There is something I have observed very clearly in the current landscape of spiritual practice and study. The longer I walk this path, the more I see that this is not just a personal matter of a few teachers, but a general, crystal-clear trend that very few people point out.

There are so many classes, so many retreats, so many lectures; many people speak the Dhamma articulately and perfectly, citing scriptures correctly and using standard terminology. Listeners nod, take notes, and share wonderful reflections. But there is a disturbing absence: rarely are students guided to turn back and look directly at themselves—to look directly at what is operating within their own bodies, their reactions, and their daily lives.

When a teacher perpetually fails to teach students to see themselves and focuses only on teaching theory, then in essence, that person is doing the work of an intellectual lecturer, not necessarily that of an awakener of wisdom.

Theory, in Buddhism, originally has a very humble function: to bring the learner back to direct experience.

If a teaching cannot turn the listener back to where they are suffering, clinging, fearing, or reacting, then no matter how correct it is, it still stands outside the door of transformation. Or, to use “technical” terms, it cannot sever upadana (clinging) or bhava (becoming)—the reactions, the attachments, the formation of viewpoints, and the painting of an illusory ego.

This does not necessarily stem from ill intent. There are those who study very well, remember a lot, and understand deeply at the level of thought, but they themselves have not truly crossed the boundary between understanding (theoretically) and seeing (self-verification). For them, theory is a comfort zone. Teaching theory is safe. Leading others inward to look directly at their own body and mind is full of risk, because at that point, there is no place left to hide behind concepts. Someone who has never walked that path themselves can only hand others the map they are currently using; they cannot walk with them in the forest, because how can they lead when they don’t even know the “where or what” of the forest?

There is also a more subtle case: teaching only theory easily brings status to the speaker. And as long as there is theory, the listeners feel they need the one who reveals it.

However, if you turn the students back so they can see for themselves, eventually, they will no longer need the teacher. If the subtle ego of the teacher has not been let go, they will unconsciously keep the students at the level of hearing and understanding. Not because they want to harm anyone, but because they lack the courage to stand in a role that will gradually become… unnecessary.

Another cause that is rarely mentioned is the fear of responsibility. To lead others to look directly at themselves requires the teacher to be proficient in reading the mind (and anyone who is proficient in reading their own mind is naturally subtle when reading the minds of others), knowing when to speak, when to be silent, and taking responsibility for the psychological impact of their guidance.

But teaching theory is much safer. Less misunderstanding, less friction, less risk. And the price of that safety is that while the number of people with intellectual understanding and information grows, the wisdom to live rightly and well in life progresses very little.

This consequence is seen very clearly in the students. They speak the Dhamma increasingly well and analyze psychology increasingly skillfully, but their reactions remain exactly the same. When suffering, they are still submerged. When faced with friction, they still shrink and tense up. Theory, following the exact process of the clinging mind, gradually becomes a sophisticated shelter—a system to cling to and to build an “informed, practicing ego,” rather than a knife to sever all reliance.

In contrast to that is a different type of teacher, very rare, and often misunderstood. Depending on the conditions, people might consider this teacher “ignorant,” “teaching too little,” “lacking knowledge,” or “teaching in riddles.”

In reality, they teach exactly where it matters. Their focus does not lie in how much the student remembers, but in what the student is seeing within themselves.

They constantly pull the learner’s attention back to what is happening in the body, in sensations, and in reactions right in the midst of daily life. The Dhamma does not travel from teacher to student; it travels from reality straight into the student’s mind.

When a student sees a certain law for themselves within their own experience, this teacher does only one very subtle thing: they confirm it. They do not confirm too early, to prevent the student from becoming attached to theory and the teacher’s words. They do not confirm too late, to avoid confusion and discouragement. And they absolutely never confirm incorrectly.

The statement, “What you are seeing is exactly how it operates—congratulations!” does not create power for the teacher, but creates firm confidence in the learner’s own wisdom. This is a very difficult skill, requiring the teacher to distinguish between true seeing and understanding through reasoning, and not to be swept away by the student’s excitement.

