Seeking the Present Moment to Dwell in Peace

In the middle of the afternoon in the lecture hall, the steady hum of ceiling fans blended with the breathing of hundreds of monastics listening intently. Pale golden sunlight streamed through the gaps in the doors, falling upon their brown robes. The atmosphere was solemn in a remarkable way; only the voice of the lecturer could be heard, each word pouring gently into the hearts of the listeners.

Today's sutra was very short, just a few lines of verse: "Do not pursue the past, do not long for the future. The past has already ceased, the future has not yet arrived. Only the present dharma—insight is right here. Unmoving, unshaken—knowing this, one should practice." Yet the more one reflected on these words, the more they seemed like a direct pointer to the very heart of spiritual practice.

The lecturer looked around the hall and asked:

"Now I would like to ask you, venerable monks and nuns, to show me what the present moment is. Only when we know it can we dwell in it, right? Otherwise, how could we possibly dwell in it?"

The whole hall fell silent. A young monk sitting near the front bowed his head, seemingly deep in thought. The lecturer smiled and encouraged him:

"Please, monk—Monk Phuong, is it? What is the present moment?"

The monk who had been called upon hesitated a little, then answered:

"Venerable Sir, the present is the state of consciousness at the very moment we make contact with the senses and their objects."

The lecturer nodded, then turned to another. This one replied:

"Venerable Sir, the present is sitting here and listening to this talk."

Another spoke in a warm, deep voice:

"The present is impermanence (anicca)."

The lecturer laughed heartily:

"Wonderful! You monks have all awakened!"

But then he explained slowly, his voice growing deeper:

"In ordinary terms, the present seems like our sitting here right now. But this 'sitting here' carries a bit of the past and clings to a bit of the future. For example, the sentence I just spoke—it has already flowed into the past, yet we still consider it the present. And the things I am about to say belong to the future. So the present moment we experience is actually flowing, but it spans a stretch reaching into the past and reaching into the future. Within the bounds of that stretch, we call it the present."

He paused, letting the words sink into each listener. Then he continued:

"However, when we look into it with deep wisdom, that stretch of the present grows narrower. When the mind is full of wandering thoughts, the present is very wide, dragging along a broad stretch of the past and a distant stretch of the future. Ask someone, 'What is the present?' and they answer, 'I am a monastic, my temple is holding an assembly, I am studying the teachings.' That answer spans a vast stretch of time, from past to future, showing that the person's mind is still scattered. Ask another person, and they say, 'Today we went to a communal meal.' Their present has narrowed to a single day. Ask yet another, and they say, 'I am sitting in class.' The present has narrowed to two hours. But ask someone with truly settled, still mind, and they look straight into the present and see that it does not exist. In a single instant, it has already flowed past into the past. They look into its nature: the present does not truly exist."

The lecturer looked around, his expression solemn:

"So why did the Buddha teach us to dwell in the present? What does that mean? It means that when we go searching for the present in order to dwell in it, that very act of settling the mind in search makes the stretch of the present grow narrower. From a month, to a day, to an hour, to a minute, to a single instant, and then it vanishes. When the present vanishes, where does the mind dwell? Precisely in the place where time no longer exists. And when there is no more time, there is no more object to think about, and the mind becomes pure."

He emphasized:

"This is a very important subject of meditative insight. Sometimes we do not need any other method—simply searching for the present is already a special practice for gathering the mind. The only pity is that we cannot sustain it for long. Once we leave the classroom and step outside, the moment anything happens, time stretches out again. Those who can sustain it always see that the present does not exist, the past does not exist, the future does not exist. So where do they dwell? They dwell in the pure mind."

He paused, then continued as a word of caution:

"But one must be careful. Some people hear that the mind pervades the three lifetimes, and they sit there imagining their mind pervading all space and time. That very imagining mind is a kind of scattered mind, and it leads to delusion. We do not go searching for that all-pervading quality, because it is imagination and the inflation of the self. We only seek the state where there is no time, no object to give rise to thought. As for the mind naturally pervading the three lifetimes, that is its own natural reality, not something we imagine."

He concluded slowly:

"Insight is right here—meaning we see our own mind in each instant. Whatever method we practice, reciting the Buddha's name, investigating a koan, observing the breath, or contemplating this sutra, in the end we all arrive at the same point: seeing each thought arise and cease. When we see those subtle states of mind, the deep-seated tendencies of greed, hatred and delusion, jealousy and anger within, then true virtue appears. But if we practice without inner insight, then even if we maintain outward decorum and precepts, inside we remain an unswept heap of refuse."

The lecture hall was still. Each person seemed to be looking inward at themselves. The lecturer smiled gently, gazing over everyone:

"Let us try to practice. Whenever wandering thoughts arise in the mind, remember this sutra: let go of the past, do not long for the future, and look straight into the present. Then, little by little, the present itself dissolves, and the mind returns to purity."

From that time on, many monastics in the hall began applying this method in their daily lives. Whenever their minds grew scattered, they remembered the teaching: narrow down the present moment, do not let it stretch into the past or the future. Gradually, their minds grew calm and gentle, and a sense of peace arose with each breath, each step. They understood that the path of practice is not about chasing after something far away, but about turning back to look at oneself in each present instant.

The Meaning of the Story

The sutra "The Sage in a Single Night" teaches us a method for gathering the mind: letting go of the past, not longing for the future, and dwelling only in the present. But when we look deeply, even the present does not truly exist—it is only a concept created by consciousness. When we narrow the present until it vanishes, the mind has no object to cling to, and it becomes pure. That is the true place of dwelling, the foundation from which insight arises, seeing one's own mind clearly in each instant and transforming all afflictions (kleshas).

Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thich Chan Quang