In Lower Hamlet there is a calligraphy that says, “You are not a creation, you are only a manifestation.” We say this because if there is creation (birth), then there must be destruction. Looking deeply into the heart of reality, though, we see that there is neither birth nor death; there is only manifestation and cessation of that manifestation followed by manifestation in a different form. Only this insight can help us overcome fear of birth and death.

  These verses help us to see that there is no phenomenon with independent self-nature. All phenomena have to rely on each other in order to manifest.

  6. If the fire is different from the fuel

  and can come to the fuel,

  it is like this person can come to that person,

  and that person can come to this person.

  燃與可燃異

  而能至可燃

  如此至彼人

  彼人至此人

  If you say that the fire and the fuel are two different things, and that the fire can come to the fuel, it is like saying that this person can come to that person and that person can come to this person.

  In Buddhist countries many monks register to study in Buddhist institutes, but what they learn does not have anything to do with their daily lives. People attach little importance to applying the meditation practices of sitting, walking, and breathing in their daily lives. Sometimes laypeople give more attention to the practice of meditation than monks do. There are elder monks who have seen this and want to change the situation. The Venerable Paññā from Sri Lanka, who visited Plum Village in 2001, is one of those who has seen that Mahāyāna Buddhism is vital to effect this change. Mahāyāna Buddhism has a penetrating insight into society and can make the teachings of the Buddha applicable for the modern-day. Venerable Paññā has translated a number of my books, including The Sun My Heart, The Miracle of Mindfulness, and the Heart of Understanding: Commentaries on the Prajnaparamita Heart Sutra.* Nowadays many lay practitioners in traditionally Theravāda Buddhist countries are curious about and have begun to look into Mahāyāna sutras because these sutras express the desire to bring an engaged Buddhism into the world. In order to practice diligently, we do not need to go into the forest and cut off all contact with the outside world.

  In Vietnam and China the program of studies is lavish, but what is taught and studied cannot be applied in daily life. In the temples we see a devotional practice that includes prayers for the alleviation of suffering offered in the hope that some sacred powers will help us escape our suffering. We do not see the practice of mindfulness, concentration, and insight. Although there is faith and religious freedom—the freedom to organize the practice—it does not take people far. Buddhism declines not because of external circumstances but because people who practice it profit from Buddhism for the sake of their own interest, status, or position. When we study the Verses on the Middle Way, the Vimalakīrtinirdeśa, the Lotus, or the Śūraṅgama Sutras we have to ask ourselves whether these deep teachings have anything to do with our daily life. Can we apply them when we eat a meal, drink tea, get sad or angry, wish for something, or fall into despair?

  If the fire is different from the fuel

  and can come to the fuel,

  In Sanskrit fire is agni and the fuel is indhana. You can make a compound word agnīndhana—fire and fuel. Only if the fire and the fuel are two different things can the fire come to the fuel. If they were not two different things, how could this one come to that one? It wouldn’t have anywhere to go to!

  When you light a candle you see the flame coming to the candle and you think that the fire is really coming to the fuel, but that is a mistake. You think that the flame and the fuel are separate things—quite different from each other. Is it true that the flame is not the fire? The fuel makes the fire possible. The fire cannot be by itself alone; it must have some fuel in it. So to say that the fire and the fuel can exist separately from each other is to express an impossibility.

  We normally think that the sperm of the father and the ovum of the mother come together to form a fetus, and then a consciousness comes from somewhere to transform the fetus into a living being. This comes from the belief that, just as fire and fuel are two different things, so the fetus and consciousness are two different things. The sperm and the ovum, which combine to form a fetus, are the fuel, and the consciousness—which comes from we know not where—is the fire. This is completely wrong, and yet nearly all Buddhists believe in it.

  We have to understand that Buddhism has different levels. There is popular Buddhism, practiced by the majority, and deep Buddhism, practiced by those with the means to go deep into the teachings. Those of us who have the chance to study the sutras have to let go of naïve beliefs and incorrect ways of looking in order to go deep into these wonderful teachings.

  It is like this person can come to that person,

  and that person can come to this person.

  For example Brother Pháp Đôn comes to Brother Pháp Cần, or vice versa. Clearly—we think—they are two different people. Pháp Đôn is not Brother Pháp Cần, and Pháp Cần is not Brother Pháp Đôn. They are two entities separate from one another—we think—and this makes it possible for one to come to the other. However, if we want to go deep into the teachings we have to reexamine this idea and see that it is not correct. When we speak in this way we believe firmly that it is correct, but in our way of thinking there are errors of which we are unaware.

