One of the foundational wisdom teachings in Buddhism is emptiness, which is sometimes addressed through the concepts of impermanence, dependent origination, or selflessness. These concepts illuminate the insubstantial nature of phenomena and the ineffable experience of emancipation—the truth that we are already free.
Nevertheless, these wisdom teachings, whether conveyed in dharma talks or meditation instructions, are often presented philosophically and analytically, cloaked in technical Buddhist jargon, rendering them inaccessible to many. Moreover, they are frequently expressed through the traditional apophatic language of negation, framing everything as impermanent, devoid of inherent essence, and lacking enduring substance. The way language shapes our perception of these teachings only compounds the issue, fostering misunderstandings and evoking a sense of pessimism.
Limits of Apophatic Language
Language holds profound importance, as it provides perspectives and pointers toward insight. Indeed, our perceptions are conditioned by it. Our entire lives—the ideas of who we are, the concepts we hold about the world, the narratives of our experiences—are built upon words and language. It forms the scaffolding for the architecture of our identity, our aspirations, and our development. It also mirrors the workings of our brain. One reason we are drawn to apophatic language is that our brains are wired to detect threats, designed for survival rather than liberation or even happiness.
If we are to practice these wisdom teachings to dismantle the confines of selfing and othering—the root cause of suffering in our lives and the world—we must expose how our use of words and language conditions us.
The Buddha taught that there are four reliances in practice: rely on the meaning, not the words; on the teachings, not the person; on wisdom, not mere intelligence; on ultimate truth, not conventional truth. These principles reflect a fundamental distrust of words and language, while acknowledging the ineffability of buddhadharma. The core purpose of this teaching was to liberate us from the pervasive yet subtle tendencies of grasping, reifying, solidifying, or identifying with experiences as self.
In the practice of dharma, it’s important to clearly understand the Buddhist notion of self. On a superficial level, the “self” refers to the ways we relate to our own feelings, ideas, and views. You could say this self has two dimensions: a subjective sense of self and a narrative sense of self. It is subjective, because it is a localized sense of ourselves as the “experiencer,” the “doer,” or the “witnesser” of what’s going on in and around us. It is narrative, because we are able to connect this sense of who we are from the past to the present and future in time.
These two dimensions of the superficial sense of “self” are really side products or natural functions of our brain. We are naturally, neurologically wired to produce a sense of subjectivity. We also, for cultural and social reasons, create stories about ourselves. Both processes help us to function in the world. But we do not have to give them more meaning than they deserve. Awakening allows us to be free from the self-grasping that drives our actions. For example, the Buddha was well aware of his subjective experience that, at any given moment, afflictions were absent. In his response to the world, there was only the natural functioning of his mind without self-referential grasping. This is wisdom, prajna. He was also aware of what was going on around him. When his disciples did something foolish, he readily corrected them. This is compassion, karuna.
Awakening is not an altered state of consciousness, nor is it some special, blissful experience. An awakened person functions perfectly and intelligently in the world, interacting with people using words, language, concepts, and memory. The difference between delusion and awakening lies in the absence of fixation, reification, and rigid identification. In other words, the Buddhist teaching of no-self is about not making everything into a thing, not mistaking the natural functioning of our mind—the thoughts, feelings, views, and memories, which are side products of subjectivity—as fixed, rigid, and permanent.
The “selfing” to which the Buddhist teachings refer can be very subtle. Many assume that self-attachment is merely selfishness or a conscious process, which is only partially true. At its subtlest, self is an unconscious, nonconceptual, prelinguistic, deep-rooted continuum of grasping and identification that flows unnoticed beneath discursive thought. It is inconceivable, because it grounds our very existence, making us feel inherently “us.” We cannot recognize this subtle sense of selfing because we have never experienced otherwise. This subtle continuum of self-grasping persists whether we are awake or asleep, permeating all experiences. This is why the Buddha noted that even in the highest states of samadhi or dhyana (Pāli: jhana), such as neither perception nor nonperception, the self remains present. In such a refined, ecstatic state, this continuum is the identification with such experience.
