On Emptiness Not Becoming an Escape

By Wang Mu-ti, Taiwan

I. On Why I Suspect Those Easily Spoken Words of “Emptiness”

I often suspect that the more a person rushes to say “everything is empty,” the less they are actually speaking of true emptiness, and the more they are seeking a noble hiding place for themselves. When people are hurt, they say “empty”; when they hurt others, they also say “empty.” Seeing injustice in the world, they say “empty”; encountering responsibilities they ought to bear, they say “non-self.” If such claims are merely moments of self-consolation, they are understandable; but if they are mistaken for the ultimate meaning of the Buddhadharma, it is exceedingly dangerous.

I am not opposed to people speaking of emptiness. On the contrary, if the Buddhadharma lacked emptiness, we could not break through our various attachments to ourselves, others, nations, ethnicities, morality, success, failure, reputation, body, and emotions. The bitterest part of living in this world is not merely encountering difficult situations, but immediately manufacturing a rigid “self” within them the moment they arise. This self is hurt, this self is wronged, this self must prove itself, this self must demand justice, this self cannot lose. Thus, while the external circumstance is but a single arrow, we use our own interpretations, memories, anger, and fears to fashion a second, a third, and a fourth arrow.

In the Samyukta Āgama, the Buddha spoke of the Parable of the Two Arrows. When ordinary people experience painful sensations, it is as if they are struck by two arrows: the first arrow is the pain generated by the causes and conditions of body and mind; the second arrow is the grief, sorrow, affliction, hatred, and attachment born out of that painful sensation. Noble disciples are not entirely free from the first arrow, but they are no longer struck by the second.

The more I contemplate this metaphor, the more profound it feels. It does not allow us to romantically exaggerate our practice—as if a practitioner would never feel pain, fall ill, be misunderstood, or experience the ripening fruits of past karmic causes. Nor does it allow us to push suffering entirely onto external environments, as if we are merely innocent bystanders struck by the world. The sobriety of the Buddhadharma lies here: certain sufferings will manifest, but you do not necessarily need to manufacture a “suffering self” on top of that suffering.

Yet, this is precisely where emptiness is misused. Hearing that “suffering is empty,” some assume that suffering requires no resolution; hearing that “the self cannot be found,” they assume responsibility cannot be found; hearing that “good and evil are merely provisional names,” they assume there is no difference between good and evil. This understanding is not emptiness; it is treating emptiness as an anesthetic. True emptiness does not anesthetize; instead, it awakens us.

I am reminded of a common question-and-answer dialogue found in the Abhidharma and sectarian treatises. Someone asked: Why did the Buddha refuse to answer certain questions posed by non-Buddhists? A non-Buddhist asked:

“Did the soul (ātman) originally not exist but now exists? Having come to exist, is it permanent or is it annihilated?”

The Buddha did not answer. The treatises explain that the Buddha thought to himself:

“Ultimately, there is no soul. How can one ask whether that which originally did not exist now exists, and whether it is annihilated or permanent?”

In other words, the question itself already presupposes the existence of a “soul” or an essential self, and then asks whether it is permanent or finite. The Buddha did not remain silent because he did not know, but because the question itself was “neither existent nor real.” If one answers “permanent” or “annihilated” to an entity that fundamentally does not exist, choosing either side would validate a false premise.

This point has been immensely helpful to my understanding of “emptiness.” The Buddhadharma does not answer every question, nor can every concept be validly established. The Buddha’s silence was not an absence of speech, but a refusal to participate in a flawed debate. It is like someone asking, “Where does the eternal self go after death?” The Buddhadharma cannot directly answer “goes” or “does not go,” because the “eternal self” in the question cannot be found in the first place. Similarly, if someone asks, “If there is no self, then does responsibility not exist either?” This is also an impure question, for it first builds responsibility upon a substantial self, and then uses non-self to negate responsibility. The Buddhadharma does not speak this way.

The same text states that a non-Buddhist asked the Buddha: “Does one create one’s own karma and experience one’s own retribution?” The Buddha said this should not be answered. Why? Because the non-Buddhist presupposes that “I create and I experience,” whereas the World-Honored One always taught non-self. To say that one creates and experiences on one’s own falls into the view of eternalism—the idea that a substantial self commits deeds in the past and receives retribution in the present.

