see Luang Pu was because of this section in the book. The book said, “A mind that sends out is the cause of suffering (samudaya). The result of a mind sent out is suffering (dukkha). A mind that clearly sees itself is the path (magga). The result of a mind clearly seeing itself is cessation (nirodha). Furthermore, the natural tendency of the mind is to send out. However, when the mind sends out without mindfulness, it wavers, which is the cause of suffering (samudaya). When the mind sends out and wavers, the result is suffering (dukkha). If the mind sends out with mindfulness and does not waver, that is the cultivation of the path (magga), and the result is cessation (nirodha).” It concluded with the third section, saying, “The noble ones (ariya) have no mind that sends out, no wavering mind, and possess complete mindfulness as a home base (vihara dhamma).”

The wording might have shifted slightly, not perfectly exact anymore, but that first part is spot on. The second part is a bit shortened because it was too long. When I read it, it resonated deeply within me because I had already realized that happiness, suffering, good, and bad all stem from this very mind, not the body. Reading this Dhamma, which talks about the mind, hit me hard—it resonated deeply. Then I saw the name “Phra Rattanakorn Visut” mentioned. At that time, he was still known as “Rattanakorn Visut.” Later, he became “Phra Ratchawutthacharn.” I went around asking people where this monk was because I wanted to learn meditation with him, but no one seemed to know him.

Luang Pu Dune was a monk that not many people knew about. My preceptor, who was Luang Pu’s nephew and had lived with him for many decades, once said that originally, Luang Pu lived quietly, and hardly anyone visited Wat Burapharam. But later, because of you, people started to know about Luang Pu, and the temple became crowded with visitors. He wasn’t criticizing me; in fact, he liked it very much when people came to the temple. After asking around for a while, I eventually found out that his name was Luang Pu Dune. At that point, I began looking into his background and learned that he was a teacher of Luang Pu Fan.

“Oh no,” I thought, “Luang Pu Fan passed away many years ago. Could Luang Pu Dune still be alive?” Then one day, someone confirmed that Luang Pu Dune was indeed still living. He was the son of a police officer, so he had the police help investigate. When they found out that he was staying at Wat Burapharam in Surin, I quickly boarded a train to go see him and learn from him. When I arrived, Luang Pu Dune taught me meditation. Before teaching, he sat in silent meditation for about 45 minutes. Then he opened his eyes and began to instruct me: “Practice is not difficult; it’s only difficult for those who don’t practice. You’ve read many books. From now on, read your own mind.” As soon as I heard the phrase “read your own mind,” it struck me deeply once again.

At first, I was reading from books, and then I had a vision that sparked my interest in the mind. Then, I came across a book that shook me deeply. It revealed a truth—“If the mind is not suffering, who else could be?” When I read Luang Pu’s teaching on the Noble Truths of the mind, my mind immediately exclaimed, “If the mind is not suffering, who will suffer?”

Later, when I met Luang Pu, he taught me how to practice. He said, “Practice is not difficult. It’s only difficult for those who don’t practice. You’ve read many books already. From now on, read your own mind.” The key phrase was “read your own mind.” From that moment, I made it my focus to keep reading my own mind.

At first, I didn’t know how to “read” my mind. When Luang Pu told me to read it, like reading a book. He assigned me to “read this book,” but instead of simply reading it, I ended up trying to rewrite the book. Almost all practitioners who observe the mind end up trying to modify it rather than truly observe it as it is. They enjoy manipulating the mind.

For example, when we start meditating, have you noticed how we try to make the mind still first? We try to force it to be calm, quiet, and subdued. Once it’s subdued, we tell ourselves, “Ah, today’s meditation is good.” What’s good about it? We may unknowingly become like a hungry ghost, a demon or an animal, lost in delusion or craving. We meditate without realizing that we’re not truly observing the mind but instead being led astray by ignorance or greed, turning into a ghost or demon, clinging to our views.

At first, I observed incorrectly as well. I would intervene in the mind, making it still and empty. After three months, when I went to report my progress to Luang Pu, he said I was doing it wrong and should start over. He told me to observe the mind, not manipulate it. The mind’s nature is to think, reflect, and fabricate. What I had done was make it stop thinking, reflecting, and fabricating—completely wrong. So, I had to start over.

The older generation of teachers like Luang Pu didn’t give long teachings; they gave brief instructions, and we had to struggle and figure things out on our own. This time, I reset my approach. He told me to “read” my own mind, so I became a reader, not a writer. Whatever the mind was, I observed it as it truly was.

Can you do it? To observe the mind as it is, sounds simple, but it’s difficult because you can’t help but intervene. Sometimes you make minor adjustments, setting intentions like this and then observing. For those who are aggressive, it’s as if you’re ready to fight someone. Observe with a normal, natural mind, allowing the mind to move and change according to its nature. As it moves and shifts, when the eye sees a form, the mind may experience pleasure or pain, wholesome or unwholesome states arise. Have mindfulness to know the mind. When you see a beautiful woman, the mind may give rise to lust. Know that lust has arisen, not that the woman is beautiful.

Abandon wrong view at this single mind,
and all wrong view is abandoned

Ordinary people see a beautiful woman, and to them, she’s just beautiful. But for us, practitioners, those who observe the mind, when we see a beautiful woman, lust arises in the mind—sensual desire, attraction, love. Knowing right there, that’s what we call observing the mind. When the ear hears an insult, for most people, the reaction is to turn and see who’s insulting them, ready to fight. For the practitioner, hearing an insult, feeling anger arise, they know anger arises. This is reading your own mind. It’s not about being absorbed in forms, sounds, smells, tastes, touches, or external mental objects. It’s about observing the mind that is changing constantly.