In this way of teaching, theory comes only afterward, and only to give a name. The student has already seen the river; the teacher only adds that in books, people call it “that.” Theory at this point helps the learner know they are not lost, seeing that their personal experience lies within a universal law, and preventing them from imagining they are special or different.

If theory cannot do those three things, the teacher will not speak it.

Those who teach this way often have a very clear sign: they don’t need to prove they know a lot, don’t need the students’ admiration, and are not afraid of the students becoming better than them. They have tasted enough of the danger of concepts, have passed the stage of clinging to dogmas, and know very well where silence is needed. The hardest task for them is not speaking the Dhamma, but keeping the learner from wandering away from their own mind.

From here, a major question arises, because this is something many people use and lean on as an excuse, and I see it touching the very core of being a teacher: should we assume that the majority of sentient beings lack the spiritual capacity (indriya), and thus only speak in flowery theory, waiting for whoever is “qualified enough” before speaking about seeing and knowing the body-mind right in reality as it is?

Let’s look at this together.

When a teacher DEFAULTS on behalf of the listeners that they cannot yet see, that person has unintentionally stepped into the role of an obstacle.

The Buddha knew very well the differences in capacity, but He never used that as a reason to hide the core. He only changed the way of speaking, not the thing being spoken.

Whether speaking simply or with profound subtlety, the content still revolved around suffering, the cause of suffering, and the possibility of ending suffering right in this life.

There was no teaching that stopped at “learning to know” without opening a direction of “looking for liberation.”

The most vital thing is actually not lofty at all. It is: how is suffering happening, where is the mind clinging, and is it possible to look directly at this reaction right here?

These things do not require an education, nor do they need terminology; they only require a very minimal, utmost honesty and alertness.

Oftentimes, those with less schooling find it easier, because they are not yet covered by concepts.

There is only one relatively reasonable case for a teacher to stop at flowery words: when they themselves lack the ability to lead others back to seeing for themselves.

In that case, relying on literal text to avoid deviation and loopholes is a very safe choice (and the right one for those who have not seen but still want to speak).

But this “not seeing” is the teacher’s limitation, not the nature of sentient beings. If one takes this limitation and calls it “sentient beings lack capacity,” then responsibility has been reversed. Is it not like a teacher being unable to point the way but blaming the students for not being at the right level?

The most subtle trap is the phrase “wait until someone has enough capacity to speak.” The listener doesn’t know what “enough” is. The teacher doesn’t clarify the path to becoming “enough.” The result is both are waiting. Flowery words become a legal shelter, and seeing oneself is postponed to a vague future, while it can only happen right now.

A healthier stance does not need to choose one or the other, which I have seen in a VERY FEW people: The teacher always speaks the core, but speaks it at the right level. They do not assume everyone sees it immediately, nor do they assume everyone is unable to see. Those with enough experience will see. Those without enough experience will hear and have seeds planted. Those who are still very far away will at least begin to recognize what the core path is.

No one is excluded from the door of seeing; only the distance differs.

When looking back at the whole story of “Learning – Reflection – Practice” (Pariyatti – Patipatti – Pativedha), if it is not placed in the light of the Dhamma that the Tathagata directly pointed out, it is very easy to get lost. And the point where people get lost the most is right here:

That Dhamma does not operate according to time (akaliko).

In many scriptures, the Tathagata spoke very clearly, but because it is so familiar, people hear it without seeing it for themselves: there is only the present Dhamma to observe, only what is happening to be seen, and that very seeing is wisdom.

It is not “will see,” not “preparing to see,” not “gathering enough conditions and then seeing.”

But seeing right now what is operating in this body, in this reaction, in this clinging, in this fear, in this very specific suffering. Aside from that, there is no other “practice” located in the future.

There is a very common deviation in study and practice today, and if it is not spoken plainly, all discussions about learning, reflection, practice, or about methods and capacity… are just going in circles. That deviation lies in the fact that: people talk a lot, learn a lot, and analyze a lot, but fail to clarify the most important thing that needs to be seen immediately. And when the key is not pointed to directly, the entire endeavor of study and practice becomes a beautiful carousel that does not touch the core.

