Pamięć i motywacja

Polepszanie samopoczucia i funkcjonowania za pomocą substancji nie będących narkotykami. Suplementy, witaminy, nootropy; regeneracja receptorów i neuronów; dieta i trening.

Moderator: Zdrowie

Posty: 3 Strona 1 z 1
Rejestracja: 2018
  • 37 / 2 / 0

Siemano,

chciałbym się spytać które suplementy/leki mogą pomóc w walce z odstawieniem fugi. Przerwę zacząłem od listopada, ale zdarzały się wpadki (tzn. w trzeźwych dniach nic nie robiłem, że aż dawałem w kichawę, żeby tylko coś porobić), ale od świąt nic nie biorę i teraz po tych najgorszych dniach, chciałbym odratować dopaminę w pewnym stopniu chociaż.

Fugę żarłem przez prawie całe liceum, nieregularnie, czasem dużo, czasem mało - gdy poszedłem na studia miałem pół roku przerwy i potem znów się zaczęło, lecialem przez pół roku kolejne i teraz chcę skończyć z tym na zawsze (polubiłem psychodeliki ostatnio i przy nich tylko zostaje i oczywiście zielonej herbacie :P). Palę codziennie trawę, ale zamierzam też ograniczyć, ale gdy już uporam się z fugą w 100%, bo nie chcę od razu wszystkiego odstawiać, bo jak ostatnim razem tak zrobiłem to szybko kończyło się fiaskiem.

Odżywam się spoko, od kilku miesięcy też jestem aktywny fizycznie, spię też w miarę dobrze. Co doradzilibyście z supli które by wspomogły ten żmudny proces wyciągania człowieka z anhedonii i prokrastynacji.

ZX

Rejestracja: 2018
  • 440 / 155 / 0

ogólnie to leki na depresję, w tym przypadku ponarkotyczną depresję. Po amfie ta depresja jest całkiem spora i uniemożliwia normalne myślenie, wśród środków są:
* małe ilości zioła
* antydepresanty SSRI i MAOI
* trip na kwasie albo mikrodawki
* 5-htp
* dziurawiec
* tramal

Dopalaczy na serotoninę bym nie brał. Tych środków nie wolno mieszać bo można dostać zespołu serotoninowego co się często kończy śmiercią. Receptory serotoninowe są w sercu i źle na nie dragi działają dlatego nie możesz na tym jechać cały czas tj całe życie bo umrzesz na zawał.

Na "wojnie z narkotykami"

Od ich zażywania umiera tysiące ludzi. Budzą silny sprzeciw osób o konserwatywnych poglądach. Równocześnie badania pokazują, że psychodeliki pomagają w leczeniu depresji, PSD, uzależnień i lęku związanego ze śmiercią. W książce o przewrotnym tytule: "Czy psychodeliki uratują świat?" Maciej Lorenc o narkotykach rozmawia z ekspertami.

L4 dla alkoholika. Polacy spędzili milion dni na zwolnieniu chorobowym przez picie

L4 jest coraz częściej wydawane osobom, które mają problem ze spożywaniem alkoholu. Polacy spędzili na L4 ponad milion dni w 2018 roku z powodu zaburzeń związanych z piciem alkoholu. Za trzy pierwsze kwartały 2019 roku ta liczba wyniosła ok. 580 tysięcy - informuje “Gazeta Wyborcza”.
Rejestracja: 2012
  • 1794 / 148 / 0

No a słuchaj jakbyś nie miał supli to...
(ja wiem że jest w chuj mąrych książek/opracowań/kursów-cookbooków)
...ale to na mnie wywarło dość duże wrażenie jeżeli chodzi o teorię, ja wiem że to jeden z gości (ten z kwoty - pamięć - teoria) co buddyzm na zachód przywlókł, Cejrowski by go kapciem w glanc gdyby nosił...
THE TRAINING OF THE MIND

