3.3.12. The Ground of Being

“There is that dimension where there is neither earth, nor water, nor fire, nor air; neither the dimension of the infinitude of space, nor the dimension of the infinitude of consciousness, nor the dimension of nothingness, nor the dimension of neither perception nor non-perception; neither this world, nor another world, nor both; neither sun nor moon. Here, I say, there is no coming, no going, no staying; no passing away and no arising. Unestablished, unevolving, without support: this is the end of suffering.”

— Udāna 8.1, translated from the Pāli

It feels as though the long arc of my seeking has brought me at last to a threshold both humbling and strangely familiar. In this space, ideas of self dissolve into something wider, more luminous. What was once an inward search for ownership and meaning now simply opens — and awareness, freed of old compulsions, begins to rest in its natural radiance. This is the gentle dawn of recognising the ground of being.

Through the study of the Abhidhamma — the detailed Buddhist psychology — we see that conscious awareness unfolds in two distinct phases. The first is the active, rapid cognitive series: the familiar surge of thoughts, feelings, and sensory impressions that seems to define our waking hours and even populates our dreams. Alongside this arises a sense of subjective presence. Yet this bustling activity falls silent in the depths of dreamless sleep.

Beneath this, however, lies a subtler awareness — one that never ceases. It is this that stirs us from deepest sleep, only to be quickly overwhelmed by the volley of cognitive processes we mistake for our very sense of being. By cultivating what the Abhidhamma calls the “ear-door” — a heightened, receptive listening — we can stretch awareness into this deep undercurrent and sometimes even become aware of being asleep. In doing so, we begin to discover an aspect of being where thoughts, feelings, and perceptions simply arise, unclaimed.

Once, I instinctively pointed all these experiences inward, toward a presumed core where a self must reside. Owning each thought, feeling, and perception seemed natural. But now, having glimpsed the cause of this illusion, I question that ownership. Experiences continue to arise, yet they belong to no one. They are products of paṭiccasamuppāda — dependent origination — emerging from causes and conditions quite apart from any inner owner. There is no longer reason to look inward for answers or blame.

Thus the mind loses any need for introspection. Presence becomes anchored outward, receptive and clear. All answers are found in the same place: outside the narrow confines of self-concern.

Our natural state of awareness is radiant, much like the sun. The sun does not stop shining; it is merely the earth’s turning that gives the illusion of night. A child’s mind shines in this way — unclouded, warm, and direct. Yet once we learn to habitually turn inward, we create what might be called a “lunar awareness,” shifting and cyclical, prone to waxing and waning.

So long as we cling to an inner being, we reinforce this inverted gaze and deepen our suffering. But once we have seen through the concept of “I,” there is no need to return to such inward probing. As unsettling as it can be to admit, “I” does not exist. Even the clever solutions we congratulate ourselves for are not ours at all; they were already present in the wider field of causes, merely appearing to originate from some imagined inner source.

When the concept of “I” falls away enough that it no longer automatically reasserts itself, the mind is finally free to receive phenomena without personal overlay. Our senses still present objects based on past kamma (karma), but these are now seen without the stain of personal significance. This personal significance — or reflection of phenomena — is what taints all experience for beings short of full awakening, from ordinary humans up through the stages of sotāpanna, sakadāgāmī, and anāgāmī.

Awareness itself is like a river. It flows gently, bearing all experience. But each time cognition engages, it turns back on this flow, inspecting what has just passed. Thus, our sense of reality is always slightly retrospective, built from fragments of the immediate past. In most activities this causes no trouble, but it is why athletes speak of being “in the zone”: they train awareness to stay forward-flowing, trusting finely honed reflexes over cognitive lag.

So it is that the ground of being can only truly be recognised by a bodhisattva — one who has advanced beyond ordinary entanglement and begun to perceive more of their actual awareness. For an arahant, this state is so natural that the concept becomes meaningless; all training has ended.

Once the bodhisattva has shed habits that point back toward a conceptual self, thoughts, feelings, and perceptions no longer arise as “mine.” They simply emerge from the ground of being, recognised as the play of causes and conditions. Freed of ownership, there is no delusion or enchantment. This becomes the very path itself. Now the bodhisattva’s work stands clearly before them. With distortions of self uprooted, phenomena arising within this ground become subjects of deeper understanding.

Does this make sense? Can you see how the bodhisattva’s attention naturally turns outward? There is never again any need to peer inside to discover how one feels. The ground of being becomes the lived reality of the alchemist who has relinquished the concept of self and sees all phenomena as mere conditioned arisings. Thoughts, feelings, perceptions, even consciousness itself come and go without attachment or inflated meaning.

Freed from the burden of personality, the bodhisattva perfects generosity. For them, an act of giving is purely selfless, untouched by hope of reward or recognition. This too is part of the path, soon maturing into unconditional benevolence.

It is as though the inner mind — once wrapped up in knowing — now manifests directly with phenomena. Objects take on a subtle, copper-hued radiance. There are nine further refinements of this ground of being, known as the ten bhūmis, with this initial realisation marking the first. Though this book is titled Citrinitas, it is perhaps only midway through the bhūmis that true Citrinitas dawns. But by now, if you are still with me, there is no harm in peering ahead.

Our path thus simplifies into recognising an innermost, subtle, continuously radiant awareness called Buddha-nature. Yet this is obscured by layers of coarse, restless cognition that spin in confusion, ensnaring themselves. The bodhisattva has begun to lift awareness from these coarse layers, discovering a deeper being. Their task now is to further disentangle this awareness until it no longer clings or points inward, but shines with primal clarity. When fully realised, we call this Buddhahood.

Table: Layers of Awareness and Their Relation to Self

At the threshold of the ground of being, awareness shifts from an inward tangle of self-concern to a gentle, outward resting. All phenomena arise from causes and conditions, belonging to no one. Here, freed from illusions of ownership, the bodhisattva begins to walk the path with a heart unburdened, guided by a quiet, luminous presence that will one day bloom into full awakening.

This text is excerpted from the upcoming book Citrinitas: A Course in Modern Alchemy. The complete volume will include additional study guides, glossaries, and extended teachings. Learn more about the book here.