From his book, Reincarnation, Thích Nhất Hạnh teaches us to not be caught in the appearance of things and to touch nirvana in the present moment.

Impermanence, Not Annihilation

When you look through a family album, you may see a picture of yourself as a three-year-old child. Are you the same person as that little child? The answer is this: you are neither the same person nor a completely different one. You have grown up into an adult. Your form, feelings, mental formations, and perceptions are different. But you are not a completely different person either because you are a continuation of that child.

Many years ago during a retreat, I gave a kernel of corn to each child. I asked them to go home, plant it in a pot, and water it every day. Then, once the kernel had grown into a plant, the child could ask, “My dear plant of corn, do you remember when you were just a tiny little seed?” The plant of corn might respond, “Me? A little seed? I don’t believe it!” I told the children that, if they were eloquent enough, they could convince the plant of corn that she was once a tiny kernel.

Looking skillfully, we’d see the kernel of corn still there in the plant of corn. “Is the kernel still alive, or has it died?” is quite a deep question to ask a child. Yet it is possible even to teach children about no birth and no death, no being and no nonbeing.

If a cloud cannot die, then our loved ones cannot die either.

In Buddhism, we talk about signlessness. Sign means form or appearance. Once a growing plant, the kernel of corn may no longer be recognizable as its sign, its original appearance, but that does not mean that it isn’t there anymore. When we were conceived, we were also a little seed—much smaller than the kernel of corn. That seed became a little child, but where is that little child now? Are they still alive? When those of us who practice meditation look at the plant of corn, we can still see the kernel. It is there, alive, although it doesn’t appear in its familiar form. Do you think that the little child in you has died, or do they continue in you? Do you talk to them, or are you too busy?

We may think that if the grain does not die, the birth of a plant is not possible. But is it true that something must die for something else to be born? When a cloud becomes rain, is something dying or not? Is something being born or not? The death of a cloud means the birth of the rain. If the birth of the rain is not there, the death of the cloud is not possible. Birth and death are the two sides of the same coin—you cannot pull them apart.

In the word signlessness, sign means the appearance, the form, the object of our perception. A cloud has its own form or appearance. And thanks to that appearance, we recognize it as a cloud. The appearance of the rain is different from the appearance of the cloud. But, as the Buddha says, where there is perception, there is deception. If we are caught by the sign or the appearance of something, we are fooled; we cannot see the truth.

If a cloud cannot die, then our loved ones cannot die either. With our normal way of looking, we think that our grandmother, our grandfather, our ancestors have died. But when we look with the eyes of signlessness, we see that they are still alive in every cell of our body. We can talk to our grandfather, to our grandmother, right in this very moment—they will hear us.

Practicing signlessness is the way to touch reality. If you are not caught in the sign, you can have a correct perception of reality. If the child has the eyes of signlessness, they can see the kernel of corn in the plant of corn. Whether we succeed in our contemplation on birth and death depends on whether we can see things with the eyes of signlessness.

Transcending Notions, Touching Nirvana: The Flame Continues

Let us consider a flame. Before it manifests as a flame, you cannot say that it does not exist, or that it belongs to the realm of nonbeing. And when it manifests as a flame, you cannot say that it now belongs to the realm of being either. It cannot be described in terms of being or nonbeing.

Before we light the match, we can say to the flame, “My dear little flame, I know you are there somewhere. Manifest for us.” And the flame says, “Dear Thầy, I am ready to manifest for you. All conditions seem to be sufficient, except the last one.” The match is there, the matchbox is there, oxygen is there, and when we provide the flame with the final necessary condition—striking the match—she manifests beautifully. Now if I ask the flame, “My dear little flame, where have you come from?” The flame will respond: “Dear Thầy, I have not come from anywhere. My true nature is no coming. I have not come from the North, the South, the East, or the West. When conditions are sufficient, I manifest.” After blowing the flame out, we may ask, “Dear little flame, we miss you. Where have you gone?” And the flame will answer, “Dear Thầy, I have not gone anywhere. I do not go to the north, south, east, or west. When conditions are no longer sufficient, I stop manifesting in this form in order to manifest in other forms. Heat, smoke, and ash are my new manifestations.”