THE Religion of the Buddhas is, in the most eminent sense of
he word, a Practical Philosophy. It is not a collection of
dogmas which are to be accepted and believed with an unques
ioning and unintelligent faith: but a series of statements and
propositions which, in the first place, are to be intellectually
rasped and comprehended; in the second, to be applied to
very action of our daily lives, to be practised, to be lived, up to
he fullest extent of our powers. This fact of the essentially
practical nature of our Religion is again and again insisted
upon in the Holy Books. Though one man should know by
heart a thousand stanzas of the Law, and not practise it, he has
not understood the Dhamma. That man who knows and
ractises one stanza of the Law, he has understood the
Dhamma, he is the true follower of the Buddha. It is the
practice of the Dhamma that constitutes the true Buddhist,
not the mere knowledge of its tenets; it is the carrying out of
he Five Precepts, and not their repetition in the Pali tongue;
i is the bringing home into our daily lives of the Great Laws
f Love and Righteousness that marks a man as Samma
ditthi; and not the mere appreciation of the truth of that
Dhamma as a beautiful and poetic statement of Laws which
re too hard to follow. This Dhamma has to be lived, to be
acted up to, to be felt as the supreme idol in our hearts, as the
supreme motive of our lives; and he who does this to the best
of his ability is the right follower of the Master;—not he who
calls himself “Buddhist,” but whose life is empty of the love
the Buddha taught.
And because our lives are very painful, because to follow
the Good Law in all our ways is very difficult, therefore we
should not despair of ever being able to walk in the way we
have learned, and resign ourselves to living a life full only of
worldly desires and ways. For has not the Master said, “Let
no man think lightly of good, saying ‘it will not come nigh
me’—for even by the falling of drops, the water-jar is filled.
The wise man becomes full of Good, even if he gather it little
by little”? He who does his best, he who strives, albeit
failingly, to follow what is good, to eschew what is evil, that
man will grow daily the more powerful for his striving; and
every wrong desire overcome, each loving and good impulse
acted up to, will mightily increase our power to resist evil, will
ever magnify our power of living the life that is right.
Now, the whole of this practice of Buddhism, the whole of
the Good Law which we who call ourselves “Buddhists”
should strive to follow, has been summed up by the Tathagata
in one single stanza:—
“Avoiding the performance of evil actions, gaining
merit by the performance of good acts: and the purifica
tion of all our thoughts;—this is the Teaching of all the
Buddhas.”
Therefore we that call ourselves Buddhists have so to live
that we may carry out the three rules here laid down. We all
know what it is to avoid doing evil;—we detail the acts
that are ill each time we take Panca Sila. The taking of life,
the taking of what does not rightly belong to us, living a life
of impurity, speaking what is not true, or what is cruel and
unkind, and indulging in drugs and drinks that undermine the
mental and moral faculties—these are the evil actions that we
must avoid. Living in peace and love, returning good for
evil, having reverence and patience and humility—these are
some part of what we know to be good. And so we can all
understand, can all try to live up to, the first two clauses of
this stanza; we can all endeavour to put them into practice in
our daily lives. But the way to purify the thought, the way to
cultivate the thoughts that are good, to suppress and overcome
the thoughts that are evil, the practices by which the mind is
to be trained and cultivated; of these things less is known;
they are less practised, and less understood.
And so the object of this paper is to set forth what is
written in the books of these methods of cultivating and
purifying the mind;—to set forth how this third rule can be
followed and lived up to; for in one way it is the most important of all, it really includes the other two rules, and is their
crown and fruition. the avoidance of evil, the performance
of good: these things will but increase the merits of our destinies, will lead but to new lives, happier, and so more full of
temptation, than that we now enjoy. And after that merit,
thus gained, is spent and gone, the whirling of the great Wheel
of Life will bring us again to evil, and unhappy lives;—for
not by the mere storing of merit can freedom be attained, it is
not by mere merit that we can come to the Great Peace. This
merit-gaining is secondary in importance to the purification
and culture of our thought, but it is essential, because only by
the practice of Sila comes the power of Mental Concentration
that makes us free.*
In order that we may understand how this final and
principal aim of our Buddhist Faith is to be attained, before
we can see why particular practices should thus purify the
mind, it is necessary that we should first comprehend the
nature of this mind itself—this thought that we seek to purify
and to liberate.
In the marvellous system of psychology which has been
declared to us by our Teacher, the Citta or thought-stuff is
shewn to consist of innumerable elements which are called
Dhamma or Sankhára. If we translate Dhamma or Sankhára
as used in this context as “Tendencies,” we shall probably
come nearest to the English meaning of the word. When a
given act has been performed a number of times; when a
given thought has arisen in our minds a number of times,
there is a definite tendency to the repetition of that act; a
definite tendency to the recurrence of that thought. Thus
each mental Dhamma, each Sankhára, tends to produce
constantly its like, and be in turn reproduced; and so at first
sight it would seem as though there were no possibility of
altering the total composition of one’s Sankháras, no possi
bility of suppressing the evil Dhammas, no possibility of
augmenting the states that are good. But, whilst our Master
has taught us of this tendency to reproduce that is so
characteristic of all mental states, he has also shewn us how
this reproductive energy of the Sankháras may itself be
employed to the suppression of evil states, and to the culture
of the states that are good. For if a man has many and
powerful Sankháras in his nature, which tend to make him
angry or cruel, we are taught that he can definitely overcome
those evil Sankháras by the practice of mental concentration
on Sankháras of an opposite nature;—in practice by devoting
a definite time each day to meditating on thoughts of pity
and of love. Thus he increases the Sankháras in his mind
that tend to make men loving and pitiful, and because
“Hatred ceaseth not by hatred at any time, hatred ceaseth by
Love alone,” therefore do those evil Sankháras of his
nature, those tendencies to anger and to cruelty, disappear
before the rise of new good tendencies of love and of pity,
even as the darkness of the night fades in the glory of the
dawn. Thus we see that one way—and the best way—of
overcoming bad Sankháras is the systematic cultivation, by
dint of meditation, of such qualities as are opposed to the evil
tendencies we desire to eliminate; and in the central and
practical feature of the instance adduced, the practice of
definite meditation or mental concentration upon the good
Sankháras, we have the key to the entire system of the