  In the Āgamas and Nikāyas—the earliest Buddhist texts—the Buddha said, “This is because that is.” It means that all things rely on each other in order to exist. The word “is” in this sentence doesn’t denote absolute existence; it means that all things are interdependent: if this is, that is. Who would dare to deny this? When we hold the marker upright we see an above and a below, and when we hold it horizontally we see a right side and a left. We say that the left and the right arise simultaneously, each relying on the other, and we think that we are correct—that our premise is indisputable. Left and right, good and bad, nirvāṇa and saṃsāra all rely on each other in order to manifest. “Rely” is a verb and a verb must have a subject. What relies? It looks as if there has to be a cloud for there to be floating. If there were no cloud, how could there be floating? If there were no flower, how could there be blooming? If there is floating, there must be a subject that floats, and if there is blooming, there must be a subject that blooms. If phenomena are not yet there, how can they rely on each other? This relies on that, but what relies? To say “laugh” by itself is not enough. There must be someone for the laugh to be possible. If there were not a person in the sentence, then who would laugh? The verb “laugh” has to have a subject.

  This chapter of the Verses on the Middle Way is closely related to the chapter entitled “Examination of Agent and Action.” Action refers to the verb, and if we want a verb we have to have a subject of the verb. When we say: all things rely on each other in order to exist, all the things that rely have to be. But if they are already, they no longer rely on each other! Our way of thinking has many fundamental errors like this, and we are not aware to what degree we are victims of our naïveté. The aim of Nāgārjuna is to show us that neither the fire nor the fuel have a separate being. They do not have a separate self-nature. If they do not have a separate self-nature, what do they rely on? They are not something real; they only exist as notions.

  If you describe a triangle ABC and describe a straight line from C to another point H halfway along the baseline AB, you will have two triangles: AHC and HBC.

  Ask yourself: does HBC arise from AHC, or does AHC arise from HBC? If you say that these two triangles rely on each other to arise, it is easy to understand. Yet, before they are there, how can they rely on each other? That is why the notion of birth is not as good as the notion of manifestation.

  The words of the Vietnamese poet Xuân Diệu (1916–1985)—“I am sad and I don’t know why I am sad”—imply that there is an “I” first and then there is the sadness. Sadness is a mental formation (cittasaṃskāra), and when that mental formation appears we provisionally designate a subject (who is sad) and the object (the sadness). A perception is always a perception of something. Say that all of a sudden a feeling of sadness or a perception arises. We can call this the action. We believe that if there is this action, there must be an agent. Therefore, the view that there must be a subject—the one who is sad, who sees, who goes, etc.—is captivating. The Buddha teaches, however, that that subject—that self—is not really there.

  The Sautrāntika and Pudgalavāda schools arose as a reaction to people who were too dogmatic about the teaching of no-self.

  For example, a monk was sitting in meditation when a woman walked by. Afterwards someone else came that way and asked the monk:

  “Venerable monk, did you see a woman pass by here?”

  The monk, wanting to prove that he had understood no-self, said:

  “I have not seen any woman go by. I have only seen a collection of bones, flesh, marrow, grease, and blood belonging to the thirty-six impure elements.”

  From a practical point of view, such a reply is bizarre; the man who asked the monk if he had seen a woman pass by was not looking for exalted teachings. He only wanted to know if a woman had walked by so that he could go and find her. A more intelligent and compassionate monk not caught in theory would have said, “Yes, a woman just went by.” But the first monk wanted to prove that he was not caught in the idea of a self. The Sautrāntika school arose in response to this kind of dogmatic attitude.

  The Sautrāntika school taught plainly that there is something similar to a self and quoted from the Ekottarika Āgama to prove this: “Bhikshus, there is one person who arises in the world for the benefit of many people and the welfare of many living beings. Who is that one person? It is the Tathāgata, the Arhat, the World-Honored One.”* So, the Sautrāntikas asked, Why do you not admit that the Buddha said that there is a person?

  The Buddha also used everyday language. He used the words “me” and “you,” but he had the insight of interbeing and nonself. When he used everyday language, he did so with freedom. We, however, are still ignorant, so when we use the words “me” and “you” we do not have that freedom.

  Have you ever seen a dried squid? Our body is not very different from the body of a squid. Our human body contains between seven and ten liters of water. If you were to take all the water out of your body, in a few hours you would become a dried squid—you would be very light, and someone could lift you up with one hand. Nevertheless, in us are also the Dharma body (dharmakāya), the retribution body (saṃbhogakāya), and the transformation body (nirmāṇakāya) of the Buddha. In us there is also the understanding of the Buddha and that of all our spiritual ancestors—together with the afflictions and the suffering of past generations. We believe that when this body is a dry corpse, our spirit will separate itself and go somewhere else to be reborn. This is the belief in a Bardo or intermediate state. Here the body does not eat noodles or rice, but it can eat the fragrance of the food. This is a dualistic conception of our body and spirit. We think that the body is like fuel and the spirit is like fire, and that if the fire is not there, the fuel cannot come alive; we think there must be a consciousness that comes into the body and makes it a living reality.

