Knowing and Doing

On an early autumn morning, with the temple courtyard still damp with dew, a man in his early forties came to see me. His eyes were full of anguish, and his hands were clenched tightly, as if pressing down on something that had weighed on his heart for a very long time.

He was a Buddhist who had practiced meditation for more than ten years. Every day he sat for two hours, recited the sutras regularly, kept a strict vegetarian diet, and observed the precepts rigorously. Yet strangely, in all those ten years, he had never once entered meditative concentration. His mind/heart was like a monkey leaping from branch to branch, wandering from one distracting thought to another. He had tried every method there was—counting the breath, observing the breath, reciting the Buddha's name—but none of it worked.

"Venerable teacher," his voice cracked with emotion, "I have practiced so diligently. Why can I not enter meditative concentration? Am I lacking in blessings from merit, or have I been following the wrong method?"

I looked at him and clearly saw the suffering (dukkha) of someone who had poured out sweat and tears for ten years without any result. But I knew that the problem did not lie in his diligence.

"Do you think that a person's practice and realization is a private matter belonging to that person alone?" I asked.

He nodded, looking surprised. "Yes. Those who practice are the ones who realize. Those who eat are the ones who are filled. Those who cultivate are the ones who attain. That is what I believe."

"But the truth is not so," I said slowly. "A person's practice and realization is connected to the whole of the Buddha's path. It is not the private affair of any individual."

His eyes widened in confusion. I continued: "You have practiced with tremendous diligence, yet the conditions for attaining the way have not come. That is because the collective conditions of the Buddha's teachings (Dharma) have not yet ripened. Meanwhile, some people naturally find their mind/heart entering meditative concentration, and wisdom arises in them, because the collective conditions of the Buddha's teachings (Dharma) have ripened, and that person's own conditions align with the whole. It is simply that person's time for wisdom to blossom, for enlightenment to dawn."

He sat in silence for a long while, as if swallowing every word. I could see tears welling in his eyes.

"But teacher, what am I to do then?" his voice trembled.

"First, understand this principle clearly: before doing anything, you must know it thoroughly. It is like wanting to build a house—you must know the design, the materials, and the cost. You want to enter meditative concentration, but do you truly know what meditative concentration is? Have you prepared enough?"

He blinked. "I think I know. I have read many books on meditation."

"Reading books is not enough," I shook my head. "Some books are written by people for whom realization came easily. They practiced for a short while, entered meditative concentration, and then wrote a book. Anyone who follows such a path goes astray. Other books are written by those who practiced through great hardship, passing through many difficult stages. Only such a book holds real experience for you to learn from. But even after reading, you must also find a teacher."

"I already have a teacher," he said quickly. "I follow a meditation instructor."

"Is that teacher skilled in both practice and teaching?"

He hesitated. "My teacher practices well, but his teaching... is rather hard to understand."

"There lies the problem," I nodded. "Some people are skilled in practice but not in teaching. Some speak beautifully but put little into actual practice. You need a wise master who both practices deeply and teaches well. Yet in sixty years, there may not be a single such person to be found. You may simply have to accept a lack of conditions, a lack of blessings from merit."

He sighed, his shoulders sinking.

"But do not lose heart," I offered gently. "First, pray that all the Buddhas will bless you to find a wise master. Then study very carefully, and slowly. Meditative concentration is the pinnacle of practice, and it demands even more preparation than other things. Organizing a single ceremony takes two or three months of preparation. A single dharma talk requires nurturing its theme for months, even years."

He looked up, his eyes brightening. "Then what should I prepare, teacher?"

"Before turning to meditative concentration, have you cultivated your moral character? Have you done many wholesome deeds? Do you know how to recite the sutras, keep a vegetarian diet, help others, and make sacrifices? Have you studied the scriptures thoroughly? If not, do those things first. Only when you feel that the time has come to enter the serene stillness of your inner mind/heart—only then is that stage truly ripe."

He nodded, his face gradually softening. I saw a new glimmer of hope in his eyes.

"Thank you, teacher," he said, his voice much lighter now. "I understand. I will no longer rush. I will prepare myself more thoroughly."

He rose, bowed in farewell, and walked out into the temple courtyard. The sun had climbed high, dispersing the morning mist. Watching him go, I thought to myself: knowing and doing seem simple enough, yet they hold within them a truly great lesson.

The Meaning of the Story

The story emphasizes a fundamental principle: one must know clearly before acting, and the more thorough the preparation, the greater the chance of success. In practice, especially in meditative concentration, one should never rush, but must prepare fully in moral character, blessings from merit, knowledge, and the guidance of a wise master. A person's practice and realization is also bound to the collective conditions of the Buddha's teachings (Dharma); it is never a purely individual matter.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thích Chân Quang