Purification and Culture of the mind, which constitutes the
practical working basis of the Buddhist Religion.
If we consider the action of a great and complex engine—
such a machine as drives a steamship through the water—we
will see that there is, first and foremost, one central and all
operationg source of energy; in this case the steam which is
generated in the boilers. This energy in itself is neither good
nor bad—it is simply “Power;” and whether that power does
the useful work of moving he ship, or the bad work of
breaking loose, and destroying and spoiling the ship, and
scalding men to death, and so on; all depends upon the correct
and co-ordinated operation of all the various parts of that
complex machinery. If the slide-valves of the great cylinders
open a little too soon and so admit the steam before the
proper time, much power will be lost in overcoming the
resistance of the steam itself. If they remain open too long,
the expansive force of the steam will be wasted, and so again
power will be lost; and if they open too late, much of the
momentum of the engine will be used up in moving uselessly
the great mass of the machinery. And so it is with every part
of the engine. In every part of the prime mover is that
concentrated expansive energy of the steam; but that energy
must be applied in each diverse piece of mechanism in exactly
the right way, at exactly the right time; otherwise, either the
machine will not work at all, or much of the energy of the
steam will be wasted in overcoming its own opposing force.
So it is with this subtle machinery of the mind,—a
mechanism infinitely more complex, capable of far more
power for good or for evil, than the most marvellous of man's
mechanical achievements, than the most powerful engine
ever made by human hands. One great engine, at its worst,
exploding, may destroy a few hundred lives; at its best may
carry a few thousand men, may promote trade, and the
comfort of some few hundred lives; but who can estimate the
power of one human mind, whether for good or for evil?
One such mind, the mind of a man like Jesus Christ, may
bring about the tortured death of many million men, may
wreck states and religions and dynasties, and cause untold
misery and suffering; another mind, employing the same
manner of energy, but rightly using that energy for the
benefit of others, may, like the Buddha, bring hope into the
hopeless lives of crores upon crores of human beings, may
increase by a thousandfold the pity and love of a third of
humanity, may aid innumerable lakhs of beings to come to
that Peace for which we all crave—that Peace the way to
which is so difficult to find.
But the energy which these two minds employed is one
and the same. That energy lies hidden in every human
brain, it is generated with every pulsation of every human
heart, it is the prerogative of every being, and the sole mover
in the world of men. There is no idea or thought, there is no
deed, whether good or bad, accomplished in this world, but
that supreme energy, that steam-power of our mental
mechanism, is the mover and the cause. It is by use of
this energy that the child learns how to speak; it is by
its power that Christ could bring sorrow into thousands
of lives; it is by this power that the Buddha conquered the
hearts of one-third of men; it is by that force that so
many have followed him on the way which he declared—
the Nirvàna Marga, the way to the Unutterable Peace.
The name of that power is Mental Concentration, and there
is nothing in this world, whether for good or for evil, but
is wrought by its application. It weaves upon the
loom of Time the fabric of men's characters and destinies.
Name and Form are the twin threads with which it blends the
quick-flying shuttles of that Loom, men's good and evil
thoughts and deeds; and the pattern of that fabric is the
outcome of innumerable lives.
It is by the power of this Samadhi that the baby learns to
walk, it is by its power that Newton weighed these suns
and worlds. It is the steam power of this human organism,
and what it does to make us great or little, good or bad,
is the result of the way in which the powers of the mind,
all these complex Sankháras, apply and use that energy. If
the Sankháras act well together, if their varying functions
are well co-ordinated, then that man has great power,
either for good or for evil; and when you see one of weak
mind and will, you may be sure that his Sankháras are
working one against another; and so the central power,
this power of Samadhi, is wasted in one part of the mind
in overcoming its own energy in another.
If a skilful engineer, knowing well the functions of each
separate part of an engine, were to have to deal with a
machine whose parts did not work in unison, and which
thus frittered away the energy supplied to it, he would take
his engine part by part, adjusting here a valve and there
an eccentric; he would observe the effect of his alterations
with every subsequent movement of the whole engine, and
so, little by little, would set all that machinery to work
together, till the engine was using to the full the energy
supplied to it. And this is what we have to do with this
mechanism of our minds—each one for himself. First,
earnestly to investigate our component Sankháras, to see
wherein we are lacking, to see wherein our mental energy
is well used and where it runs to waste; and then to keep
adjusting, little by little, all these working parts of our
mind-engine, till each is brought to work in the way that
is desired, till the whole vast complex machinery of our
being is all working to one end,—the end for which we
are working, the goal which now lies so far away,
yet not so far but that we may yet work for and
attain it.
But how are we thus to adjust and to alter the Sankháras
of our natures? If a part of our mental machinery will use
up our energy wrongly, will let our energy leak into wrong
channels, how are we to cure it? Let us take another
example from the world of mechanics. There is a certain
part of a locomotive which is called the slide-valve. It
is a most important part, because its duty is to admit the
steam to the working parts of the engine: and upon its
accurate performance of this work the whole efficiency of
the locomotive depends. The great difficulty with this
slide-valve consists in he fact that its face must be perfectly,
almost mathematically, smooth; and no machine has yet
been devised that can cut this valve-face smooth enough.
So what they do is this: they make use of the very force
of the steam itself, the very violent action of steam, to plane
down that valve-face to the necessary smoothness. The
valve, made as smooth as machinery can make it, is put
in its place, and steam is admitted; so that the valve is made
to work under very great pressure, and very quickly for a
time. As it races backwards and forwards, under this
unusually heavy pressure of steam, the mere friction against
the port-face of the cylinder upon which it moves suffices
to wear down the little unevennesses that would otherwise
have proved so fertile a source of leakage. So we must do
with our minds. We must take our good and useful
Sankháras one by one, and put them under extra and unusual
pressure by special mental concentration. And by this
means those good Sankháras will be made ten times as
efficient; there will be no more leakage of energy; and our
mental mechanism will daily work more and more har
moniously and powerfully. From the moment that the Mental