The Dhamma the Tathagata pointed out from the start is not a system to be understood gradually, but a reality to be seen directly. Seeing is timeless. It’s not seeing after preparation is finished, nor seeing after enough accumulation. It is seeing right now what is. And “there is only the present Dhamma to observe” is not a slogan, but a direct instruction: outside of what is unfolding in this moment, there is no other place for wisdom to arise.

But in the reality of teaching and learning, this key point is often blurred. People talk a lot about impermanence, non-self, suffering, letting go, awareness, mindfulness, ethics, concentration, and wisdom… but they do not point out clearly: right now, in the body and in the reactions of the student, what is operating. Thus, the student can understand everything, agree with everything, and interpret it beautifully, yet still not see what needs to be seen within themselves—or only see it through semantics and concepts.

The teacher says many right things, but the words do not touch the living moment where the student is being swept away. The student hears much, but does not know where they need to look. And so both wander in a safe space of words.

Seeing “reality as it is” is not a special state. It is simply recognizing very clearly what is happening in the body, in sensations, in reactions. How is discomfort present? Where is tension tightening? How did a desire to avoid or to hold on just flicker up? This is not a lofty matter; it is a very coarse, very mundane, and very real matter. Anyone can see it—some see a little, some see a lot.

Or take the seeing of Dependent Origination—it isn’t mechanical. It is the act of recognizing a very specific succession: from a sensation, a reaction is born; from that reaction, a desire to possess or push away appears; from there, a story or a commentary about “me” is built. When this succession is seen while it is happening, the practitioner begins to self-verify why suffering is not caused by circumstances, but by the way the mind clings to circumstances.

And the most subtle key is seeing craving (tanha) and clinging (upadana) right when they are just beginning to stir. Not when they have become actions, words, or conflicts, but right at the moment the mind leans toward grasping or pushing away. If this point is seen, the flow of “correspondence”—the flow that sweeps people from sensation to reaction, from reaction to identification—can stop. Not by willpower, but by seeing clearly.

If we go one step further, we will see a very common confusion, because it wears very gentle, very moral, and very “healing” robes. That is the way of teaching and learning that makes people believe the “counter-measures” (remedies) are the key, while observing/seeing the body-mind is pushed to the margins, or even left unclarified as a necessity.

Many people enter spiritual study with a silent belief: one must do something for it to be practice. And so, anything in the form of “doing” is easily assigned central value. Rituals, chanting, singing, breathing, walking meditation, maintaining deportment, chewing according to the bell, speaking sweet words, living beautifully, living correctly, being vegetarian, celibacy, practicing postures… All those things, in themselves, are not wrong. But the problem lies in the fact that: they are taught and learned as if they themselves are the key, while the actual key is not placed in the learner’s hands.

That key is very simple but not easy to accept: direct observation of what is happening. Observing the reaction. Observing the way the mind clings. Observing the moment of clinging, rejecting, and the “position” that has just flickered into existence in the mind. Observing the succession of mental and physical events as they operate. Not to fix them to a standard, not to clock in for merit, not to repent, and not to criticize or analyze, but to see the chain of laws of prejudice gradually revealing itself.

But in many retreats today, this is almost absent. Every year in Vietnam, there are hundreds of retreats, large and small. People are soothed, embraced, and told they are being “healed.” They sing together, cry together, breathe in and out together, walk gently, speak softly, and smile gracefully together. There are other retreats that go in the opposite direction: very strict, very disciplined, very mechanical. Counting breaths. Walking very slowly. Sitting very straight. Using psychological and physical pressure to create a mold called “concentration,” and then using that as a measure for “wisdom.”

These two extremes seem different, but they meet at the exact same point: both replace seeing and knowing the mind with a form of DOING SOMETHING. Doing it to feel more comfortable, or doing it to be more “correct.” Doing it to calm the mind, or doing it to force the mind into a mold. But that “doing” is not synonymous with “seeing.” And when there is no seeing, whether it is pleasant or strict, ignorance and suffering remain intact.