In Buddhist awakening, this subtle continuum of grasping, identification, and reification can suddenly cease. The early scriptures describe this as the “cessation of existence”—the nir in nirvana. But there is no need to cling to this apophatic expression of early texts, especially in our modern times, as it risks sounding nihilistic.
In Chan, awakening is conveyed cataphatically, or positively, as “wondrous existence.” It is wondrous not because it is “special”; it’s just that the filter of selfing is gone, so everything becomes natural and ordinary, truly down-to-earth, nothing special. In this state, the world comes to life in its immediacy; everything unfolds as a new beginning, instant by instant, fresh and unburdened by clinger or clinging. Also, everything functions seamlessly; our senses—eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, mind—operate unimpeded and even enhanced, because the self is no longer in the way.
In this freshness and immediacy, seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, touching, and thinking lack any inherent thingness. This is why the Malunkyaputta Sutta states, “If you see a sight, mindfulness is already lost.” Many might find this peculiar—aren’t we supposed to be mindful when seeing, hearing, and so on? Yes, but ordinary experiences are oppositional, with the continuum of identification and reification intact, perpetuating selfing and othering, experiencer and experienced. Thus, the sutta clarifies that this is not true mindfulness. When form is perceived as a sight, as a real object of perception “out there,” then selfing and othering are present, giving rise to craving or aversion.
Yet when the subtle self-continuum ceases, phenomena are experienced without selfing or othering. Chan master Hongzhi (1091–1157), founder of “silent illumination,” describes this in his Acupuncture Needle of Meditation:
Knowing without encountering things; illuminating without opposing conditions. Knowing without encountering things—the knowing is inherently subtle. Illuminating without opposing conditions—the luminosity is naturally wondrous. This knowing is inherently subtle—it does not involve discriminating thoughts. Illuminating is naturally wondrous—there are no signs of haste.
This passage portrays the awakened mind engaging the world without selfing or othering, free from discrimination or contrivance. The wondrous, luminous mind is your true nature. In apophatic terms, you’re already empty. In cataphatic language, you are already free! The problem is we constantly identify with this or that as self, ensnaring ourselves and others.
At the practical level, how do we integrate emptiness into daily life, regardless of which tradition of Buddhism we practice?
Dismantling the Coarse Self
First, we should learn to appreciate “emptiness” as boundless possibilities and “impermanence” as new beginnings. Concretely, we learn by exposing the habitual ways words and language shape our experiences. When we think “I like this” or “I don’t like that,” “I’m not good enough” or “I am traumatized,” we are creating shackles for ourselves, reifying our experience. Liberate yourself from these shackles. When difficulties arise, observe your old reactive patterns and respond with a different perspective: “Oh, that’s interesting,” or “Great, a new beginning,” or “What possibilities!” This flexibility, seeing experience as possibilities and new beginnings, embodies emptiness. Shift our perceptions, and psychophysiological responses will align.
In seated meditation, whatever arises—thoughts, feelings—should be exposed, embraced, transformed, and released. What is exposed? The reactions to leg pain, backache, or wandering thoughts, and so on. In embracing and accepting them, we reframe the experience. Frustrated by distractions? That’s fine; neither grasp nor suppress them, nor stir emotions. Remain unfazed, nonchalant. Let thoughts flow freely while maintaining fascination with the embodied experiencing of your method of practice. Know that self-criticism, doubt, vexations, or frustration can neither define nor contain you. Such thoughts and feelings are merely habits. Why let habits confine you? You are already free! Not identifying with arising thoughts, feelings, and views is the practice of emptiness. Experiencing them as wondrous displays of possibility is emptiness in action.
Not identifying with arising thoughts, feelings, and views is the practice of emptiness. Experiencing them as wondrous displays of possibility is emptiness in action.
Genuine practice unfolds at life’s junctures, not confined to the cushion. Every moment offers opportunity and new beginnings. People often emphasize the “present moment,” yet, truthfully, there is no such thing. “Present” is merely a word, not a tangible thing. As soon as it is uttered, it vanishes. It points to no referent, serving only as a convention, marker, or placeholder. We cannot anchor our practice in concepts.
