The question, “Is the practice of vipassanā the application of viriya (energy), sati (mindfulness), samadhi (concentration) but only when it generates wisdom (paññā), more specifically ñāṇadassana (knowing and seeing)?” echoes through the ages, leading us to the very heart of Buddhist meditation. For many, sati (mindfulness) and paññā (wisdom) emerge as distinct, yet often vaguely understood, concepts. Yet, a closer examination of the Pāli Canon, illuminated by early commentaries and contemporary experiential insights, unveils a nuanced, dynamic relationship utterly crucial for the path to Nibbana.
Mainstream translations of sati as “mindfulness” frequently miss its original, vibrant essence. As previously explored in this blog, sati stems from sarati, meaning “to remember.” This isn’t passive recollection; it’s an active, sustained “remembrance” or “holding in mind.” Picture someone caught in a churning river, desperately clinging to a rock to resist the currents. This resolute, unwavering retention of a mental object against the onslaught of sensory experience embodies sati. The Mahāniddesa, an ancient commentary, expands sati to include “observation, returning attention, carrying, non-floating, un-forgetfulness.” It represents the “faculty of staying with an object,” the “ability to hold onto an object by letting go of others.” This continuous effort to “keep the breath in mind” or to fixate on a single meditation object, akin to holding a number in one’s head, is foundational for developing samādhi, or deep concentration. The sheer power of memory, diligently cultivated, stabilizes the mind.
However, a well-honed sati, even one yielding profound samādhi, does not automatically assure liberation. The Buddha consistently highlighted that Nibbana arises through paññā, a “knowing and seeing” of phenomena yathābhūtaṃ—”as they have become” or “as they truly manifest.” This discerning wisdom transcends mere intellectual speculation; it is direct, penetrative vision. If sati offers unwavering attention, then paññā directs and qualifies that attention. Here, yoniso manasi karoti—”properly keeping in mind” or “rightly attending to”—becomes pivotal. It transforms ordinary attention into a penetrating gaze aimed at the “source (yoni, lit. womb) of existence,” revealing how our world is continuously fabricated.
The essence of this cultivated paññā within meditation centers on observing the “rising and falling” (udayabbaya) of all phenomena, particularly the five aggregates of clinging (pañcupādānakkhandhā) or the six sense spheres. Rather than passively consuming the “movie” our senses project, the meditator actively “sees” each individual “frame” of experience. This calls for a deliberate, non-conceptual “tagging” or “noting” of what arises, an internal “saying” or “thinking” of a brief, precise label such as “impermanent” (anicca), “suffering” (dukkha), or “not self” (anatta).
Consider the powerful instruction given to Bahiya and Malunkyaputta: “in the seen, just the seen; in the heard, just the heard.” This is no invitation to sensual indulgence. Instead, it is a clarion call to intercept the mind’s habitual tendency toward “proliferation” (papañca)—to construct elaborate narratives, judgments, and self-identifications from raw sensory data. By immediately “tagging” an experience as “impermanent” or “this is not mine,” the meditator aims to “stop short” the mind’s operations, disrupting the momentum that otherwise fuels “delight” (nandi) and “passion” (rāga), and thereby the incessant “becoming” (bhava) of suffering.
The cumulative effect of this practice, sustained “very often” (nibbidābahulo), leads to profound “disenchantment” (nibbidā). As the constant flux of phenomena—sights, sounds, feelings, thoughts—is observed in its ephemeral, unsatisfactory, and selfless nature, the mind gradually loses its interest in them. This nibbidā then yields virāga (dispassion, fading away), culminating in nirodha (cessation) and ultimate vimutti (release). As the venerable Sāriputta explained, Nibbana itself can be profoundly understood as the “cessation of the six sense-spheres.” When the mind ceases to “take up” (upādāna) any object, even for a moment, the entire cycle of suffering is momentarily extinguished.
For the earnest meditator, comprehending this dynamic interplay extends beyond mere academic pursuit; it is a practical blueprint for liberation. The path illuminated by the Buddha does not involve becoming a superhuman, but rather realizing the inherent freedom that arises from seeing reality exactly as it is. This demands consistent effort (viriya), unwavering presence of mind (sati), and profound stability of attention (samādhi), all expertly guided by the clear, incisive insight of paññā. When these faculties are diligently cultivated, observing the unfolding dance of our own experience without attachment, we too can approach that pivotal moment where “neither knowing nor learning grow,” for then, we truly “know.”
Aniccaṃ rūpaṃ bhikkhu “aniccan” ti passati. Sāssa hoti sammādiṭṭhi. Sammā passaṃ nibbindati. Nandikkhayā rāgakkhayo, rāgakkhayā nandikkhayo. Nandirāgakkhayā cittaṃ vimuttaṃ suvimuttanti vuccati.
The monk sees the impermanent form thus “impermanent.” This constitutes his right view. Seeing correctly, he becomes disenchanted. With the waning of delight, passion wanes. With the waning of passion, delight wanes. With the destruction of delight and passion, the mind is de-tached. “Fully de-tached,” thus it is said.
Let us heed the call for direct observation, for indeed, the goal is “to be realized personally, each by himself.” The lamp of Dhamma is held high, illuminating the path for all who dare to look.