The non-Buddhist then asked: “Does another create and another experience?” The Buddha likewise did not answer. For non-Buddhists might claim that Ishvara (a creator god) creates and the self experiences, whereas the World-Honored One always taught that one reaps the fruits of one’s own actions. To say another creates and another experiences falls into external governance or determinism, destroying the personal responsibility of sentient beings’ own deeds of body, speech, and mind.

The non-Buddhist asked again: “Is there no creation and no experience?” The Buddha still did not answer. For non-Buddhists might argue that pleasure and pain do not arise from causes, whereas the Buddha always taught the existence of causes and conditions. To say there is no creation and no experience falls into the view of annihilationism, whereby the fruits of good and evil karma are completely obliterated.

Reading this, I understand more clearly: the difficulty of the Buddhadharma lies not in how many answers it provides, but in how it constantly demands that we examine our own questions first. More often than not, we press the Buddhadharma with flawed questions, and then blame it for not giving us the comfort we desire. For instance, we ask: “Since there is no self, who is responsible?” This question already assumes that without a substantial self, there can be no responsibility. Yet the response of the Buddhadharma is: the absence of a substantial self does not imply the absence of cause and effect; the absence of a permanent, singular controller does not mean actions have no consequences; the absence of an unchanging self does not mean there is no continuity among the stream of consciousness, karmic seeds, habitual tendencies, and manifest activities.

Therefore, those who speak of emptiness too easily often do not understand it deeply; rather, they have failed to examine their own questions. They understand emptiness as a form of cancellation: canceling pain, canceling responsibility, canceling good and evil, canceling the conventional world, canceling the feelings of others, and canceling what they ought to do. But emptiness in the Buddhadharma has never been this kind of cancellation. Emptiness does not mean “non-existence”; it means “lack of intrinsic nature” (svabhāva-śūnya). It does not mean “no need to handle”; it means “cannot be grasped as inherently real.” It does not mean “karma is invalid”; it means “precisely because causes and conditions lack intrinsic nature, they can continuously transform and succeed one another.”

Nāgārjuna stated in the Mūlamadhyamakakārikā:

“All things born of causes and conditions, I say are empty; they are also provisional names, and they are also the meaning of the Middle Way.”

These four lines, I believe, serve as the first threshold preventing emptiness from turning into an escape. Nāgārjuna did not say, “Everything is empty, so nothing matters.” What he said was: whatever is born of causes and conditions lacks intrinsic nature; whatever lacks intrinsic nature can be provisionally established; whatever is provisionally established is neither inherently real nor entirely non-existent. The Middle Way is found right here, not in escape.

If suffering were inherently real, it could never be transformed; if suffering were completely non-existent, no one would require compassion. It is precisely because suffering is dependently arisen that it can be felt and it can be transformed. One cannot grasp it as an eternal essence, nor can one flippantly dismiss it as nothing. This point is exceptionally subtle. Many errors in the world occur because humans cannot simultaneously acknowledge both sides: on one hand, the event truly happened; on the other hand, it does not exist by its own independent nature.

I used to find human beings quite strange. Facing their own suffering, they often view it as intensely real; yet when facing the suffering of others, they love to say “everything is empty.” When they are insulted, every word cuts like a knife; when others are insulted, they say “do not be attached.” When they are misunderstood, they demand the whole world understand their circumstances; when others make a mistake, they fixate them as hopelessly irredeemable. This asymmetry is precisely the trickery of the ego-attachment (ātma-grāha). It knows how to use the language of the Dharma, but refuses to be illuminated by it.

Hence, I would like to establish a simple criterion: if a person’s understanding of emptiness makes them more honest, more responsible, more capable of apologizing, better at establishing boundaries, and more empathetic toward the suffering of others, then this emptiness is likely on the right path. If a person’s emptiness makes them more indifferent, more evasive, less willing to bear burdens, more dismissive of cause and effect, and more contemptuous of others’ pain, then it is not emptiness—it is merely self-defense decorated with Buddhist terminology.

Emptiness in the Buddhadharma does not cancel the world; it loosens the absolute grip the world has over us. Emptiness does not slam the door shut; it opens the window. When the door is shut, a person hides in their own isolation; when the window is opened, air enters, light enters, and one sees that external things are not cast in iron—they are not absolute, nor are they forever unchangeable.

