I thought I would begin by offering a few reflections about equanimity or upekkhā. This is one of the most significant psychological, emotional qualities talked about in the Buddhist tradition. However, because we commonly translate the word upekkhā in English as ‘equanimity’, it can easily be overlooked or seen as something a bit insignificant, not so practical or even heartwarming, as the word ‘equanimity’ in English can easily mean ‘indifference’, not really caring – it can be taken to be a switched-off, disconnected and somewhat numb attitude towards things.
Instead I feel it’s important to understand that upekkhā is the fourth of the four Divine Abidings – the brahma vihāras. These four qualities: loving-kindness, compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity (or upekkhā) – they are great brightnesses of the heart, abundant and immeasurable. They are described as vast, radiant qualities: ‘Abundant, exalted, immeasurable...’
So it’s probably better to find a different word in English to render upekkhā because, particularly in this time of the coronavirus pandemic, there’s a lot of agitation and anxiety in society – a lot of turbulence. People are off the streets, in the main part, and are sheltering in their own homes and flats, or they’re in hospitals, and not out in the public arena. But there’s a lot of agitation within the home, and a lot of agitation within the heart. This quality of upekkhā is especially important now as it has to do with how we can skilfully relate to agitation. What are we to do in the face of turbulence? That’s really its essence. So I feel it’s good to reflect: what is the felt sense of upekkhā? What does the word refer to?
It is a great brightness – it’s not a switching off, or an indifference, or a non-caring and going numb. It is something else, there’s another quality there. It pertains to stillness, serenity, balance, centredness and great spaciousness.
In addition, it’s not only the most refined, the final word of the brahma vihāras – the Four Sublime Abidings – it’s also the seventh of the Seven Factors of Enlightenment. When the Buddha talks about the qualities of the enlightened mind, upekkhā is the seventh in a list of seven. Similarly with the Ten Perfections (the pāramitā), it’s the tenth of the Ten Perfections. In the Buddha’s many listings of qualities of the world, both mental and physical, customarily the one at the end of the list is the most refined or exalted, the most liberating, or the most subtle. So, in a way, this means that upekkhā is the final word in these various lists of psychological qualities: it’s the final word of the Factors of Enlightenment, it’s the final word of the Ten Perfections, and it’s the final word of the four brahma vihāras.
In this respect, rather than to leave it aside as something not as interesting, impactful or tangible, not as relatable as loving-kindness or compassion – just because when translated as ‘equanimity’ it can seem a bit flat or insignificant – instead I would say, particularly in times of great turbulence and emotional, social agitation like this, that it’s vitally important to appreciate this as a quality.
Since the English word ‘equanimity’ doesn’t quite catch the essence of upekkhā. Luang Por Sumedho, many years ago, started using the word ‘serenity’ as an alternative way to translate it. I feel this works better as it’s got more of a heartful and radiant quality to it. To be serene is not to be switched off or disconnected, and it embodies an evenness of heart, a balanced quality in the midst of a lot of imbalance, agitation and disturbance. In its most refined state equanimity is about how the heart can find stillness in the middle of agitation, in the midst of busyness. It’s about being attuned to that busyness – being aware of that diversity and multiplicity, aware of that range of activity – it’s attuned to it but it’s not disturbed by it.
This attunement without disturbance is what one can call ‘the still point’ – the centre – ‘the still point of the turning world’ or ‘the still centre of being’, ‘the centre of the cyclone’, ‘the centre of the turning wheel’. These are all valid ways of describing this most refined of the sublime attitudes: the wheel is still turning – there’s activity – but the point at the very centre is not spinning. There’s a profound stillness.
Along with appreciating such stillness, it’s helpful in understanding and developing upekkhā to know that it’s an energized quality – it’s not a switching off or freezing of the heart. It’s a radical attunement to the experiential field, together with all its activity. The brahma vihāras are thus not just attitudes but are all qualities of energy, emotional energy as well, but emotional energy that is liberating, wholesome, noble and beautiful.