Reflex* is attained, the hindrances (i.e., the action of opposing
Sankháras) are checked, the leakages (Asavas, a word
commonly translated corruptions, means literally leakages,—
i.e., leakages though wrong channels of the energy of the
being) are assuaged, and the mind concentrates itself by the
concentration of the neighbourhood degree.†
Now let us see how these Sankháras, these working parts
of our mental mechanism, first come into being. Look at a
child leaning how to talk. The child hears a sound, and
this sound the child learns to connect by association with
a definite idea. By the power of its mental concentration
the child seizes on that sound, by its imitative group of
Sankháras it repeats that sound, and by another effort of
concentration it impresses the idea of that sound on some
cortical cell of its brain, where it remains as a faint Sankhára,
ready to be called up when required. Then, one time,
occasion arises which recalls the idea that sound represents—
it has need to make that sound in order to get some desired
object. The child concentrates its mind with all its power on
the memorising cortex of its brain, until that faint Sankhára,
that manner of mind-echo of the sound that lurks in the
little brain-cell is discovered, and, like a stretched string
played upon by the wind, the cell yields up to the mind
a faint repetition of the sound-idea which caused it. By
another effort of concentration, now removed from the memo
rising area and shifted to the speaking centre in the brain,
the child's vocal chords tighten in the particular way requisite
to the production of that sound; the muscles of lips and throat
and tongue perform the necessary movements; the breathing
apparatus is controlled, so that just the right quantity of
air passes over the vocal chords; and as the child speaks it
repeats the word it had formerly learnt to associate with
the object of its present desire. Such is the process of
the formation of a Sankhára. The more frequently that
idea recurs to the child, the more often does it have to go
through the processes involved—the more often, in a word,
has the mind of the child to perform mental concentration,
or Samadhi, upon that particular series of mental and
muscular movements, the more powerful does the set of
Sankháras involved become, till the child will recall the
necessary sound-idea, will go through all those complex
movements of the organs of speech, without any appreciable
new effort of mental concentration;—in effect, that chain of
associations, that particular co-ordinated functioning of
memory and speech, will have established itself by virtue
of the past mental concentrations as a powerful Sankhára in
the being of the child, and that Sankhára will tend to recur
whenever the needs which let to the original Samadhi are
present, so that the words will be reproduced automatically,
and without fresh special effort.
Thus we see that Sankháras arise from any act of mental
concentration. The more powerful, or the more often
repeated, is the act of Samadhi, the more powerful the
Sankháras produced; thus a word in a new language, for
instance, may become a Sankhára, may be perfectly
remembered without further effort, either by one very
considerable effort of mental concentration, or by many
repetitions of the word, with slight mental concentration.
The practical methods, then, for the culture and purifica
tion of the mind, according to the method indicated for us by
our Master, are two; first, Sammásati, which is the accurate
reflection upon things in order to ascertain their nature—an
investigation or analysis of the Dhammas of our own nature
in this case; and, secondly, Sammásamádhi, or the bringing to
bear upon the mind of the powers of concentration, to the end
that the good states, the good Dhammas, may become power
ful Sankháras in our being. As to the bad states, they are to be
regarded as mere leakages of the central power; and the
remedy for them, as for the leaky locomotive slide-valve, is
the powerful practice upon the good states which are of an
opposite nature. So we have first very accurately to analyse
and observe the states that are present in us by the power of
Sammásati, and then practise concentration upon the good
states, especially those that tend to overcome our particular
failings. By mental concentration is meant an intentness of
the thoughts, the thinking for a definite time of only one
thought at a time. This will be found at first to be very
difficult. You sit down to meditate on love, for instance;
and in half a minute or so you find you are thinking about
what someone said the day before yesterday. so it always
is at first. The Buddha likened the mind of the man who was
beginning this practice of Samadhi to a calf which
had been used to running hither and thither in the fields,
without any let or hindrance, which has now been tied with
a rope to a post. The rope is the practice of meditation;
the post is the particular subject selected for meditation.
At first the calf tries to break loose, he runs hither and
thither in every direction; but is always brought up sharp
at a certain distance from the post, by the rope to which
he is tied. For a long time, if he is a restless calf, this
process goes on; but at last the calf becomes more calm, he
sees the futility of struggling, and lies down by the side
of the post. So it is with the mind. At first, subjected
to this discipline of concentration, the mind tries to break
away, it runs in this or that direction; and if it is an average
restless mind, it takes a long time to realize the uselessness of
trying to break away. But always, having gone a certain
distance from the post, having got a certain distance from
the object selected for meditation, the fact that you have sat
down with the definite object of meditating acts as the rope,
and the mind realizes that the post was its object, and so
comes back to it. When the mind, becoming concentrated
and steady, at last lies down by the post, and no longer tries
to break away from the object of meditation, then concentra
tion is obtained. But this takes a long time to attain, and
very hard practice; and in order that we may make this,
the most trying part of the practice, easier, various methods
are suggested. One is, that we can avail ourselves of the
action of certain Sankháras themselves. You know how
we get into habits of doing things, particularly habits of
doing things at a definite time of day. Thus we get into
the habit of waking up at a definite time of the morning, and
we always tend to wake up at that same hour of the day. We
get into a habit of eating our dinner at seven o'clock, and
we do not feel hungry till about that time; and if we change
the times of our meals, at first we always feel hungry at
seven, then, when we get no dinner, a little after seven that
hunger vanishes, and we presently get used to the new state
of things. In effect the practice of any act, the persistence
of any given set of ideas, regularly occurring at a set time of
the day, forms within us a very powerful tendency to the
recurrence of those ideas, or to the practice of that act, at
the same time every day.
Now we can make use of this time-habit of the mind to
assist us in our practice of meditation. Choose a given time
of day; always practise in that same time, even if it is only
for ten minutes, but always at exactly the same time of day.
In a little while the mind will have established a habit in this
respect, and you will find it much easier to concentrate the