II. On the Two Truths, or How to Take Responsibility in the Conventional while Not Being Bound by the Ultimate

The Mūlamadhyamakakārikā further states:

“The Buddhas rely on the Two Truths to teach the Dharma to sentient beings: first, the Conventional Truth; second, the Ultimate Truth. If a person cannot know the distinction between these two truths, they cannot know the true meaning of the profound Buddhadharma. Without relying on the Conventional Truth, the Ultimate Truth cannot be attained; without attaining the Ultimate Truth, Nirvana cannot be attained.”

If one truly understands these words, one can no longer use emptiness to escape reality.

I feel a particular sense of reverence and awe toward the line: “Without relying on the Conventional Truth, the Ultimate Truth cannot be attained.” It clarifies that the ultimate is not reached by bypassing reality. You cannot refuse to face your parents, partner, friends, society, institutions, body, language, money, illness, and death, while claiming you have already realized the Ultimate Truth. If a person refuses to bear even conventional responsibilities yet claims to dwell in the ultimate, the ultimate is nothing more than a cave for a fugitive.

Within the Conventional Truth (Saṃvṛti-satya), suffering has real impacts. Language can wound, institutions can oppress, discrimination can induce fear, lies can shatter trust, violence can destroy bodies, and poverty can restrict choices. If someone says, “These are all empty, so it makes no difference,” that is not Buddhadharma; it is cruelty.

Yet within the Ultimate Truth (Paramārtha-satya), these lack intrinsic nature. The so-called perpetrator is not an eternally fixed essence of evil; the so-called victim is not an essence destined only to suffer forever. Events arise based on countless causes and conditions; emotions arise based on contact, sensation, perception, and volition; memories are repeatedly rehearsed, the sense of self is grasped by the manas-vijñāna, and language solidifies all of this into a story. The ultimate does not negate the conventional; it ensures that the conventional is no longer solidified into a prison.

Therefore, I like to interpret the Two Truths in a very grounded phrase: “Accountable in the conventional, unattached in the ultimate.”

If one speaks only of the conventional and knows nothing of the ultimate, one easily becomes trapped in anger. For they will turn the enemy into an absolute enemy, themselves into an absolute victim, and the event into an untransformable destiny. If one speaks only of the ultimate and disregards the conventional, one easily becomes cold and indifferent. They may claim everything is an illusion, yet forget that sentient beings within that illusion still experience fear; they may claim everything is a dream, yet forget that a blade within that dream can still startle one awake; they may claim there is no self, yet forget that the continuity of cause and effect has never ceased to function.

落到生活中 (When applied to daily life), this is very direct. If someone owes you money, conventionally you can pursue it, gather evidence, and resort to the law; ultimately, you do not need to fixate yourself as an eternal victim, nor the other party as an eternal villain. If someone exploits you, conventionally you can cut ties and establish boundaries; ultimately, you observe the combination of causes and conditions in this matter, refusing to let hatred become a new karmic seed. If someone discriminates against others, conventionally you can point out the error and protect the harmed; ultimately, you know that prejudice is also a convergence of causes and conditions—ignorance, fear, education, media, and class anxiety—and so you halt the behavior without feeding hatred with hatred.

The Diamond Sutra states: “Abiding nowhere, yet give rise to the mind” (應無所住而生其心). I believe this line is also frequently misunderstood. Some remember only “abiding nowhere,” but forget to “give rise to the mind.” The Buddha did not teach people to turn their minds into stone, nor did he teach them to offer no response to the world. To abide nowhere means not to abide in form, sound, smell, taste, touch, or dharmas, nor to abide in the notion of a self, a person, a sentient being, or a life-span. To give rise to the mind means to still give rise to a mind of generosity, compassion, protection, and Bodhicitta. If one abides nowhere without giving rise to the mind, one approaches withered wood; if one gives rise to the mind while abiding everywhere, one falls back into being an ordinary person. The brilliance of the scripture lies in its refusal to let us lean toward either extreme.