In this way, upekkhā is a quality of profoundly energized peacefulness in the heart’s attitude. It’s a way of being alert and attuned to things – truly awake – the heart is wide open: ‘abundant, exalted, immeasurable’. Appamāṇa, one of the adjectives used to describe the brahma vihāras means ‘limitless’, a measureless quality of the heart. It’s open and attuned to things but, even in the face of activity and turbulence or agitation, it embodies a stillness, serenity, evenness. There’s a wonderful Pali word used to refer to upekkhā which is ‘tatramajjhatatā’, which means ‘in-the-middle-of-that-ness’. One of the attributes of upekkhā is being in the middle of things – finding that ‘middle-ness’ – and in that middle-ness, there is balance.
In our reflections, in the trainings the Buddha advised in terms of developing the brahma vihāras, the thoughts or reflections that one brings to mind in order to develop upekkhā are around cause and effect, which might seem a bit of a strange way to approach it.
When we are talking about loving kindness, we say:
‘May I abide in well-being... May everyone abide in well-being.’
To develop compassion, we cultivate the thought:
‘May all beings be released from all suffering.’
To cultivate muditā (sympathetic joy) we use the thought:
‘May all beings not be parted from the good fortune they have attained.’
But then, when we cultivate upekkhā, the reflection seems to change gear, because it’s about karma and its results. The advice that the Buddha gives to train the heart in developing upekkhā is to reflect:
‘I am the owner of my karma, heir to my karma, born of my karma, related to my karma, abide supported by my karma. Whatever karma I shall do, for good or for ill, of that I will be the heir.’
What does that have to do with upekkhā? How does that reflection lead to radiance, brightness and limitlessness?
It is because this is how the heart finds serenity: through an appreciation and embodying of the understanding of cause and effect. This is how we train the heart to see things in terms of nature – how nature works – rather than from the usual self-centred habits of ‘What I prefer, what I don’t prefer, what I was expecting, what I was not expecting, what I think is fair, what I think is not fair.’ It is putting aside those self-centred habits of perception, and seeing things in terms of the laws of nature – what is called Dhamma-niyamatā – this means ‘the lawfulness of reality’, or ‘the orderliness of nature’, ‘the way things work according to the laws of cause and effect’.
For example, I was asked a question the other day about what I thought was the relationship of karma and the COVID-19 virus. I think that behind the question was the implication: ‘Do you think that this is some kind of karmic payback, some sort of rough justice coming into play on account of human indulgence? Is it the result of some kind of wrongdoing on the part of the human race? Is this retribution?’
My response was along the lines of: ‘Well, we’re born. We have a body, and the human body is an extraordinarily delicate and intricate set of organic processes, so it’s natural for things to go wrong. It would be amazing if there was a universal state of health for everybody. I don’t think there will ever be a day when they close all the hospitals because of a lack of sickness, or someone trains as a doctor and can’t find work because nobody’s getting ill. I do not think that will be happening – not in this realm – that’s not the way nature works.’
When we see things in terms of the natural order, it doesn’t mean we’re passive and we don’t take medicine, or that we don’t shelter in our homes from the weather, or take measures to protect our health and the health of others – not at all. We take those steps, but the mind is not adding onto it a sense of wrongness, that: ‘It shouldn’t be this way’, or ‘It’s not fair’, or ’Why me?’ or ‘Why my friends? My mother? My father? My partner? My ajahns? My fellow monastics?’ The mind isn’t adding on that sense of ‘It shouldn’t be this way’ or ’It’s unfair.’
Things might be unfair according to our expectations or our preferences, or even unfair according to the laws of the country, but the mind is not seeing it just in those terms. Rather it is seeing with a broader perspective, with a broader point of view, whereby: if you’ve got a body and you’re alive, then you’re subject to illness and subject to injury. This body is a fragile delicate thing. So, if these viruses are around in the world – and this is a particularly vigorous and easily-spread virus in the human population – and because of the vulnerability of the human system, then it’s likely that there’s going to be an infection coming around. And we are subject to that, just because of being alive and being a part of this living system that we are.
