The Profoundly Underestimated Dharma
It's been a long time since I’ve written.
Some friends have asked me why my public account hasn’t been updated for so long—whether I’ve been publishing on other platforms.
No, all my articles are first published here on my public account (Lin Mu Qing Jing).
Others have asked if I’ve started holding offline meditation retreats or offering online guidance.
I haven’t. Up to now, I have not formally taught meditation to others.
I've been sharing my meditation experiences online for three years now. During this time, many people have urged me to create a study group or hold in-person retreats. I often consider this idea, but I believe that to teach others, one must not only have deep mastery but also be able to convey it accurately and without error.
So whenever I contemplate teaching meditation, I systematically review my experiences and methods, mentally simulating how I would guide others step by step from theory to practice—just as if I were teaching in person.
Then, I take the perspective of a listener, scrutinizing my own theories and methods, identifying potential doubts that might arise, and resolving them.
If I encounter questions that I cannot fully answer, it means my understanding is still incomplete. I pause my simulations and either engage in deeper contemplation or consult classical scriptures. If the issue remains unresolved, I set aside the idea of teaching and continue my own meditation practice.
If no unanswerable questions arise, I document the key insights and organize them into an article. Then, I approach it as a beginner, practicing according to my own written methods. Throughout this process, I refine and optimize them until I am convinced they are truly effective in achieving their intended goal. Afterward, I set them aside and focus on my personal meditation practice.
I reason that if, upon revisiting these theories after a long time, they still hold firm, then I can use them to teach others. However, more often than not, within days or weeks, as my meditation progresses, I discover gaps in the methods. So, I abandon the idea of teaching until some future moment when the thought arises again, repeating the entire process from the beginning.
Occasionally, I feel I’ve gone too long without an update, so I publish some of my more well-formed ideas online. But soon enough, I notice their shortcomings again. As a result, updates have become less frequent, and I have yet to systematically teach others.
Although this approach hasn't provided much direct benefit to others, it has been invaluable to me personally. Every time I summarize my meditation experiences, it allows me to reflect on and consolidate my progress, deepening my understanding while identifying potential issues. Additionally, by constantly considering these concepts from a listener’s perspective, rather than just my own viewpoint, I frequently recognize my own blind spots.
In the last two years, I’ve been hoping to make meditation more accessible to my family and friends. This has expanded my target audience beyond those already familiar with Buddhist teachings—now including people with no prior exposure to Buddhism. As a result, I must explain things in everyday language rather than technical Buddhist terminology.
In adopting this approach, I realized that many commonly used Buddhist terms were only superficially understood—even by myself. This led to the realization that, when translating them into plain language, many theories became vague, logically inconsistent, or even contradictory.
For example, consider rūpa (form), one of the five aggregates. I had always assumed it referred to physical matter or the smallest unit of substance. But if I replace rūpa in the scriptures with "matter," then a passage like "When craving arises, form arises; when craving ceases, form ceases" becomes incomprehensible. How can objective material existence depend on personal desire?
Similarly, consider vedanā (feeling)—which includes pleasurable and painful sensations. But what exactly is pleasure or pain? They are emotions. And what are emotions? Psychological processes. And what are psychological processes? Thought, sentiment, willpower, and more. But what exactly are those?
At first, it seems like the more detailed the explanation, the clearer the concept becomes. Yet, the deeper you probe, the more elusive it remains—like trying to scratch an itch through a thick boot.
Take "aggregates" (skandha), for instance. The common explanation is that they signify "accumulations." But in what manner do they accumulate? Does something gather together to form feeling, perception, volition, and consciousness? Or do countless minute units of "feeling" cluster together into a mass of feeling? If human existence is the accumulation of the five aggregates, how exactly does this accumulation occur?
Another example: "Impermanence is suffering; suffering is non-self." In the Buddha’s time, this reasoning seemed like common sense—even his disciples and non-Buddhists answered accordingly. But applying modern interpretations of impermanence as "changeable," suffering as "painful" or "undesirable," and self as "identity," this reasoning appears illogical.
After all, things can change for the worse or for the better—who would automatically assume all change is suffering? If suddenly everything in the world froze—never improving, never deteriorating—how many people could truly accept that? Even if everything were perfect, human nature inclines toward novelty—unchanging perfection might itself become suffering.
Even if people disagree, the next step—suffering equates to non-self—becomes even more questionable. How would a person's self-identity fluctuate based on pleasure or suffering? If all painful experiences were deemed "not me" or "not mine," then wouldn’t extreme suffering bring ultimate detachment? In that case, who would still experience suffering?
The same gaps appear in understandings of the Four Noble Truths, Four Foundations of Mindfulness, Five Desires, Six Sense Bases, Seven Factors of Awakening, Eightfold Path, Dependent Origination, and more. I’ve studied various meditation masters and ancient commentaries on these concepts, but many explanations are either forced interpretations or vague terminology replacing other vague terminology.
These are foundational elements of Buddhist teachings—the core principles taught by the Buddha. If I myself cannot truly grasp their accurate, tangible meanings through firsthand experience, how could I possibly teach others?
Thus, on one hand, I deepened my meditation practice independently, striving to ensure that every Buddhist teaching—large or small—is verified through direct experience, rather than relying on external interpretations.
On the other hand, I meticulously studied the Āgama scriptures, word by word—not assuming modern meanings but investigating classical Chinese grammar and historical usage. I cross-referenced various translations of the same passages within the Tripitaka, comparing different translators’ interpretations. Coupling this with my direct meditation experiences, I examined the scriptures objectively and rigorously.
Through this prolonged investigation and experiential verification, I was astonished to find that this pursuit of truth itself was the path to liberation. Even more incredibly, as I dissolved the gap between theory and practice, I encountered a form of Dharma entirely distinct from what people commonly understand—one that the Buddha conveyed in the most direct, clear, and unmistakable manner.
Some may wonder—how can I be sure this is the true Dharma?
The answer is simple: True Dharma, irrespective of era, never depends on time or conditions. No matter how the world or life evolves, no matter the advancements in science, philosophy, or religion, no matter whether Buddhism remains in existence or disappears—anyone who encounters it will immediately know it as the ultimate truth.
Even if the entire world believes in a different doctrine and calls it "truth," it wouldn't create the slightest doubt. Even if the Buddha himself stood before him and contradicted his understanding, he would recognize the Buddha before him as false.
Such certainty does not arise from mystical experiences, blind faith, or extraordinary abilities. Rather, true Dharma is not just liberation—it is supreme wisdom, a perfect understanding of worldly and existential reality, a comprehensive discernment of truth and falsehood.
In simple terms, it is the theory of everything that scientists and philosophers dream of—an ultimate explanation of the universe and life, an unassailable truth incapable of falsification.
More than that, through the Buddha’s skillful teaching, it is something anyone can verify firsthand through observation and reasoning. It is a system that anyone can immediately put into practice, and one that, at the moment of practice, completely eliminates suffering—even transcending birth and death.
The world has profoundly underestimated and misunderstood the Buddha’s teachings. People today only recognize the words of the Dharma while remaining oblivious to their real meaning.