For a few seconds, the flame creates a beautiful image that penetrates into all of us. It creates heat that enters the cosmos. It creates some particulates and gas that go up to become a cloud of smoke. During her brief manifestation, we can say that the flame produces actions and continues in us and around us. Nothing is lost; the flame does not die. For those of us who know how to meditate, we see clearly that the flame always continues.

Our true nature is the same as that of the cloud and the flame: the nature of no birth and no death, no being and no nonbeing, no coming and no going. The ultimate truth transcends all kinds of notions, including notions of being and nonbeing, birth and death, coming and going. If you don’t let go of these notions, you can never touch the ultimate.

Nirvana in the Present Moment

The ultimate is nirvana. Nirvana is the extinction of suffering and afflictions, and this is possible only when we can extinguish notions like birth and death, being and nonbeing. We can define nirvana in very clear terms: it is the absence of all notions. Suffering is born from notions, and so nirvana is the absence of suffering.

Nirvana is available right in the here and now. Suppose you are walking barefoot, accidentally step on a briar, and get some thorns in your foot. Immediately you lose all peace and happiness. As soon as you remove one thorn, you get some relief. And the more thorns you remove, the greater the relief and peace. In the same way, the removal of our afflictions—our anger, fear, and despair—is the presence of nirvana. As soon as we begin to remove our afflictions, we start to experience nirvana.

Some people think that when you touch nirvana, you don’t have to be reborn anymore, that you are freed from the rounds of birth and death; you now belong to the realm of nonbeing. But that view is very misleading. Even some Western scholars of Buddhism hold this wrong view. They believe that the aim of Buddhism is to achieve a kind of eternal death, or eternal nonbeing. But our aim as practitioners is not to reach a state of annihilation. The Buddha’s view is a kind of insight that transcends both the notion of total annihilation and the notion of eternal life. Through meditation, we can remove these kinds of notions so that we have Right View. Once you remove these and other pairs of notions—birth and death, being and nonbeing, self and other—you have peace, you have nirvana, and you don’t worry anymore.

Practicing Nonself

Nonself is not a philosophy to study but a daily practice. The experience of nonself heals our loneliness, grief, and despair. In the monastery, we practice nonself as we listen to the bell, sit in meditation, practice walking meditation, or chant together. Before a period of sitting meditation begins, our mind might be dispersed, but when the bell is invited to begin the sitting, everyone stops, returns to their breath, and breathes in unison. That collective energy permeates each person. I breathe for you, you breathe for me. You breathe for her and she breathes for you. All separate individuals breathe as one body, become one body, breathing together beautifully.

Similarly, when we practice walking meditation correctly, we are no longer like a drop of oil floating in a bowl of water. We are no longer a separate self. Walking together, we become one body, we become a river. With the insight of nonself, we walk with immense happiness. Suffering, worries, separateness, and individual concerns vanish. Just as when we hear the sound of the bell, the energy of mindfulness arises and connects us as we walk, naturally transforming us from isolated individuals into a collective Sangha body.

Chanting is another practice like this. In Buddhism, we chant not to pray but to realize that the so-called “I am” is no longer there. Everyone participating in the chanting must act as one; the one chanting and the one listening to the chanting are not two. The chanter is the listener, and the listener is the chanter. Once we enter this experience, all feelings of inferiority, superiority, or equality cease,¹ and we no longer suffer.

Mindfulness practice has many dimensions. We should not content ourselves with a shallow dimension but, with practice, should gradually go deeper. When walking, we must walk for our whole community, for our father, our mother, our spiritual and blood ancestors, and for those who suffer around the world. Only by walking like this can we truly see our many bodies. In this way, we can live with the wisdom of the Buddha and the wise ones in this very life.

¹ Whenever we compare ourselves to others—that we are better, worse, or the same as them—suffering follows. Freedom from comparing leads to happiness right away.

This is an excerpt from Reincarnation by Thich Nhat Hanh.