In the soothing style of teaching, learners gradually believe that the Dhamma is for feeling comfortable, light, and beautiful. When they no longer feel comfortable, they think they aren’t practicing correctly, or they need another retreat. In the harsh style of teaching, learners believe the Dhamma is about enduring, forcing oneself, and overcoming limits. When they can no longer endure, they think they have low capacity. Both miss a very important point: suffering does not end because you are more comfortable, nor does it end because you are better at enduring. Suffering ends when that which creates suffering is seen clearly.

More dangerously, many students begin to equate counter-measures with the core of practice. Chanting becomes a way to avoid inner chaos. Breathing becomes a way to suppress unpleasant emotions. Singing and group activities become a way to forget reactions that haven’t been looked at directly. Keeping precepts, saying good things, and living beautifully become a layer of moral paint covering attachments that have never been scrutinized.

Conversely, counting breaths, walking slowly, sitting for a long time, and keeping the body rigid… when there is no alert seeing and knowing, becomes a form of mechanical operation that reinforces a perfectionist, control-hungry ego.

The learner pours all their attention into doing the form correctly and imagines that they are progressing. But deep inside, the ego of greed and anger still operates, only more subtly, more dangerously, as it quite properly wears the robe of discipline and diligence.

What is noteworthy is that in both types of teaching, rarely does the teacher stop and point directly: right now, within you, what is arising? What just ceased? What is the mind clinging to?

Rarely is there a question that leaves the learner no room to hide. Rarely is there a direct pointing to the moment the mind is grasping or pushing away. And when there is no such pointing, the learner doesn’t know where they need to look. They only know how to follow along, and to follow along, there must be… movements. And so, the movements begin again.

From this arises a very deep confusion: people imagine that the counter-measure is the key, while the counter-measure is only a secondary means. They can help the mind settle temporarily, help life be more orderly, help a person be less coarse…

But if one stops there, they only make the root of suffering go to sleep; they do not make it disappear.

The Tathagata never taught that just enough ritual, enough chanting, or enough formal adherence would end suffering. He also didn’t teach that you must squeeze the body and mind to a certain point for wisdom to “pop out.” He pointed out one thing very consistently: “Only the present Dhamma, the wisdom-observation is right here,” “see right on reality as it is,” “whoever sees dependent origination, sees the Tathagata”…

Look. See what is happening within you. See the succession of conditions. See craving and clinging right as they arise. And that very seeing is wisdom.

When the way of teaching and learning does not clarify this point, people can easily spend their whole lives in spiritual study without ever touching the core. One retreat after another. One method after another. Feelings may change, forms may look better, discipline may increase. But the necessary work of skillfully observing the mind is always pushed aside, done sloppily, or done in a distorted, half-hearted way.

To put it clearly: any practice that is not accompanied by observation/seeing/awareness within the body and mind… is merely getting lost in a maze.

Whether that maze is soft or harsh, it is still a maze.

When observing and knowing the body-mind… is not placed in the learner’s hand as the central key, then spiritual study—no matter how crowded, no matter how bustling—only stops at soothing, adjusting, or training. it has not yet touched the place where suffering ends that the Tathagata pointed out.

And there is another level of deviation, more subtle and harder to recognize, because it takes on a very “Dharmic” appearance. That is when the act of “turning inward to look at the mind” is also done incorrectly, or even used incorrectly in a systematic way.

People start talking a lot about internal observation, about looking back at oneself, about reflection. At first glance, it seems like the true Dhamma. But if you look closely at how it is taught and practiced, you will see a big problem: that “look” is not pure at all. It is full of calculation.

Many people are guided to look into their minds not to see, but to evaluate. To see if they are right or wrong. Good or bad. Progressing or regressing. Whether they have “attained the path” or are not yet “spiritual” enough. That look immediately triggers a machinery of classification, comparison, and criticism—in many cases, that entire machinery is operated by all the members of a class. And as soon as that machinery operates, what is happening is no longer “seeing,” but “judging.”