mind at your usual time than at any other. We should also
consider the effect of our bodily actions on the mind. When
we have just eaten a meal, the major part of the spare energy
in us goes to assist in the work of digestion; so at those
times the mind is sleepy and sluggish, and under these cir
cumstances we cannot use all our energies to concentrate
with. so choose a time when the stomach is empty—of
course the best time from this point of view is when we wake
up in the morning. Another thing that you will find very
upsetting to your concentration at first is sound—any sudden,
unexpected sound particularly. so it is best to choose your
time when people are not moving about—when there is as
little noise as possible. Here again the early morning is
indicated, or else late at night, and, generally speaking, you
will find it easiest to concentrate either just after rising, or else
at night, just before going to sleep.
Another thing very much affects these Sankhras, and
that is place. If you think a little, you will see how
tremendously place affects the mind. The merchant's mind
may be full of trouble; but no sooner does he get to his office
or place of business, than his trouble goes, and he is all alert—
a keen, capable business-man. The doctor may be utterly
tired out, and half asleep when he is called up at night to
attend an urgent case; but no sooner is he come to his place,
the place where he is wont to exercise his profession, the bed
side of his patient, than the powerful association of the place
overcome his weariness and mental torpor, and he is very
wide awake— all his faculties on the alert, his mind working
to the full limits demanded by his very difficult profession.
So it is in all things: the merchant at his desk, the captain
on the bridge of his ship, the engineer in his engine-room,
the chemist in his laboratory—the effect of place upon the
mind is always to awaken a particular set of Sankháras, the
Sankháras associated in the mind with place. Also there is
perhaps a certain intangible yet operative atmosphere of
thought which clings to place sin which definite acts have
been done, definite thoughts constantly repeated. It is for
this reason that we have a great sense of quiet and peace when
we go to a monastery. The monastery is a place where
life is protected, where men think deeply of the great
mysteries of Life and Death; it is the home of those who are
devoted to the practice of this meditation, it is the centre of
the religious life of the people. When the people want to
make merry, they have pwes and things in their own houses, in
the village; but when they feel religiously inclined, then they
go to their monastery. So the great bulk of the thoughts
which arise in a monastery are peaceful, and calm, and holy;
and this atmosphere of peace and calm and holiness seems to
penetrate and suffuse the whole place, till the walls and roof
and flooring—nay, more, the very ground of the sacred
enclosure—seem soaked with this atmosphere of holiness,
like some faint distant perfume that can hardly be scented,
and yet that one can feel. It may be that some impalpable yet
grosser portion of the thought-stuff thus clings to the very
walls of a place: we cannot tell, but certain it is that if you
blindfold a sensitive man and take him to a temple, he will
tell you that it is a peaceful and holy place; whilst if you take
him to the shambles, he will feel uncomfortable or fearful.
And so we should choose for our practice of meditation a
place which is suited to the work we have to do. It is a great
aid, of course, owing to the very specialised set of place
Sankháras so obtained, if we can have a special place in which
nothing but these practices are done, and where no one but
oneself goes; but, for a layman especially, this is very difficult
to secure. Instructions are given on this point in Visuddhi
Magga how the priest who is practising Kammatthana is to
select some place a little way from the monastery, where
people do not come and walk about—either a cave, or else he
is to make or get made a little hut, which he alone uses. But
as this perfect retirement is not easy to a layman, he must
choose whatever place is most suitable—some place where, at
the time of his practice, he will be as little disturbed as
possible, and, if he is able, this place should not be the place
where he sleeps, as the Sankh ras of such a place would tend,
will best calm our minds by making us think of holy and
beautiful things, such as the Life of the Buddha, the liberating
nature of the Dhamma He taught, and the pure life which is
followed by His Bhikkhus.
We have seen how a powerful Sankhára is to be formed in
one of two ways: either by one tremendous effort of
concentration, or by many slight ones. As it is difficult for a
beginner to make a tremendous effort, it will be found
simplest to take one idea which can be expressed in a few
words, and repeat those words silently over and over again.
The reason for the use of a formula of words is that, owing to
the complexity of the brain-actions involved in the production
of words, very powerful Sankháras are formed by this habit of
silent repetition: the words serve as a very powerful
mechanical aid in constantly evoking the idea they represent.
In order to keep count of the number of times the formula has
been repeated, Buddhist people use a rosary of a hundred and
eight beads, and thus will be found a very convenient aid.
Thus one formulates to oneself the ideal of the Great
Teacher: one reflects upon His Love and Compassion, on all
that great life of His devoted to the spiritual assistance of all
beings; one formulates in the mind the image of the Master,
trying to imagine Him as He taught that Dhamma which has
brought liberation to so many; and every time the mental
image fades, one murmurs “Buddhanussati”—“he reflects
upon the Buddha”—each time of repetition passing over one
of the beads of the rosary. And so with the Dhamma, and the
Sangha;—whichever one prefers to reflect upon.
But perhaps the best of all the various meditations upon
the idea, are what is known as the Four Sublime States—
Cattro Brahavihara. These meditations calm and concen
trate the Citta in a very powerful and effective way; and
besides this they tend to increase in us those very qualities of
the mind which are the best. One sits down facing East,
preferably; and after reflection on the virtues of the Tri Ratna,
as set forth in the formulas, “Iti pi so Bhagava,” etc., one
concentrates one's thought upon ideas of Love; one imagines
a ray of Love going out from one's heart, and embracing all
beings in the Eastern Quarter of the World, and one repeats
this formula: “And he lets his mind pervade the Eastern
Quarter of the World with thoughts of Love—with Heart of
Love grown great, and mighty, and beyond all measure—till
there is not one being in all the Eastern Quarter of the world
whom he has passed over, whom he has not suffused with
thoughts of Love, with Heart of Love grown great, and
mighty, and far-reaching beyond all measure.” And as you
say these words you imagine your Love going forth to the
East, like a great spreading ray of light; and first you think of
all your friends, those whom you love, and suffuse them with
your thoughts of love; and then you reflect upon all those
innumerable beings in that Eastern Quarter whom you know
not, to whom you are indifferent, but whom you should love,
and you suffuse them also with the ray of your Love; and
lastly you reflect upon all those who are opposed to you, who