When the eyes see forms, the ears hear sounds, the nose smells, the tongue tastes, the body touches, or the mind encounters thoughts, it leads to the arising of pleasure, pain, wholesome or unwholesome states in the mind. We must be mindful and recognize these without trying to fix them. For example, if you hear an enemy insult you and turn to see them, you’ll only end up hating them more, and your anger will intensify. Instead, notice that the mind is angry, the mind is filled with hatred. What should you do then? Should you try to fix it? No, there’s no need to fix it. Anger is part of the conditioned formations (sankhara), part of the aggregate of suffering. Our duty towards suffering is to know it, not to eliminate it. So, when anger arises in the mind, just recognize it—know that anger is present. Acknowledge it fully.

Or when you see a beautiful woman, and lust arises in the mind, you don’t need to eliminate it right away. Lust, too, is a sankhara, part of the aggregate of suffering. It’s something we should know, not something to get rid of immediately. However, if lust intensifies and evolves into craving (tanha)—the cause of suffering, this is when it must be abandoned. At first, if it’s just attraction, that’s fine. But if it escalates into wanting, into the desire to possess or harm, like wanting to kidnap or harm someone, then this must be abandoned, and the cause of suffering (samudaya) must be let go. The truth is, suffering (dukkha) must be understood, and samudaya must be abandoned. Samudaya is essentially craving (tanha).

What is craving (tanha)? It is lust that has become intensified. If it’s just ordinary liking or disliking, it should simply be known, as it’s part of the aggregate of suffering (dukkha). Lust can exist in two states: in one state, as suffering, and when it intensifies, it becomes craving, a force that drives the mind to struggle even more. At that point, it must be abandoned. How do you abandon it? If it’s temporary, you let go by using mindfulness—knowing that at this moment, the mind is filled with desire, wanting to seize or harm someone. By being mindful of this, the craving will subside, because craving, after all, is just a defilement.

If we maintain mindfulness, defilements cannot persist. Craving (tanha) will naturally cease. For craving to be completely eradicated, ignorance (avijja) must be extinguished through profound wisdom. Profound wisdom is the true knowledge, the insight into the Four Noble Truths. Once we fully understand the Four Noble Truths, craving will no longer arise. This is the way to abandon craving permanently, without needing to let go of it repeatedly. By eliminating wrong views within the mind and destroying ignorance, craving will no longer arise, and there will be no need to abandon it again.

Observing the mind is a subtle practice. We gradually observe it, starting with the basics, watching as things unfold. When the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind make contact with an object, the mind experiences pleasure or pain, and we recognize it. When the mind becomes pleased or displeased, we recognize it. When greed, anger, or delusion arises, we recognize it. Even when the mind is wholesome, we must be aware of that too.

For instance, when you see a teacher on alms round and feel a strong desire to be the first to offer food, your mind is filled with merit. However, if someone else makes the offering before you, and you feel like your merit is diminished—thinking, “My merit is now less than it could have been”—this is when unwholesome states take over. At first, the merit was full, but now it’s reduced a little. Greed has crept in.

So, when our mind is wholesome, we are aware of it. When merit is achieved and we feel pleased, we are aware of that. When we fail to achieve what we intended and feel disappointed, we are aware of that too. Continuously be aware of yourself—whether experiencing pleasure, pain, goodness, or wrongdoing. Keep observing. Eventually, wisdom will arise. The initial wisdom that will arise is the realization that this mind is not the self. When we understand that the mind is not the self, we see that the five aggregates, which are produced by the mind, are also not the self. The entire world and all its surroundings are not the self either. Thus, by letting go of the wrong view in this single mind, we can let go of all wrong views.

Therefore, when defilements are cut, when the Noble Path (Ariyamagga) cuts defilements, it cuts directly at the mind. Once the mind clears away wrong views, everything— the five aggregates and the entire world—are no longer seen as the self, because the mind itself is no longer identified as the self. As we continue practicing and our wisdom deepens, we will also see the truth about form: form holds nothing but suffering. Then, the mind will let go of form. When the mind lets go of form, it will also let go of the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and body. Once the mind lets go of these, lust and aversion will no longer arise.

If we are still attached to the eyes, why is that? It’s because the eyes lead us to see pleasing forms. But once we realize that the eyes hold no real substance, how can the forms they see have any substance either? We will come to see both the internal and external sense bases—sights, sounds, smells, tastes, touches—along with the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and body. All of these are nothing but mere physical matter on both sides—both the internal and external sense bases. The eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and body are the internal sense bases, while sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and touches are the external ones. There is nothing else to them; they are all just suffering.

Once we can truly see that this body is suffering, we will naturally let go of attachment to the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and body, and also let go of forms, sounds, smells, tastes, and touches. At that point, lust (kāmarāga) and aversion (paṭigha) will cease to arise. They are destroyed by the very fact that they no longer arise. They cease to arise because we have gained full insight into the body, realizing the truth about the body and letting go of attachment to it. Then, as we continue to practice, the process will narrow its focus onto the mind itself. Eventually, we will see that even the mind is subject to the three characteristics. Once attachment to the mind is relinquished, attachment to the five aggregates and the world is also completely abandoned.

At the stage of the Sotapanna (Stream-enterer) and the Arahant, there is a difference. The Sotapanna eliminates the wrong view that the mind is “self.” Thus, neither the five aggregates nor the world are seen as “self.” On the other hand, the Arahant has completely relinquished attachment to the mind. Therefore, attachment to the five aggregates and the entire world is also gone. Nothing is clung to anymore. When we observe the mind, we must do it deeply and wholeheartedly like this. Some people say they observe the mind, but they simply sit and stare, making it empty and still. That is not observing the mind; it’s merely focusing on emptiness. Therefore, practice correctly, and it’s not difficult. It’s only hard when we practice incorrectly or inadequately.