Some look into their minds to find faults. Some look to prove they are okay. Some look to analyze the cause, the model, the label. Some look to have something to tell the teacher, the group, or the community. All those looks are very active, very intelligent, but they are not pure seeing-knowing.

Because pure seeing-knowing does not aim to reach any conclusion. It does not seek a verdict, nor an excuse. It only records very clearly what is happening. When discomfort arises, it knows discomfort is present. When the desire to hold on appears, it knows there is a tendency to hold on.

But in many spiritual environments today, the act of “looking at the mind” is heavily stained by morality, ideals, and collective expectations. Learners look while their heads already contain a mold of what a “right” mind, a “beautiful” mind, or a “progressive” mind looks like. And so they look not to see, but to measure where they stand in relation to that mold.

The danger lies here: this calculation is often legalized by spiritual language. Judgment is called “awareness.” Suppression is called “transformation.” Analysis is called “contemplation.” But in reality, it is just the mind self-monitoring using a pre-existing set of standards. And when the mind monitors the mind in that way, tension increases rather than decreases.

There are people who, the more they “turn inward,” the more stressed they become. The more they reflect on themselves, the heavier the mind feels. The more they observe, the further they drift from natural goodness. Because what is operating is not seeing, but a subtle “ego” standing outside, holding a lamp and giving grades. That ego can carry the title of a practitioner, an awakened one, or a knowledgeable one, but its essence is still discrimination.

Therefore, it is not enough to just tell someone to “turn inward and look at the mind” to be on the right track. If you don’t clarify what looking is, that instruction easily becomes a tool that causes more confusion. Looking to judge is completely different from looking to see. Looking to fix is completely different from looking to recognize. Looking with prejudice is completely different from looking with clarity.

The Tathagata did not teach people to turn inward to condemn themselves. He did not teach turning inward to become a more “moral” version of oneself. He pointed out a very simple but very hard-to-accept possibility: looking without intervening, without choosing, without taking sides. It is exactly that look that reveals how suffering is fabricated.

When a teacher cannot distinguish between these two types of looking, they may unintentionally lead the student into another maze. On the outside, it is practice; on the inside, it is self-control. On the outside, it is observation; on the inside, it is tension. The learner thinks they are progressing, but in reality, they are just replacing a worldly system of judgment with a more sophisticated and neurasthenia-prone system of judgment.

And thus, even when speaking of “looking at the mind,” the key continues to be missed. Because what needs to be opened is not the skill of psychological analysis, but the ability to see without standing outside, without standing above, without standing in opposition. Seeing like seeing rain fall, like seeing the sun rise. Without adding commentary.

If this is not clarified, the call for observation only adds a burden. The learner must live, must do things “rightly,” must observe, and must report. Meanwhile, pure seeing-knowing—the only thing that can break the cycle of suffering—still has no place.

To put it plainly: looking with the purpose of fixing oneself is not yet seeing. Looking to become a better person is not yet seeing. Looking to prove one’s understanding is even further from it. Pure seeing-knowing does not serve any image of the self. And only when that look appears do all other practices gain meaning. Otherwise, no matter how many times one turns inward, they are still only looking through an ego that has merely changed its clothes.

When the teaching is separated from the present, it becomes safe but powerless. When a teacher makes theory the center, the student is protected from having to look deeply at themselves. And then, “Learning – Reflection – Practice” is no longer a means, but a system that legitimizes procrastination.

The Tathagata did not teach people to wait for enough conditions to see. He pointed out that as soon as there is alertness—no matter how fragile—the Dhamma is present. A teacher who is honest with this spirit will not use theory to maintain distance, but will use words to erase the distance between the learner and their own life experience.

When a teacher speaks the Dhamma but the learner still stands outside themselves, something is skewed. But when the words, however few, leave the learner with no room to hide, forcing them to look directly at the reality happening right in their body and mind at the moment of hearing—at that point, the present Dhamma has been opened. And besides that, there is no other door leading to wisdom. That is to say, while there may be many paths to guide various levels and capacities to the door of wisdom, the door itself is on every path without any difficulty—so what is the reason for absolutely never knocking?

Phan Ý Ly

December 14, 2025