Instead, emphasize embodied practicing at the junctures of life: the junctures of tensions, physical or emotional; the junctures of contacts, where senses meet objects; the junctures of changes or transitions, when plans falter; and the junctures where words exhaust in wonderment, not-knowing, and curiosity. The superficial self always manifests vividly amid discomfort or uncertainty. At these junctures, expose, embrace, transform, and let go of old patterns. Relax into these moments, reframing them cataphatically as possibilities and new beginnings. This, too, is emptiness practice.
Getting accustomed to this daily practice will take time, as we are wired for predictability. Cultivating new possibilities demands patience.
Dismantling the Subtle Self
Over time, such practice diminishes selfing and othering, loosening the deep-seated continuum of grasping. We grow comfortable with ambiguity and uncertainty. Self-rigidity becomes porous and open.
Emptiness practice transcends mere nonreactivity and reframing; it encompasses cultivating generosity, humility, gratitude, and compassion—all embodiments of selfless wisdom. In traditional terms, this is bodhicitta, the altruistic mind. There is no need to view it as lofty; practice it anywhere by supporting others, volunteering your time, skills, or resources.
Humility arises by acknowledging our errors, and we do so through contrition, not concealment. Gratitude emerges from recognizing that all we have—such as knowledge or possessions—stems from the contributions of others. This recognition will inspire natural gratitude to others and the environment. “Letting go” is often bandied about superficially, but it is the same as offering ourselves, doing what we can to support those in need. Compassion is actually emptiness in action.
Approaching practice from all angles chips away at the subtle self-continuum. At the same time, it benefits those around us. Practicing in this way allows us to cultivate the fertile ground for emancipation.
Once, there was a young monk in his 20s, practicing with fierce intensity yet unwittingly steeped in self-centeredness. He regarded seated meditation as the pinnacle of the path, retreating to the cushion at every opportunity, even at the cost of communal duties and service to others. In the depths of samadhi he tasted peace, but amid the entanglement of daily interactions and responsibilities, his composure waned, spurring him to practice even harder. He cast blame outward, tracing his discord to others and to the irreconcilable split between stillness and activity, inner aspiration and outer demand.
This pattern held until, one year, his teacher left the young monk alone at the meditation center and traveled to his home monastery abroad. Bereft of guidance, the young monk doubled down on what he took to be diligence. Yet his anguish only mounted. Neither prolonged sitting nor scriptural study brought relief.
At the peak of his incongruity, he remembered something that his teacher said to him about bodhicitta: “Body like a rag, mind like a mirror.” In that moment, he relinquished his rigid regimen and offered himself wholly—taking up the tasks no one wanted, cleaning what others avoided, all with lucid, single-pointed attention. Preferences, self-referential views, and fixed notions of “proper” practice eroded under this steady labor. Months passed without formal meditation; “body like a rag, mind like a mirror” became his teacher.
One quiet night, passing the Chan Hall, he simply sat. As his breath settled and his body relaxed into the ground, he suddenly perceived the arising and extinction of a single thought. The force of that extinction shattered his body, mind, and world. In an instant, the self as subtle continuum vanished. For the first time, the world was unfiltered, radiant, already free. That state lingered for a month. When the subtle continuum of grasping quietly resurfaced, he recognized the self for what it was: a hollow habit of identification, vacuous yet potent enough to color every perception and choice. His practice continued anew. Whatever identifications and reifications he had were released as possibilities and new beginnings.
This story illuminates the peril of self-referential striving; it reveals the efficacy of the cultivation of generosity, humility, gratitude, and compassion from the practice of “body like a rag, mind like a mirror.” These practices were the causes and conditions that led to the young monk’s embodiment of emptiness.
Thus, emptiness should not be seen as a philosophical concept. It is actually an action, a practice. First, we dismantle the superficial self by seeing through our reliance on words and language and not identifying with whatever comes up. Then we dismantle the subtle self through compassionate action, literally acting selflessly. The practice of emptiness allows us to embody the freedom that we already are.