are your enemies, who have done you wrongs, and these too,
by an effort of will you suffuse with your Love “till there is
not one being in all that Eastern Quarter of the Earth whom
you have passed over, whom you have not suffused with
thoughts of Love with Heart of Love grown great, and mighty,
and beyond all measure.” And then you imagine a similar
ray of Love issuing from your heart in the direction of your
right hand; and you mentally repeat the same formula,
substituting the word “Southern” for “Eastern,” and you
go through the same series of reflections in that direction.
And so to the West, and so to the North, till all around you, in
the four directions, you have penetrated all beings with these
thoughts of Love. And then you imagine your thought as
striking downwards, and embracing and including all beings
beneath you, repeating the same formula, and lastly as going
upwards, and suffusing with the warmth of your Love all
beings in the worlds above. Thus you will have meditated
upon all beings with thoughts of Love, in all the six
directions of space: and you have finished the Meditation on
Love.
In the same way, using the same formula, do you proceed
with the other three Sublime States. Thinking of all beings
who are involved in the Samsara Cakka, involved in the
endless sorrow of existence—thinking especially of those in
whom at this moment sorrow is especially manifested, thinking
of the weak, the unhappy, the sick, and those who are fallen;
you send out a ray of Pity and Compassion towards them in
all six directions of Space. And so suffusing all beings with
thoughts of Compassion, you pass on to the meditation on
Happiness. You meditate on all beings who are happy, from
the lowest happiness of earthly love to the highest, the
Happiness of those who are freed from all sin, the unutterable
Happiness of those who have attained the Nirvàna Dhamma.
You seek to feel with all those happy ones in their happiness,
to enter into the bliss of their hearts and lives, and to augment
it; and so you pervade all six directions with thoughts of
happiness, with this feeling of sympathy with all that is happy
and fair and good.
Then, finally, reflecting on all that is evil and cruel and
bad in the world, reflecting on the things which tempt men
away from the holy life, you assume to all evil beings thoughts
of indifference—understanding that all the evil in those beings
arises from ignorance; from the Asavas, the leakages of mental
power into wrong channels; you understand concerning them
that is is not your duty to condemn, or revile, but only to be
indifferent to them, and when you have finished this medita
tion in Indifference, you have completed the meditation on
the Four Sublime States --- on Love, and Pity, and Happiness,
and Indifference. The meditation on love will overcome in
you all hatred and wrath; the meditation on Pity will over
come your Sankháras of cruelty and unkindness; the medita
tion on Happiness will do away with all feelings of envy and
malice; and the meditation on Indifference will take from you
all sympathy with evil ways and thoughts. And if you
diligently practise these four Sublime States, you will find
yourself becoming daily more and more loving, and pitiful,
and happy with the highest happiness, and indifferent to
personal misfortune and to evil. So very powerful is this
method of meditation, that a very short practice will give
results—results that you will find working in your life and
thoughts, bringing peace and happiness to you, and to all
around you.
Then there is the very important work of Sammásati, the
analysis of the nature of things that leads men to realize how
all in the Samsara Cakka is characterised by the three charac
teristics of Sorrow, and Transitoriness, and Soullessness: how
there is nought that is free from these three characteristics;
and how only right reflection and right meditation can free
you from them, and can open for you the way to peace. And
because men are very much involved in the affairs of the
world, because so much of our lives is made of our little hates
and loves and fears; because we think so much of our wealth,
and those we love with earthly love, and of our enemies, and
of all the little concerns of our daily life, therefore is this right
perception very difficult to come by, very difficult to realise as
absolute truth in the depth of our hearts. We think we have
but one life and one body; so these we guard with very great
attention and care, wasting useful mental energy upon these
ephemeral things. We think we have but one state in life; and
so we think very much of how to better our positions, how to
increase our fortune.
“I have these sons, mine is this wealth”—thus the foolish
man is thinking: “he himself hath not a self, how sons, how
wealth?” But if we could look back over the vast stairway
of our innumerable lives, if we could see how formerly we had
held all various positions, had had countless fortunes, count
less children, innumerable loves and wives; if we could so look
back, and see the constant and inevitable misery of all those
lives, could understand our every-changing minds and wills,
and the whole mighty phantasmagoria of the illusion that we
deem so real; if we could do this, then indeed we might realise
the utter misery and futility of all this earthly life, might
understand and grasp those three characteristics of all existent
things; then indeed would our desire to escape from this
perpetual round of sorrow be augmented, augmented so that
we would work with all our power unto liberation.
To the gaining of this knowledge of past births there is
a way, a practice of meditation by which that knowledge may
be obtained. This at first may seem startling; but there
is nothing really unnatural or miraculous about it: it is
simply a method of most perfectly cultivating the memory.
Now, memory is primarily a function of the material brain: we
remember things because they are stored up like little
mind-pictures, in the minute nerve-cells of the grey cortex
of the brain, principally on the left frontal lobe. so it may
naturally be asked: “If memory, as is certainly the case,
be stored up in the material brain, how is it possible that we
should remember, without some miraculous faculty, things
that happened before that brain existed?” The answer is
this: our brains, it is true, have not existed before this birth,
and so all our normal memories are memories of things that
have happened in this life. but what is the cause of the
particular brain-structure that now characterises us? Past
Sankháras. The particular and specific nature of a given
brain; that, namely, which differentiates one brain from
another, which makes one child capable of learning one
thing and another child another; the great difference of
aptitude, and so on, which gives to each one of us a
different set of desires, capacities, and thought. What
force has caused this great difference between brain and
brain? We say that the action of our past Sankháras, the whole
course of the Sankh ras of our past lives, determined, ere our
birth in this life, whilst yet the brain was in process of
formation, these specific and characteristic features. And if
the higher thinking levels of our brains have thus been
specialised by the acquired tendencies of all our line of lives,
then every thought that we have had, every idea and wish
that has gone to help to specialise that thinking stuff, must
have left its record stamped ineffaceably, though faintly, on