  In Chapter Four I wrote about the mausoleum of the king Zhao Mo in Guangzhou. When the mausoleum was excavated in the 1980s, the archaeological team exhumed royal seals and gems and discovered remains of the members of the king’s retinue (his doctor and his harem) thought to be needed by him, buried alive alongside him. The king’s surviving subjects acted in this ruthless, inhumane way—burying his retinue alive—because they believed that after the body disintegrates, there is a spirit that goes to the other world and a fetus into which the deceased will be reincarnated.

  Is there an immortal soul that leaves this body after it disintegrates in order to be reborn somewhere else, or not? If we do not understand the deep teachings of the Buddhadharma, we will not understand the idea of saṃsāra and rebirth, and we will be caught in popular beliefs. If we have a chance to go deeply into our study of Buddhism and we are still caught in these popular beliefs, all our time studying has been wasted. We all have an opportunity to study the deep teachings. If King Zhao Mo had had that opportunity, he would not have allowed his doctor and trusted servants to be buried alive.

  The insight of the Buddha is very great. If we are able to realize this insight, we will overcome fear, suffering, and anguish. The grace of the Buddha is also great. This grace is the insight he transmits to us. Most Buddhists pray for the Buddha’s grace, but many do not inherit the true understanding of the Buddha.

  When we learn about consciousness we have the tendency to exclude what is not consciousness—like the body or the feelings. We do not realize that the body is also consciousness. How do we know that the body is there? Isn’t it thanks to consciousness? When we think, “I know my body is here,” this is a perception, and a perception can be wrong. Perception is always perception of something. The words “I know” refer to our knowledge of the object of our perception. Every perception must have an object.

  In the Manifestation-only teachings we learn that all of our perceptions and mental formations have at least two parts: the perceiver and the perceived, or the subject and object of perception. In Buddhist terminology the perceiver, or subject, is called darśanabhāga (literally, “the part which sees”) while the perceived, or object, is called nimittabhāga (the “sign part”). We say these two parts rely on each other to manifest and call their source the svasaṃvittibhāga (“the self-witnessing part”). We can compare the perceiver and the perceived with the heads and tails of a coin; both sides of the coin arise simultaneously, just like the left and right side of a pen. No side comes first before the other. The fuel is not already there waiting for the fire to come along; fire and fuel arise simultaneously. They do not come to each other. The sperm and the ovum are not there before consciousness arrives. Seeing this helps us to overcome the omnipresent dualism in our mind. The two sides of the coin symbolize the perceiver and perceived. The metal of the coin represents what we can provisionally call the self-witnessing part. It is the foundation from which both perceiver and perceived—subject and object of perception—arise.

  When we hear the Buddha say that consciousness conditions the psychesoma, we tend to differentiate the body (soma) from the mind (psyche). In truth, psychesoma (nāmarūpa) is a composite; we could not possibly take a knife and cut it into two separate parts.

  One notion is consciousness, another is psychesoma, and another is the five skandhas. The Buddha used these notions to teach and transmit the practice. We can talk in terms of one, two, or five. In the five skandhas the body (rūpa) is one skandha and the mind (nāma) is the remaining four (feelings, perceptions, mental formations, and consciousness). A toothache is a painful feeling. The painful feeling (belonging to mind) could never arise if there were no teeth (body). In the same way, you cannot say that fire can exist without fuel. In Plum Village we say: “You are not a creation, you are a manifestation.” The manifestation has two parts: the perceiver and the perceived. This manifestation relies on a substratum just as the wave relies on the water. If you can accept the idea of manifestation you have taken a crucial step; although you are not completely free, the view that there is only manifestation helps you realize that there is no birth. Without birth there is no death. By removing the idea of birth, you remove the idea of death.

  As you turn a kaleidoscope it manifests beautiful forms. When you turn it again, it manifests different forms—just as if the forms were being born and dying. In fact nothing is born and nothing dies. That which we call form (body) is not different from mind. All the wisdom and the experience of our ancestors is present in every cell of our body. An inheritance of experience has been transmitted to each of our cells—the suffering, despair, happiness, and wisdom of our ancestors. Modern science can prove this. Scientists have the capacity to recreate a whole person from one cell. In the one there is the all. Our ancestors were human beings, but they were also animal species, plants, and minerals. In Buddhism, when we look deeply we see that everything in and around us is consciousness (vijñāna).

  A snail is not an architect and never went to a school of architecture, yet it builds a well-proportioned and wonderful shell. That is the talent of consciousness. Theists would call it God’s creation, but students of Manifestation Only call it “the manifestation of consciousness.” Looking at a snail we feel reverence and great respect. It has wisdom and experience. All the species on earth inherit the experience of their ancestors. There are animals that know how to camouflage themselves so that predators—thinking they are a piece of bark—will not come and eat them. Humans and all species aim at survival to avoid extinction. Although other species do not think like humans, they think in their own way. As we learned earlier, bees have the wisdom to return to the place where there is food without needing to find their hive first after being moved to a new location. The brain of the bee has a cognitive map. This talent arises from their consciousness and can be seen in the part we call body (rūpa). We as animals also benefit from the wisdom that other species have handed down to us.