If we reflect on cause and effect and see things with that perspective – not just in terms of relating to the virus but also relating to our human family, our human connections, our children, our parents, our sisters and brothers and the rest of the human world – it has a balancing effect upon the heart. That’s why it leads to upekkhā.
The Buddha encouraged this reflection upon karma and its results, or cause and effect, because dukkha – the stressing, tensing of the heart – is that very feeling of wrongness, that feeling of ‘It shouldn’t be this way; nature is out of order’. The recognition of this as a natural process points to the insight that nature in itself cannot be out of order.
Even when something painful or difficult actually happens – getting a disease and dying, or having an argument with someone and then feeling regret afterwards, or feeling that a friendship has been damaged in some way or broken – to see that it is part of a natural process has an easing effect upon the heart. Say there was an angry feeling; it was acted upon; the result of having acted upon that angry feeling is a sense of alienation from that person we got angry with and a tension in the heart. There is the recognition: ‘That’s the cause; this is the effect.’ It doesn’t immediately repair the friendship; it doesn’t take the words away, but it enables us to see: ‘Well that was painful. That was the cause: having had that conversation, having spoken out of anger, out of self-righteousness and fear. It was a reactive impulse. And here’s the result – OW! That’s the cause, this is the effect. Aha.’ Although there might be a quality of psychological pain on account of what was said or done, there isn’t that feeling of wrongness. There isn’t that feeling of ‘It shouldn’t be this way,’ or ‘This is unfair’. Rather it’s seen in its own light, for what it is.
This is a particularly significant point if the tendency of the mind is to veer towards self-hatred and guilt, which is a common issue for people with a Westernized mind-set. The encouragement to reflect upon karma and its results can be distorted by those afflictive mental habits and, in the blink of an eye, be used to fuel self-view and a toxic type of shame: ‘“I am the owner of my karma...” Yes! And I’m really going to get punished for that one, but I’m sure I deserve it...’.
In Buddhist psychology, the recognition of an action or an attitude as being unskilful is regarded as a sign of spiritual maturity; looking upon it as a painful guilt-trip is not the only way to see it. There are a pair of qualities, hiri and ottappa – translated respectively as ‘conscience, moral sensitivity’ and ‘a wise fear of consequences’ – that enable such recognition. When these are cultivated with wisdom, free from self-view, they serve as reliable guides and protectors, indeed they are known as the lokapāla – ‘guardians of the world’.
When there is such a clarity of vision, the mind can work in a more straightforward and uncluttered way. For example, to see: ‘OK, that happened, now how can we set about repairing our friendship?’ or: ‘Is it an appropriate time to go and apologize?’ or if I look back and I see that: ‘Yes, I was reacting a bit intensely there – I was moved by that angry feeling. So how should I best work with that? What’s the most appropriate way forward with that?’ In this way we deal with our difficulties from a place of clarity rather than a place of reactivity and self-view.
Upekkhā is thus an emotional quality but it’s also a gateway to wisdom, to insight. It’s the gateway to freeing the heart from the habits of self-centred thinking and self-view, and it helps the heart to attune itself to reality, to Dhamma, to the way things are. That is the quality of balance – that’s the centredness. It doesn’t mean that painful things will automatically stop, or pleasant things will automatically arrive – not at all. What it means is that there’s an evenness, a balanced quality – that tatramajjhatatā – that ‘in-the-middle-of-things-ness’, ‘in-the-middle-of-that-ness’. This is a way that we can open the heart and find true serenity in the midst of the challenges and difficulties of living with each other, especially as a consequence of this pandemic, the challenge of being in close quarters and, for many people around the world, having a very radically reordered lifestyle. We can be serene in the midst of all things, regardless.
The Pali word ‘atammayatā’ is familiar to some people, not familiar to others. It’s a rare word in the Pali Canon. It refers to a particular quality of awareness and it’s also connected to upekkhā, to serenity, since the most refined aspect of upekkhā is represented by this term atammayatā.