the structure of this present brain, till that marvellous
structure is like some ancient palimpsest—a piece of paper on
which, as old writing faded out, another and yet another
written screen has been superimposed. By our purblind eyes
only the last record can be read, but there are ways by which
all those ancient faded writings can be made to appear; and
this is how it is done. To read those faded writings we use an
eye whose sensitivity to minute shades of colour and texture
is far greater than our own; a photograph is taken of the paper,
on plates prepared so as to be specially sensitive to minute
shades of colour, and, according to the exposure given, the
time the eye of the camera gazed upon that sheet of paper,
another and another writing is impressed upon the sensitive
plate used, and the sheet of paper, which to the untrained eye
of man bears but one script, yields up to successive plates
those lost, ancient, faded writings, till all are made clear and
legible.
So it must be, if we think, with this memory of man; with
all the multiple attributes of that infinitely complex brain
structure.
All that the normal mental vision of man can read there is
the last plain writing, the record of this present life. But every
record of each thought and act of all our karmic ancestry, the
records upon whose model this later life, this specialised
brain-structure, has been built, must lie there, visible to the
trained vision; so that, had we but this more sensitive mental
vision, that wondrous palimpsest, the tale of the innumerable
ages that have gone to the composing of that marvellous docu
ment, the record of a brain, would stand forth clear and separate,
like the various pictures on the colour-sensitive plates. Often,
indeed, it happens that one, perchance the last of all those
ancient records, is given now so clearly and legibly that a child
can read some part of what was written; and so we have those
strange instances of sporadic, uninherited genius that are the
puzzle and the despair of Western Psychologists? A little
child, before he can hardly walk, before he can clearly talk, will
see a piano, and crawl to it, and, untaught, his baby fingers
will begin to play; and, in a few years' time, with a very little
teaching and practice, that child will be able to execute the
most difficult pieces—pieces of music which baffle any but
the most expert players. There have been many such children
whose powers have been exhibited over the length and breadth
of Europe. There was Smeaton, again, one of our greatest
engineers. When a child (he was the son of uneducated pea
sant people) he would build baby bridges over the streams in
his country—untaught—and his bridges would bear men and
cattle. There was a child, some ten years ago, in Japan, who,
when a baby, saw one day the ink and brush with which the
Chinese and Japanese write, and, crawling with pleasure, reached
out his chubby hand for them, and began to write. By the time
he was five years old that baby, scarce able to speak correctly,
could write in the Chinese character perfectly—that wonderful
and complex script that takes an ordinary man ten to fifteen
years to master—and this baby of five wrote it perfectly. This
child's power was exhibited all over the country, and
before the Emperor of Japan; and the question that arises is,
how did all these children get their powers? Surely, because
for them the last writing on the book of their minds was yet
clear and legible; because in their last birth that one particular
set of Sankháras was so powerful that its record could still be
read.
And thus we all have, here in our present brains,the faded
records of all our interminable series of lives; a thousand,
tens of thousands, crores upon crores of records, one
superimposed over another, waiting only for the eye that can
see, the eye of the trained and perfected memory to read
them to distinguish one from another as the photographic
plate distinguished, and the way so to train that mental vision
is as follows:—
You sit down in your place of meditation, and you think of
yourself seated there. Then you begin to think backwards.
You think the act of coming into the room. You think the
act of walking towards the room, and so you go on, thinking
backwards on all the acts that you have done that day. You
then come to yourself, waking up in the morning, and perhaps
you remember a few dreams, and then there is a blank, and
you remember your last thoughts as you went to sleep the
night before, what you did before retiring, and so on, back to
the time of your last meditation.
This is a very difficult practice; and so at first you must
not attempt to go beyond one day: else you will not do it well,
and will omit remembering a lot of important things. When
you have practised for a little, you will find your memory of
events becoming rapidly more and more perfect; and this
practice will help you in worldly life as well, for it vastly
increases the power of memory in general. When doing a day
becomes easy, then slowly increase the time meditated upon.
Get into the way of doing a week at a sitting—here taking
only the more important events—then a month, then a year,
and so on. You will find yourself remembering all sorts of
things about your past life that you had quite forgotten; you
will find yourself penetrating further and further into the
period of deep sleep; you will find that you remember your
dreams even far more accurately than you ever did before.
And so you go on, going again and again over long periods of
your life, and each time you will remember more and more of
things you had forgotten. You will remember little incidents
of your child-life, remember the tears you shed over the
difficult tasks of learning how to walk and speak: and at last,
after long and hard practice, you will remember a little, right
back to the time of your birth.
If you never get any further than this, you will have done
yourself an enormous deal of good by this practice. You will
have marvellously increased your memory in every respect;
and you will have gained a very clear perception of the
changing nature of your desires and mind and will, even in the
few years of this life. But to get beyond this point of birth is
very difficult, because, you see, you are no longer reading the
relatively clear record of this life, but are trying to read one of
those fainter, under written records the Sankháras have left on
your brain. All this practice has been with the purpose of
making clear your mental vision; and, as I have said, this will
without doubt be clearer far than before; but the question is,
whether it is clear enough. Time after time retracing in their
order the more important events of this life, at last, one day
you will bridge over that dark space between death and birth,
when all the Sankháras are, like the seed in the earth,
breaking up to build up a new life; and one day you will sud
denly find yourself remembering your death in your last life.
This will be very painful, but it is important to get to that
stage several times, because at the moment when a man
comes very near to death, the mind automatically goes
through the very process of remembering backwards you have
been practising so long, and so you can then gather clues to all
the events of that last life.
Once this difficult point of passing from birth to death is
got over, the rest is said in the books to be easy. You can then,
daily, with more and more facility, remember the deeds and
