The Four Maras Seduce and Bind us to Suffering
- Published 09/30/2008
- Wisdom
- Unrated
Thai mural depicting the Buddha's defeat of the maras
Agents of Samsara
WHEN THE BUDDHA WAS ON THE VERGE of realizing enlightenment, he was attacked by the daughters of Mara. Mara is the seductive quality of mind that continually tricks us into thinking that the endless circle of samsara contains some kind of essence or fulfillment. There are many kinds of maras, but we generally talk about four.
The first mara is called skandha mam. The Sanskrit word skandha means "heap." The five skandhas—form, feeling, percep¬tion, formation, and consciousness—bind things into appear¬ances that are seemingly real. As a result of this process, we think the self is real, when it's actually only a pile of elements. The mind that considers itself solid then pulls the environment together and tries to make it solid, too. This is the mara of becoming.
The skandha mara sees our table as separate and says that it's "mine." We are seeing inaccurately, misjudging appearances and trying to make them something they're not. As we do this, mind itself becomes an object; we think our thoughts are real.
The next mara is called klesha mara. Klesha is a Sanskrit word that means "affliction." It's a shock wave that occurs as a result of trying to hold everything together. When klesha arises, the mind no longer rests in its natural state of peace. It is afflicted with negative emotion, like having a disease.
When the mind is relaxed, it doesn't see things as objects. It's in a fluid state. But when the mind sees solid objects and starts hold¬ing on to them, the reverberation is anger or desire. When we have what we want, the klesha mara then hijacks our satisfaction using jealousy or pride. When we are possessed and consumed by klesha, acting on it seems logical. Upon the basis of this faulty reasoning, we embody faulty behavior into our consciousness. Then the next time we feel aggression or desire, we have an even stronger basis for believing it's real, and the negativity arises even more quickly.
If we've meditated for a while, our mind becomes more spa-cious, and the tendency to feel upset decreases. However, mara can continue to trick us by con-vincing us that because we're on a spiritual path, we're justified in believing our klesha. Mara is like an infection: it begins slowly, but at a certain point it consumes us. Anger is pretty obvious, but jealousy and pride are sneaky. Instead of recognizing the signs, we're suddenly telling ourselves, "He doesn't deserve that!" or "How dare she do that to me?"
The third mara is called devaputra mara, the mara of pleasure. Because the mind is unhappy in itself, it seeks pleasure somewhere else—from praise, a compliment, food, a relationship, or entertain¬ment. As meditators, it's not that we can't have fun. The point is to remember that most of the pleasures out there eventually turn ugly. We're often so devoted to the concept of pleasure that we don't no¬tice when the pleasure is turning into pain. We keep thinking we're having a good time because we want to be, even though the plea¬sure is long gone. The traditional Buddhist analogy is that we're licking honey from a razor blade: it seems like pleasure, but all of a sudden it cuts us. Maybe we meet somebody we think will bring us happiness, but soon we're disappointed that they haven't met our expectations. The relationship has moved from pleasure into pain. The point is not to feel bad about our experience, but to look at what the world is showing us. The maras add up: in order to chase after pleasure, we have to have the first and second maras. First we think we're real; then we have desire, which is fixated on something that isn't inherently what we think it is, but on what we want it to be. This approach to life is like eating a banana split: it's dissolving, so we want to eat it more quickly because we're still holding an image of what we're trying to get. The teaching is not to abstain, but to recognize that there's nothing to abstain from. Actually, we are projecting what we'd like to see in the situ¬ation, which is simply a reflection of our perception.
Finally, we have the yama mam. Yama is the word for death. The yama mara is about our strong conviction that death comes at the end. This fools us by imputing a solidity to life. Believing in a final event leads us to create a framework in which life is real. The Buddhist teachings tell us that life is actually an illusion. Although it's a little late, it's usually only just before we die that we recognize how illusory the whole thing is. One of my teachers, Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche, said that as we're lying on our deathbed, life looks like the movement of a lama dancer's robes, as fluid as cloth in the wind. Our whole life we regard death as finality, but like life, death is also illusory. Who is the individual dying? Who is living? Is anybody actually there?
Knowing that death will happen makes life more precious but no less fluid. Our concept of death is a mara of permanence that instigates a backward chain reaction: death is real, life is real, I am real, and what I do is real. This view solidifies everything. Yet be¬cause all phenomena are changing continuously, even the present moment is not an absolute truth. Science has shown that even the amount of space between atomic particles is vast, like outer space. We are always in a fluid and fluctuating situation. When death comes it seems as if the situation is gone, but it was coming and going the whole time. Because yama mara has fooled us, we've taken that coming and going and called it a "self" who dies.
Knowing that samsara is made of elements that fool us, we have to be mindful and pay attention. When we fail to do this, we fall for the maras' tricks. It's important to be mindful of the environment, but what's more important is to be mindful of our
attitude toward it—not having a lot of desire or fixation; know-ing when we're moving from having enough to excess. In Tibetar the word for having had enough is chokshe. My father, Chogyarr Trungpa, called it "meek." Meek is a quality of contentment; wi have a meal, and we know when it's enough. The mind that is no content keeps eating and then feels bad.
We could adopt the transcendent view and see samsara a emptiness and luminosity—the true nature of things—but ou mind doesn't always abide in the nature of things. Being in th world requires discipline and self-awareness. "Discipline" doesn necessarily mean to make our beds and brush our teeth, but ti discern what is virtue and non-virtue and be mindful of what i important. What is most important? What happens in the mine
The mind is like the wind. Unless we take hold of it, the mara will fool us. The way we orient the mind is called the path, an op portunity to direct our life, as well as its outcome. Life is just a expanded day. We can avoid falling into the maras' seductive pil falls by using each day to meditate and then step on the path wit a focus—to be mindful, to contemplate life's dreamlike qualit or to look carefully at "pleasure" before giving chase. When \\ do this, we are creating a sustainable internal environment will have a potent effect on our world.