In the sutta called ‘The Exposition of the Sixfold Sense-Base’ (M 137) the Buddha describes three different levels of equanimity. The first level is called ‘equanimity based on diversity’. It refers to when everything is complex or agitated in the field of sensory experience; this first level of equanimity is the capacity of the heart to be still in the middle of a multiplicity of things. There is a big variety of ‘thats’ – there are a lot of things going on in the world – so in the middle of many ‘thats’, there’s a stillness and stability, a centredness. That is ‘equanimity based upon diversity’.
The next level of refinement is what’s called ‘equanimity based on unity’. There’s an increasing degree of attention and awareness, leading to a disentangling from the contents of thought and sensory activity. With increasing insight and non-attachment the mind lets go of focusing on the details of the experiential world, and there is simply a subject-object relationship. The mind, (subject), is aware of ‘that’ (object). There’s an awareness and there’s the field of perception – the world of ‘that’ – the sense world is unified in suchness and emptiness. So it’s called ‘equanimity based on unity’.
The third level, which is called atammayatā, is variously translated as ‘equanimity based on non-identification’ or on ‘non-fashioning’ – it refers to the level of awareness where, essentially, there is no ‘that’. The word atammayatā literally means ‘not made of that’. It is the letting go of the subject-object relationship. I also like to call it ‘subjectless-objectless awareness’, which is a bit of a clunky term but I feel it is accurate nonetheless. There’s a knowing, but without creating a knower or a known as a subject-object duality. Simply, the heart is awake to the present reality, this present field of experience, without creating a subjectobject division. That is the most refined, complete quality of awareness and, consequently, the most refined quality of upekkhā or serenity. Ajahn Buddhadāsa, one of the great Buddhist masters of this era, in fact named atammayatā as ‘the ultimate Buddhist concept’.
How then does atammayatā relate to the Four Noble Truths, which can also be regarded as the ultimate Buddhist teaching?
The Fourth Noble Truth is the Path Leading to the Ending of Suffering; the Third Noble Truth is the Ending of Suffering. Atammayatā, that letting go of subject and object, is thus one of the means by which the Eightfold Path is fulfilled – how the Third Noble Truth is fully realized by developing the Fourth.
In the sutta called ‘The Great Forty’ (M 117) the Buddha speaks about the mundane Eightfold Path and the supramundane Eightfold Path. The former meaning the Path being followed with lingering attachments to self-view and craving, so there are such attitudes as: ‘I am practising...,’ ‘I want to become an Arahant...,’ ‘I need to get rid of my defilements...’ all of which, as the Buddha puts it, ‘... ripens on the side of attachment.’ The supramundane Eightfold Path is where practice is ‘noble, taintless, supramundane, a factor of the Path,’ and amounts to being one ‘... who possesses the Noble Path and is developing the Noble Path.’ In essence, this means that the Eightfold Path is being developed free from self-view (sakkāya-diṭṭhi) and conceit (māna) – when that Path has been followed to fulfilment, to its ending, then it leads to the ending of dukkha – Nibbāna. I would say that atammayatā is the attribute of mind that clearly knows dukkha has come to an end.
In the teaching to Bāhiya, the Buddha explains:
In the seen, there is only the seen,
in the heard, there is only the heard,
in the sensed, there is only the sensed,
in the cognized, there is only the cognized.
Thus you should see that
indeed there is no thing here;
this, Bāhiya, is how you should train yourself.
Since, Bāhiya, there is for you
in the seen, only the seen,
in the heard, only the heard,
in the sensed, only the sensed,
in the cognized, only the cognized,
and you see that there is no thing here,
you will therefore see that
there is no thing there either.
As you see that there is no thing there,
you will recognize that
you can be located
neither in the world of this,
nor in the world of that,
nor in any place between the two.
This alone is the end of suffering.
(Ud 1.10)
There’s no separateness, there’s no subject and object, there’s no thing here, no thing there – there’s simply the Dhamma awake to its own nature. Therefore I’d say that atammayatā is an attribute of those latter reaches of the Four Noble Truths. It’s the fulfilment of serenity – ‘serenity based on non-identification/non-fashioning’ – since its source is in the complete ending of dukkha, otherwise known as Nibbāna.
