Post #67: Concentration and Equanimity

29 Sept. 2023

Deep states of concentration—not only in meditation, but perhaps especially there—can be immensely impressive and gratifying: they reveal inner possibilities of power and delight that the ordinary mind can only dream of, and it is hardly surprising that the attendant mind-states so often become matters of fascination, even preoccupation. The reassurance and rapture to be found within when the mind truly clears for a change can be formidable assets on the Path, though they can also become serious obstacles because they are such obvious objects of clinging and craving.

Meditating with a dull or unfocused mind, on the other hand, be it just a temporary clouding over or a more general lack of sharpness, usually feels so feeble and unavailing, so boring and pointless, and hence, almost inescapably, so frustrating, that is difficult to keep up for any length of time. Such are the parched desert stretches of the Path, and they come with none of the deep satisfaction that makes a fruitful practice stand out against the background taint of the unsatisfactory that characterizes life according to the Four Noble Truths.

It is no wonder, then, that so many schools of meditation put almost all the emphasis on training one’s mind to become more concentrated, usually with a practical technique centered on observation of the breath (anapana). Indeed, to the popular mind, and for many meditators themselves, a serious session on the mat may look practically synonymous with commanding a sharp, clearly focused, well-concentrated mind. Wielding a dull or scattered or severely agitated mind, on the other hand, one barely seems to be meditating at all, only stewing in one’s inadequacies. Hence the perfectly logical inference, so often heard from non-practitioners, that they do not feel calm enough to meditate (Post #54), as if that were a precondition for getting started, and not a fruit of perseverance, on a good day.

The Vipassana school, while by no means slighting the benefits of concentration, insists that the heart of the practice must be sought somewhere else, namely in equanimity. The two meditative dimensions have much in common, of course, and will often be found, in practice, to go hand in hand. Both are matters of degree, requiring diligent practice and long habituation; neither can just be wished into existence. There seems to be an inner bond between the two that will tend to keep them together, or running in parallel, as they deepen and develop. They may also lead, ultimately (that dangerous little word), to the same heights by different routes; but along the way, at least, the connection is by no means a necessary one. Thus it is quite possible, indeed not very unusual, for the mind to be profoundly concentrated, but not very equanimous at all—such as when one is utterly focused on a blissful state of mind that one does not want to lose, for example. Without even realizing it, perhaps, one is clinging and clutching, acutely attached to the delights of the moment, thus the very opposite of being equanimous with one’s sensations, whatever they may happen to be. On the other hand, it is equally possible, though much more difficult, to remain equanimous even with the most scattered and agitated mind, provided one finds a way to observe the turbulences in all their unpleasantness (or even wretchedness) with detachment and dispassion.

So the power of concentration, when present, is bound to be sharply felt and prized not a little, sometimes taking one to such remarkable and memorable inner destinations that they have been given a formal designation: the jhánas. (Descriptions of what exactly they entail differ somewhat in detail, but the common element is that they are extraordinary and intensely desirable, which by itself points towards the dangers of attachment that naturally inhere in them.) But when such concentration is absent, alas, there is not much to be done; it is just not to be had for the time being. Worse still, it is subject to impermanence to an eminent degree and can be lost at any time, be it to spells of tiredness, or to sickness and accidents, or to mercilessly advancing age, or to any other vagaries of the moment, dramatic or mundane. Not that equanimity is immune to impermanence, of course, but it can rise above it in a manner that concentration cannot, because one may well remind oneself, to good effect, of the need to remain equanimous under any circumstances, whereas calls to pay more attention serve little purpose when one’s concentration fails and one’s powers of vigilance departs along with it.

Stories are told in the Pali canon of monks who fell gravely ill and found themselves quite unable to “bear up” under the strain; their concentration dried up, their meditation went to pieces (or seemed to do so), and they were driven to despair by the sense that their practice was failing in the hour of need, leaving them not only in physical agony, but also feeling useless and unworthy; some even killed themselves. To recall them to concentration would have been pointless; they were no longer capable of it under such dire circumstances. So what the Buddha said to console them was that equanimity remained within their reach: even in their misery, they should still be able observe the impermanence that was manifesting itself in their newly unstable minds and pain-racked bodies, and liberation would come, now no less than before, from realizing that all this swirling stream of experience in fact had no self at its center (Samyutta Nikaya 22:89). Not that this realization comes easily, to the healthy or the sick, the clear-minded or the scatter-brained; but it does not, in any case, depend primarily on concentration, however beneficial a focused mind may be. Even the tranquil acceptance of one’s lack of equanimity, in the moment or in general, can bring a measure of second-order equanimity, by the back door as it were. And the Buddha’s advice is said to have helped even the most desperately ill to die with serenity.

On the beginner’s side, putting too much emphasis on concentration looks even more misplaced and unhelpful to me. Why would any of us feel the need to get established in a demanding meditation practice in the first place if we carried calm and focused minds as a matter of course? That we do not commonly do so (far from it!) looks to me like the very premise of the undertaking, and I see no point in telling beginners to aim for anything like a clear or calm, let alone an “empty” mind, lest they conclude, quite logically as I’ve said above, that they must therefore not be fit for even trying. Struggle as they may, they will not be able to keep their minds fixed on the given object for more than a few fleeting moments, not through any fault of theirs, but because sustaining such focused attention requires training.

Any approach that leaves newcomers to their own devices in such a cruel quandary risks doing them a grave disservice; what they need to be told instead, again and again—a key meditator’s mantra, not just for beginners—is that concentration will come and go on its own schedule, never yours, and that it must therefore never be expected either to turn up on time (by your watch) or to stick around for long on the blessed occasions when it does show itself. Without in any way belittling the great boon of concentration, it would be wiser and more practicable to direct one’s practice towards something less elusive and more reliably attainable—namely the equanimity with which one can learn to observe one’s concentration failing, if need be, and which slowly nurses in oneself the patience to start again and again, every time (see Post #11), with a smile at the impermanence and of it all and at the tenacity with which we cling to the very delusions of self that make things so hard for us.

With a base camp firmly grounded on equanimity, one may well be able to work one’s way up to loftier peaks, at least occasionally; but one should never be surprised or disappointed by the another relapse, and another, no matter how high the trail on which one finds oneself traveling. Let me be clear: concentration is a very fine thing to have. I wish I had more of it. But given that mine still wobbles like a nutshell on a creek often enough, I am glad beyond measure for the traces of equanimity that I’ve been able to pick up along the way. That they too don’t amount to anything very impressive in my case, Buddha knows. But for a Beggar’s Buddhist, every little bit counts…