Discussion on Mahasi and Other Theravāda Meditation Traditions Regarding Awareness and Insight
A few days ago, a member of a meditation group forwarded me an article where someone was criticizing my views, arguing that I don't understand Mahasi meditation and the nature of insight. The article was quite lengthy, but since it isn’t the main focus here, I won’t include it.
During my response, the discussion evolved further, especially regarding the concept of "awareness." Some members opposed my views, others agreed, and some remained uncertain, hoping I could elaborate more on the issue of awareness. However, since group chats are too fragmented for in-depth exploration, I decided to write this article.
To provide context for readers outside the group and because I find some of the chat logs valuable, I am sharing them first. In a couple of days, I will write another article to delve deeper into the topic.
Below is the conversation log. Since I haven’t included others’ responses, the discussion may seem a bit disjointed and less rigorous, but the overall meaning remains intact.
The Nature of Awareness and Insight in Mahasi Meditation
Mahasi meditation indeed produces some unusual cognitive experiences that are rare in ordinary life. This method, along with other Theravāda meditation traditions, emphasizes cultivating awareness. However, no matter how strange the observations become—whether experiencing a movement that seems both present and absent or perceiving the supposed dissolution of mind and matter—the essence of it all remains within the realm of perception and awareness.
How can one define movement, insight, or the disappearance of mind and matter without relying on perception and awareness? These elements belong to the five aggregates (form, feeling, perception, volition, and consciousness), which the Buddha described as like a disease, an abscess, a weapon, a thorn. People disregard the Buddha's instructions to distance themselves from the aggregates and instead cultivate them; they ignore his teachings on detachment and instead increase attachment. How can such practices align with the Buddha’s path?
In Myanmar, Thailand, the United States, and other traditions, the approach remains the same—cultivating awareness. But as awareness grows, so do form, feeling, perception, and volition, leading to an increase in the five aggregates. When the five aggregates expand, suffering arises. How can a practice that intensifies suffering be called the correct path? Instead of treating the aggregates as obstacles, practitioners treat them as companions, not extinguishing them like a fire but seeking to make the flames burn stronger and more extraordinary.
This way of thinking emerges from a fundamental misunderstanding: Practitioners interpret the Buddha's teachings as follows—"The five aggregates are not self, meaning they are external to me. I mistakenly take them as self and as good things, which leads to attachment and suffering. If I recognize them as impermanent, non-self, and impure, I will stop grasping at them, and suffering will cease."
On the surface, this reasoning appears consistent with scripture, but it is based on an initial assumption of a "self" and a misunderstanding of the aggregates and grasping. The entire framework operates under the premise of an "I" making judgments and actions.
Consider this scenario: If there is no self, then the act of grasping the five aggregates could not exist. Imagine person B says, "Person A hit me." But upon reviewing the surveillance footage, it turns out person A doesn’t exist. In that case, how could person B have been hit? Likewise, if grasping is understood as the act of clinging, and the five aggregates are considered objectively existing entities, then there must be an entity—the "I"—that clings to the aggregates.
If the Buddha’s teaching implied such an understanding, it would mean he accepted the existence of an enduring self or subject. However, that is clearly impossible. Thus, common interpretations of the aggregates and grasping are inconsistent with the correct Dharma.
The Buddha did not describe the aggregates as merely subjective or objective realities—he spoke of them truthfully and directly. Take form (rūpa) as an example:
If we set aside all externally imposed viewpoints—whether from physics, chemistry, or Buddhist philosophy—and rely solely on firsthand experience, we can conduct a simple experiment. Close your eyes and touch an object. What do you feel?
Softness? Hardness? Coldness? Warmth?
You will notice that only these sensations arise. This is one aspect of how we perceive materiality—it is our direct reality. This is rūpa, the form aggregate. Our understanding of physical matter is based entirely on these direct experiences. However, each contact does not occur in isolation; mental activity is always involved.
A simple example: Listening to a piece of music feels pleasant. But why does it feel pleasant? Is it the musical notes themselves that produce pleasure? Clearly not—songs are composed of individual notes, yet some pieces sound good while others sound unpleasant.
Regardless of whether the music is enjoyable or not, in each moment, we only hear isolated notes. Yet, as each note arises, memory and thought process it, integrating previous sounds into a coherent musical experience. This integration is saṅkhāra, volition or mental formation. That is, when auditory consciousness arises, corresponding volition follows, leading to perception (saññā)—for instance, recognizing a song.
It is this perception that produces pleasure and the judgment that the music is "pleasant."
The Buddha taught that the ear and sound give rise to auditory consciousness; when the three interact, contact (phassa) occurs, which generates feeling, perception, and volition.
Theravāda meditation methods commonly teach that by continuously observing sights and sounds as arising and ceasing phenomena, one will develop detachment. However, simply recognizing impermanence does not necessarily lead to dispassion.
For example, everyone knows that short videos on smartphones are artificial—nothing actually exists in the phone, and the images on the screen are impermanent and ever-changing. Yet, people do not abandon them. This explains why many practitioners feel profound insights during meditation retreats but revert to old habits upon returning home.
Because of this inconsistency, people place their hopes on eventually attaining nirvana, believing that seeing nirvana itself possesses an inherent power to destroy desire completely. Whether this approach works, only those who have experienced it firsthand can truly know.
I do not claim that Theravāda teachings are fabricated, but I do state objectively: Seeing impermanence does not necessarily lead to detachment. In reality, detachment enables one to see impermanence—not the other way around.
If concentration is strong, impermanence becomes visible. But merely perceiving impermanence does not generate true detachment. Just as people know smartphone videos are impermanent, artificial, and fleeting, yet they remain absorbed in them, unwilling to turn away.
What people truly cherish has never been the objects they seem to love—whether or not they are real, lasting, or substantial. Instead, what they love is the mental concept formed in their minds and the pleasure it brings.
Understanding this, we see that all recognition—whether of the vast universe or simple tactile sensations—is constructed through integration. Without integration, knowledge does not exist.
For those who have read about my meditation experience, they know that I once practiced Mahasi-style meditation and cultivated awareness diligently. But one day, I became utterly exhausted and asked myself: "If I stop being aware, does that mean knowing ceases?"
Through this realization, I discovered that so-called awareness is merely conditionally arisen—it has no special capability beyond that.
From then on, instead of cultivating awareness, I focused on eliminating the arising of all forms of knowing until I genuinely reached the cessation of knowledge. Only then did I realize—everything is built upon knowing.
Without knowing, everything ceases.