I don’t know if such a description of levels is useful or meaningful to everybody, however, I feel it’s a skilful quality to be recognizing that, with mind-states like upekkhā, one word can refer to many things. It has a finer anatomy, it’s got more layers to it than might appear at first glance.
With that in mind, perhaps it will be helpful to describe a few practices that can be used to bring upekkhā to fulfilment.
When we’re developing the first level of upekkhā, equanimity in the face of multiplicity, we start off with the thought: ‘I need to be more still in the midst of all this activity – I need to be quiet and stable in the company of all these people, in the midst of all this stuff going on, amid all these views and opinions. I need to find a place of stillness amidst this blizzard of information coming through the media, the online news services, the newspapers, and with all these people around me.’
So that’s the first level of upekkhā – taking to heart that type of reflection in order to establish a sense of a personal stability in the midst of a lot of activity. For this we also use the feelings of the body as a reference point as these are one of the best ways, for most people, of keying the attention into the current experience. By attending to the body sensations, any habits of stressing, tensing and agitation on the physical level become more apparent. Then, through awareness of those, a relaxation and an integration can be effected.
By bringing attention to the body and noticing whether the body is tense and agitated, or slumped, rather than going along with the habits of the body we train the body to settle, to be at ease, balancing energy and relaxation. When the body has the quality of centredness and ease then, even in the midst of a lot of people, activity and things, your physical form itself is a literal embodiment of serenity – it is at peace ‘in-the-middle-of-that’.
Along with developing body awareness and using those conscious intentions to establish calm in the midst of turbulence and activity, the Buddha also encourages that particular theme of reflection to strengthen upekkhā, as mentioned earlier:
‘I am the owner of my karma, heir to my karma,
born of my karma, related to my karma,
abide supported by my karma.
Whatever karma I shall do, for good or for ill,
of that I will be the heir.’
This is setting the mind in the direction of seeing things in terms of nature, how they all function according to the laws of cause and effect, rather than taking everything personally, as tends to be the case. When that natural lawfulness is recollected it counteracts the reactive habits of mind and rouses an attitude of: ‘Oh yes, of course! How could it be otherwise? It’s not about me, how could it be?!’ There then follows a letting go of fixation on the content of experience, to know it all instead as a process of the natural order. It is realized that all things mental and physical are Dhamma-jāti, ‘born of the Dhamma’, Dhammatā, ‘natural’ and Dhamma-niyamatā, ‘functioning in harmony with natural law’.
To develop the next level of upekkhā or serenity is ‘equanimity based upon unity’, one of the most skilful practices is what is known as ‘inner listening’, ‘listening to the inner sound’ or ‘listening to the nada’. This practice is called nada yoga in Sanskrit. It is possible that some people are familiar with this practice – if you’ve been around the teachings of Luang Por Sumedho and myself, you will have heard us talk quite regularly about using this inner listening, attending to the inner sound, as a focus for meditation.
How does this work? Just as I am speaking right now, or you are reading this in a book later on, there’s the sound of my voice or the shape of these words, but there is, all the time in the background, a subtle continuous high-pitched silvery tone going on in one’s hearing – this is what is called ‘the inner sound’ or the nada. When this is noticed and attended to it’s a reminder that what is being seen and heard, thought and felt, is just the field of perception. It thus draws things together, it unifies all experience. There’s the space of the room, the colours of the carpet and the walls, what’s outside the window, the words on the page – textures, forms, people, sounds – but in the midst of naming those patterns and distinguishing their differences, the inner sound is going on. The inner ringing tone of the nada continues and reminds that: ‘This is all just the experiential field. In this moment this is a single unified event.’