thoughts of your past lives; one after another will open before
your mental vision. You will see yourself living a thousand
lives, you will feel yourself dying a thousand deaths, you will
suffer with the suffering of a myriad existences, you will see
how fleeting were their little joys, what price you had again
and again to pay for a little happiness;—how real and terrible
were the sufferings you had to endure. You will watch how
for years you toiled to amass a little fortune, and how bitter
death was that time, because you could not take your treasure
with you; you will see the innumerable women you have
thought of as the only being you could ever love, and lakh
upon lakh of beings caught like yourself in the whirling
Wheel of Life and Death; some now your father, mother,
children, some again your friends, and now your bitter
enemies. You will see the good deed, the loving thought and
act, bearing rich harvest life after life, and the sad gathering of
ill weeds, the harvest of ancient wrongs. You will see the
beninningless fabric of your lives, with its every-changing pattern
stretching back, back, back into interminable vistas of past time,
and then at last you will know, and will understand. You will
understand how this happy life for which we crave is never to
be gained; you will realise, as no books or monks could teach
you, the sorrow and impermanence and soullessness of all
lives; and you will then be very much stirred up to make a
mighty effort, now that human birth and this knowledge is
yours; --- a supreme effort to wake up out of all this ill dream
of life as a man wakes himself out of a fearful nightmare. And
this intense aspiration will, say the Holy Books, go very far
towards effecting your liberation.
There is another form of meditation which is very helpful,
the more so as it is not necessarily confined to any one
particular time of the day, but can be done always, whenever
we have a moment in which our mind is not engaged. This is
the mahasatipatthana, or great reflection. Whatever you are
doing, just observe and make a mental note of it, being careful
to understand of what you see that it is possessed of the Three
Characteristics of Sorrow, Impermanence and lack of an
Immortal Principle of soul. Think of the action your are
preforming, the thought you are thinking, the sensation you
are feeling, as relating to some exterior person;,take care not
to think “I am doing so-and-so” but “there exists such-and
such a state of action.” Thus, take bodily actions. When you
go walking, just concentrate the whole of your attention upon
what you are doing, in an impersonal kind of way. Think
“now he is raising his left foot,” or, better, “there is an action
of the lifting of a left foot.” “Now there is a raising of the
right foot, now the body leans a little forwards, and so
advances, now it turns to the right, and now it stands still.” In
this way, just practise concentrating the mind in observing all
the actions that you perform, all the sensations that arise in
your body, all the thoughts that arise in your mind, and always
analyse each concentration object thus (as in the case cited
above, of the bodily action of walking). “What is it that
walks?” and by accurate analysis you reflect that there is no
person or soul within the body that walks, but that there is a
particular collection of chemical elements, united and held
together by the result of certain categories of forces, as
cohesion, chemical attraction, and the like: that these
acting in unison, owing to a definite state of co-ordination,
appear to walk, move this way and that, and so on, owing to
and concurrent with the occurrence of certain chemical
decompositions going on in brain and nerve and muscle and
blood, etc., that this state of co-ordination which renders
such complex actions possible is the resultant of the forces of
innumerable similar states of co-ordination; that the resultant
of all these past states of co-ordination acting together con
stitute what is called a living human being; that owing to
certain other decompositions and movements of the fine
particles composing the brain, the idea arises, “I am walking,”
but really there is no “I” to walk or go, but only an ever
changing mass of decomposing chemical compounds;* that
such a decomposing mass of chemical compounds has in it
nothing that is permanent, but is, on the other hand, subject
to pain and grief and weariness of body and mind; that its
principal tendency is to form new sets of co-ordinated forces
of a similar nature—new Sankháras which in their turn will
cause new similar combinations of chemical elements to arise,
thus making an endless chain of beings subject to the miseries
of birth, disease, decay, old age and death; and that the only
way of escape from the perpetual round of existences is the
following of the Noble Eightfold Path declared by the Sámma
sambuddha, and that it is only by diligent practice of His
Precepts that we can obtain the necessary energy of the
performance of Concentration; and that by Sammásati and
Sammásamádhi alone the final release from all this suffering
is to be obtained; and that by practising earnestly these re
flections and meditations the way to liberation will be opened
for us—even the way which leads to Nirvána, the State of
Changeless Peace to which the Master has declared the way.
Thus do you constantly reflect, alike on the Body, Sensations,
Ideas, Sankháras, and the Consciousness.
Such is a little part of the way of Meditation, the way
whereby the mind and heart may be purified and cultivated.
And now for a few final remarks.
It must first be remembered that no amount of reading or
talking about these things is worth a single moment's practice
of them. These are things to be done, not speculated upon;
and only he who practises can obtain the fruits of meditation.
There is one other thing to be said, and that is concern
ing the importance of Sila. It has been said the Sila alone
cannot conduct to the Nirvána Dharma; but, nevertheless,
this Sila is of the most vital importance, for there is no
Samadhi without Sila. And why? Because, reverting to our
simile of the steam-engine, whilst Samadhi, mental
concentration, is the steam power of this human machine,
the fire that heats the water, the fire that makes that steam
and maintains it at high pressure is the power of Sila. A
man who breaks Sila is putting out his fires; and sooner or
later, according to his reserve stock of Sila fuel, he will have
little or no more energy at his disposal. And so, this Sila is of
eminent importance; we must avoid evil, we must fulfil all
good, for only in this way can we obtain energy to practise and
apply our Buddhist philosophy; only in this way can we carry
into effect that third Rule of the Stanza which has been our
text; only thus can we really follow in our Master's Footsteps,
and carry into effect His Rule for the Purification of the mind.
Only by this way, and by constantly bearing in mind and
living up to his final utterance—“Athakho, Bhikkhave,
amentayami vo; Vayadhmama Sankhara, Appamadena
Sampadetha.”
“Lo! now, Oh Brothers, I exhort ye! Decay is inherent in
all the Tendencies, therefore deliver ye yourselves by earnest
effort.”

ANANDA METTEYA.
niesformatowany, lepiej masz w pdfie Eqiunoxa I v. V z: http://93beast.fea.st/files/section1/eq ... 20(05).pdf
tyko za dużo nie ściągajta bo brat zajebie

i tu bdb jeśli chodzi o praktykę:

https://www.sacred-texts.com/oto/lib913.htm

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