出三藏記集 6.14

6.14

Now, the mind is the sprouting root of all suffering, the primordial origin of deviating from correctness. Unbridled and wanton, adrift without bound, it is like a madman with nothing to rely on. Affection and aversion fill its core; it is steeped in benightedness without measure, like barbarian tribes lacking a ruler. How subtle it is! Approaching it, there is no form; seeking it, there is no omen; thus a hair's tip is not enough to illustrate its minuteness. How swift it is! Tumbling and flitting, it circles the universe in an instant; thus racing lightning is not enough to compare with its speed. Therefore, in the snap of a finger, there are nine hundred and sixty transitions; in a day and a night, one billion three hundred million thoughts. Every mental impulse must invite retribution, forming the planting seeds of birth and death. What is sown in a single lifetime spreads and entangles for kalpas on end. All ordinary beings within the three realms who cling to inverted views sink and drown in this deep abyss, none able to return by themselves. The Rightly Awakened One, out of loving-kindness and compassion, opened and revealed the path of wisdom, guarding against the gradual origins of their final calamity and blocking the subtle omens of their anger and desire. For them, he opened the essential path of ānāpāna: obliterating arising and ceasing so as to enter dark tranquility, unfolding the limbs of awakening so as to nourish serenity, establishing the ten wisdoms so as to enter the subtle, binding the unrestrained feet of the nine spirits, and damming the torrential flow of the seven consciousnesses. Hence it is called 'guarding the mind.' As for those who subdue coarse defilements without cutting away the fetters of outflows, there are also those who, hoping for a pleasant outcome, shut out sights and sounds from their vision and hearing, quell worldly thoughts through dhyāna stillness, take advantage of the auspicious signs of tranquil calm, and receive the splendid blessings of the form heavens. Yet their correct purpose becomes lost in flourishing pleasures, and their past practice is submerged in mutual ease. As they pridefully grasp at their field of merit, it diminishes by the day; the roots of poison arise in succession, and their transgressions follow upon them. Thus they transmigrate through the five destinies, hard to extricate for millions of kalpas; caught in the snare of desires, their plight is worse than a deep prison. That this is brought about is entirely due to lacking wisdom, delighting in concentration, and not contemplating the gates to the path. As for entering dhyāna by relying on wisdom, there are also three classes. Those who, fearing suffering, extinguish form, delighting in resting in nirvāṇa, and whose intentions rest upon saving themselves without striving to benefit others as well, belong to the unattached vehicle (the Arhat vehicle). Those who look up and hope for the wondrous marks, still having something to cast off as nothingness, and who do not establish great compassion to thoroughly smelt away the fetters of conditions, are called pratyekabuddhas. As for the bodhisattva, they profoundly realize the root of existence and thoroughly understand the nothingness of conditioned arising. To realize the root is that existence itself is empty; to understand nothingness is that conditioned arising is constantly tranquil. Because it is of itself empty, they do not emerge from existence to enter nothingness; because it is constantly tranquil, they do not exhaust conditions to return to emptiness. Abiding in the principle, existence is not an object of conditions; because it is not an object of conditions, there is no nothingness from which to be freed. If one can settle the mind and grasp the essentials, awakening to the principle upon contacting existence, then one does not rely on the external to quiet the internal, nor does one depend on dhyāna to accomplish wisdom. Hence it is said: 'An avaivartika does not follow the four dhyānas.' If worldly dust obscures the mind so that wisdom does not constantly stand firm, then one relies on ānāpāna to put an end to galloping thoughts, just as a farmer clears his field, or as one polishes and scrapes a bright mirror. Yet weeding and tilling is not done for the sake of the ground itself; rather, when the ground is clear, the seeds flourish. Polishing and scraping is not done for the sake of the mirror itself; rather, when the mirror is clean, it shines clearly. Therefore, when an enlightened being practices dhyāna, it is not for the sake of preserving stillness, but for letting the mind roam in the dark mystery. Beginning with the initial aspiration, their vows of compassion are vast and universal; holding expedient means and accumulating merit, they forget their own timeline to bring peace to the multitude. Although the multitude is delivered, no one is freed [as a separate self]; one discards knowledge and sets aside the fish trap. This is called the bodhisattva not extinguishing thoughts to realize the fruit. Although these three vehicles equally rely on the tranquility of dhyāna, when it comes to establishing their intent, their beginnings each have their own destination. Therefore, practitioners should broaden their minds with grand plans and plant their seeds right at the start. In the decline of the Han dynasty, there was a renunciant enlightened being named An Qing, courtesy name Shigao, the crown prince of the King of Parthia. Discerning the floating impermanence of glory and disgrace, and viewing life and death as an unbroken thread, he cast off the bonds of a royal court of ten thousand chariots, embraced dark virtue, and roamed to transform others. Expounding the teachings of the Path to dispel blindness, he manifested spiritual transformations to inspire trust. At that time, outstanding men who returned to the source, discarding outer elegance to venerate reality, were like birds and beasts following the qilin and phoenix, or scaled and shelled creatures hurrying toward the dragon and great tortoise. Furthermore, he was broadly conversant with diverse customs and skilled in the languages of many countries. He transmitted this sūtra, transforming it into Jin prose. The translations he produced exceeded a million words; plumbing and thoroughly expressing profound subtleties, they were deep, abstruse, and hard to fathom. As for this ānāpāna scripture, although its text is concise, its meaning connects with all sūtras; from the shallow to the refined, all practices are fully set forth. Among the first essentials of study, what could surpass it? If a practitioner desires to concentrate the spirit and return to simplicity, delivering the path without limit, and yet does not follow this method, how does that differ from a man with amputated feet climbing Mount Tai, or one attempting to ascend the void without wings? Śākyamuni Tathāgata's wondrous wisdom was already sufficient in previous kalpas, and he passed through countless [eons] secretly transforming beings. When the karmic circumstances of sentient beings were complete and announced as fulfilled, he still manifested six years of practice to serve as the start of the teaching. Truly, to settle and unify confusion, nothing surpasses this! Viewing it from this perspective, can one not apply oneself to it? I, Xie Fu, have been tainted by habit and submerged in darkness, accumulating transgressions across kalpas. Born apart from the Buddha, I have not witnessed his spiritual transformations. Although by slight fortune I have been able to receive the bequeathed scriptures, my emotional thoughts are entangled and overgrown, and my roots of the Path are not yet firm. Looking up with joy to the holy tracks, I have not yet stepped on them even for a moment; morning and evening I am fearful and trembling, distressed as if grieving. Therefore, with a sincere heart, I chant and recite them so as to amass learned habits; whenever I encounter the bright and wise, I always inquire about my sticking points. Yet the dark ancestral truth is already remote, and semantic explanations differ slightly. Thereupon, I gathered the words of the eminent and gathered them together for recording. Although I had heard the general outlines, those who had not awakened were many. Thereupon, following my humble thoughts, I examined and checked the various enumerations, searching for clear evidence, and successively compiled them into an annotated commentary. I also extracted corresponding matters from various scriptures on the practice of the Mahā-ānāpāna, citing and combining them. Sometimes I arranged the hidden and the manifest together to slightly ease the trouble of searching. The path of the scriptures is grand and deep; it is neither something my shallow mind can assess, nor can my coarse phrasing express one part in ten thousand. It only adds defilement to the principle; how dare I say it is sufficient to elucidate and fuse the wondrous meaning? In truth, I only wished to record privately what I know to prevent forgetting. If there are readers, I hope they will understand my shortcomings and correct my foolish errors.