The first mara is called skandha mam. The Sanskrit word skandha means "heap." The five skandhas—form, feeling, percep¬tion, formation, and consciousness—bind things into appear¬ances that are seemingly real. As a result of this process, we think the self is real, when it's actually only a pile of elements. The mind that considers itself solid then pulls the environment together and tries to make it solid, too. This is the mara of becoming.
The skandha mara sees our table as separate and says that it's "mine." We are seeing inaccurately, misjudging appearances and trying to make them something they're not. As we do this, mind itself becomes an object; we think our thoughts are real.
The next mara is called klesha mara. Klesha is a Sanskrit word that means "affliction." It's a shock wave that occurs as a result of trying to hold everything together. When klesha arises, the mind no longer rests in its natural state of peace. It is afflicted with negative emotion, like having a disease.
When the mind is relaxed, it doesn't see things as objects. It's in a fluid state. But when the mind sees solid objects and starts hold¬ing on to them, the reverberation is anger or desire. When we have what we want, the klesha mara then hijacks our satisfaction using jealousy or pride. When we are possessed and consumed by klesha, acting on it seems logical. Upon the basis of this faulty reasoning, we embody faulty behavior into our consciousness. Then the next time we feel aggression or desire, we have an even stronger basis for believing it's real, and the negativity arises even more quickly.
If we've meditated for a while, our mind becomes more spa-cious, and the tendency to feel upset decreases. However, mara can continue to trick us by con-vincing us that because we're on a spiritual path, we're justified in believing our klesha. Mara is like an infection: it begins slowly, but at a certain point it consumes us. Anger is pretty obvious, but jealousy and pride are sneaky. Instead of recognizing the signs, we're suddenly telling ourselves, "He doesn't deserve that!" or "How dare she do that to me?"
The third mara is called devaputra mara, the mara of pleasure. Because the mind is unhappy in itself, it seeks pleasure somewhere else—from praise, a compliment, food, a relationship, or entertain¬ment. As meditators, it's not that we can't have fun. The point is to remember that most of the pleasures out there eventually turn ugly. We're often so devoted to the concept of pleasure that we don't no¬tice when the pleasure is turning into pain. We keep thinking we're having a good time because we want to be, even though the plea¬sure is long gone. The traditional Buddhist analogy is that we're licking honey from a razor blade: it seems like pleasure, but all of a sudden it cuts us. Maybe we meet somebody we think will bring us happiness, but soon we're disappointed that they haven't met our expectations. The relationship has moved from pleasure into pain. The point is not to feel bad about our experience, but to look at what the world is showing us. The maras add up: in order to chase after pleasure, we have to have the first and second maras. First we think we're real; then we have desire, which is fixated on something that isn't inherently what we think it is, but on what we want it to be. This approach to life is like eating a banana split: it's dissolving, so we want to eat it more quickly because we're still holding an image of what we're trying to get. The teaching is not to abstain, but to recognize that there's nothing to abstain from. Actually, we are projecting what we'd like to see in the situ¬ation, which is simply a reflection of our perception.
Finally, we have the yama mam. Yama is the word for death. The yama mara is about our strong conviction that death comes at the end. This fools us by imputing a solidity to life. Believing in a final event leads us to create a framework in which life is real. The Buddhist teachings tell us that life is actually an illusion. Although it's a little late, it's usually only just before we die that we recognize how illusory the whole thing is. One of my teachers, Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche, said that as we're lying on our deathbed, life looks like the movement of a lama dancer's robes, as fluid as cloth in the wind. Our whole life we regard death as finality, but like life, death is also illusory. Who is the individual dying? Who is living? Is anybody actually there?
Knowing that death will happen makes life more precious but no less fluid. Our concept of death is a mara of permanence that instigates a backward chain reaction: death is real, life is real, I am real, and what I do is real. This view solidifies everything. Yet be¬cause all phenomena are changing continuously, even the present moment is not an absolute truth. Science has shown that even the amount of space between atomic particles is vast, like outer space. We are always in a fluid and fluctuating situation. When death comes it seems as if the situation is gone, but it was coming and going the whole time. Because yama mara has fooled us, we've taken that coming and going and called it a "self" who dies.
Knowing that samsara is made of elements that fool us, we have to be mindful and pay attention. When we fail to do this, we fall for the maras' tricks. It's important to be mindful of the environment, but what's more important is to be mindful of our
attitude toward it—not having a lot of desire or fixation; know-ing when we're moving from having enough to excess. In Tibetar the word for having had enough is chokshe. My father, Chogyarr Trungpa, called it "meek." Meek is a quality of contentment; wi have a meal, and we know when it's enough. The mind that is no content keeps eating and then feels bad.
We could adopt the transcendent view and see samsara a emptiness and luminosity—the true nature of things—but ou mind doesn't always abide in the nature of things. Being in th world requires discipline and self-awareness. "Discipline" doesn necessarily mean to make our beds and brush our teeth, but ti discern what is virtue and non-virtue and be mindful of what i important. What is most important? What happens in the mine
The mind is like the wind. Unless we take hold of it, the mara will fool us. The way we orient the mind is called the path, an op portunity to direct our life, as well as its outcome. Life is just a expanded day. We can avoid falling into the maras' seductive pil falls by using each day to meditate and then step on the path wit a focus—to be mindful, to contemplate life's dreamlike qualit or to look carefully at "pleasure" before giving chase. When \\ do this, we are creating a sustainable internal environment will have a potent effect on our world.