In order to develop upekkhā, equanimity, serenity at this more refined level, ‘equanimity based upon unity’, the practice of inner listening, that continuous listening to the inner sound, can be very beneficial. Whether you are with this person or that person, the sound goes on. Whether you like them or not, the sound goes on. Whether there are people around or no people, the sound goes on. Whether it’s day-time or night-time, the sound goes on. Whether you are happy or sad, the sound goes on. Whatever is comprising the content of the field of experience, the sound goes on.
The inner sound is a sense perception – it’s an auditory experience, a simple vibration – but when used as a meditation object it can evoke a genuine quality of unity, connectedness, uniformity; it embodies a relatedness, a completeness. Its presence is felt in the company of all perceptions; whether the attention is dwelling on something that is seen, heard, smelled, tasted or touched or thought, the nada is there in the background, surrounding all objects and permeating the field of experience. It is like a sea of suchness within which all perceptions and thoughts are swimming. In this way developing that second level of equanimity is well supported by such inner listening, by cultivating nada yoga.
Finally the most refined level of upekkhā, the ‘equanimity based upon atammayatā’, this takes a sustained effort and a scrupulous degree of mindful attention. It takes a clear and energetic focus on atammayatā in the attitude to establish it in any meaningful, real way.
Such a focus entails letting go of the nada sound, letting go of sense objects, letting go of the sense of an experiencer – a talker, a doer, a meditator, a reader, a person – an entity here who is experiencing a world out there. The cultivation of atammayatā involves a letting go of the subject-object duality, to allow the mind to simply be awake to its own reality in a timeless, ever-present fashion. It is thus a truly formless type of meditation, one that’s not based on any kind of structure or fabrication. Even something as subtle as focusing on the inner sound can be obstructive to the quality of atammayatā. It’s a formless quality of mind, so it’s best realized by the non-grasping of any kind of form whatsoever.
The kind of practices useful for establishing and sustaining the acute degree of awareness that is atammayatā are more to do with clarifying obstructive views, attitudes and letting go of them, than they are about creating or ‘doing’ anything. Such practices mostly involve reflective wisdom, investigation and enquiry, these taking the form of internally posed questions or statements that are crafted to challenge the mind’s attachments to time, location, identity, structure and causality.
The ultimate reality of Dhamma was said by the Buddha to be ajātaṃ abhūtaṃ akataṃ asaṅkhataṃ, ‘unborn, unoriginated, uncreated, unformed’; the practices of reflective enquiry are aimed at freeing those fundamental qualities from being obscured by habitual attitudes and conditioning. The kinds of question we use to bring about this clarification are such as: ‘Who am I?’ ‘What is aware?’ ‘Does this moment have an owner?’ ‘Where is here?’ ‘What shape is the Dhamma?’ ‘What makes the universe like this?’
In posing questions of this nature, in the quiet of a meditative space of mind, one is specifically not looking for a conceptual or verbal answer – quite the opposite. When such questions are dropped into the silence of the mind, intuitive wisdom is catalysed and the realization dawns: ‘“Who?” is the wrong question’ or ‘“What?” does not apply’ or ‘“Where?” does not apply’ or ‘“Shape...?” “Cause...?” these do not apply’. The brightening of the insight causes the self-creating, world-creating habits to be interrupted, at least momentarily. There is a gap. A living vibrant silence, a rich peacefulness is revealed. This is the realization of the ‘unborn, unoriginated, uncreated, unformed’ – Nibbāna.
In addition to questions, reflective statements can be used in a similar way. In that same silence of the mind a conscious thought is framed, such as: ‘That which knows the person is not a person’ or ‘The mind is Dhamma, not a person’ or ‘It’s this way.’ The process is identical in that the statement is not made as an opinion to be attached to or defended, rather it is a mental creation, a fact (from the Latin facere meaning ‘to fabricate’ ‘to make’) which awakens the intuitive apprehension, realization of the unfabricated, the ‘unborn, unoriginated, uncreated, unformed’.
The great peace, the rich, spacious brightness of heart that is actualized through this kind of practice is the fulfilment of serenity. It is the realization of Nibbāna, which is the treasure that is found at the end of the Eightfold Path that the Buddha encouraged us to follow.