People often ask: If everything is empty, why should we practice kindness? I would rather ask: If everything were not empty, how would practicing kindness even be possible? If human nature were fixed—if a wicked person were eternally wicked, a good person eternally good, institutions forever frozen, hatred forever immutable, and trauma forever unyielding—then practice, education, repentance, reform, and compassion would all be meaningless. It is precisely because everything lacks intrinsic nature that bad habits can be altered, afflictions can be transformed, wounds can heal, institutions can be amended, language can be relearned, and the mind can cease to flow according to old habits when causes and conditions change.

Thus, emptiness is not the enemy of action; it is the very ground of action. It merely strips action of its self-idolatry. When those who do not know emptiness act, they often seek to prove their own righteousness; when those who understand a bit of emptiness act, they simply see that a matter needs handling, a suffering can be reduced, a person needs protection, or a system needs correction. After the former acts, they easily become attached to victory or defeat; after the latter acts, though they still care about the outcome, they do not turn that outcome into their own identity.

III. On How “Consciousness-Only” Prevents Me from Blaming the World on the World

When I first studied Consciousness-Only (Yogācāra), I was most easily captivated by the phrase “transformed by consciousness alone” (唯識所變). Read superficially, it seems to offer a strange comfort: since everything is transformed by consciousness, there is no need to take the external world too seriously; since environments are not separate from consciousness, the suffering of others is merely a manifestation of the mind; since both self and dharmas are provisional, why be so attached to the rights and wrongs of the human realm?

However, the Cheng Weishi Lun (Treatise on the Demonstration of Consciousness-Only) does not permit me such laziness. It states:

“The worldly and sacred teachings speak of ‘self’ and ‘dharmas’ only as provisional establishments; they have no real intrinsic nature.”

And further:

“These appearances are all transformed based on consciousness, and are provisionally designated.”

This does not tell people to cancel the world; it tells them to recognize how the world is designated. It does not deny suffering; it reveals how suffering is constructed, grasped, and prolonged within consciousness. If I interpret “Consciousness-Only” to mean “nothing external matters,” I am merely reading it as a sophisticated form of egocentrism.

The truly sharp edge of Consciousness-Only lies not in allowing me to negate the world, but in preventing me from entirely blaming the world. In the view of Consciousness-Only, the world I encounter is not merely an external environment presenting itself before me; it is also the joint product of past perfuming, nominal seeds (名言種子), the twofold attachment to self and dharmas, the deliberation of the manas-vijñāna, and the elaborate projections of the intellect (mano-vijñāna). This does not mean external conditions have no effect, nor does it mean the evil deeds of others are not evil; rather, it means that what kind of world that evil deed becomes inside my mind is deeply intertwined with the stream of my own consciousness. This is difficult to accept, because it forbids me from remaining a pure victim.

Humans like to view the world as an external enemy. It is simpler that way. If I suffer, it is because they are bad; if I am angry, it is because society is bad; if I am radical, it is because the era is bad; if I am indifferent, it is because sentient beings are not worth saving. These statements may contain a partial truth, for external conditions certainly possess power. But if there is only this part, spiritual practice can never begin. Practice begins with an uncomfortable question: Aside from these external conditions, how did my own mind participate in manufacturing this suffering?

The Cheng Weishi Lun states that the substantial self and substantial dharmas imagined by foolish people do not exist at all, but are merely designated according to deluded passions; the representations of self and dharmas transformed by internal consciousness, though existent, do not possess the nature of a real self or dharma, yet they appear as if they do, hence they are called provisional. This word “as if” (似) is incredibly vital.

Many things in life carry immense power precisely because they appear as if they are real. It appears as if one is humiliated, as if one is negated, as if one has lost everything, as if one can never recover, as if the opponent is completely beyond redemption. It is not a real, independent nature, yet it suffices to agitate the mind; it is not entirely non-existent, yet it does not exist in the manner it appears.

I often feel that practice does not begin with directly seeing emptiness, but with first seeing this “as if.” I think I am looking at the world, but I am actually looking at a “pseudo-world”; I think I am looking at others, but I am looking at “pseudo-others”; I think I am looking at myself, but I am looking at a “pseudo-self” manifested through long-standing perfuming. Consciousness-Only does not negate all experience; it states that experience has already been processed by the mind. If I am unaware of this, I will mistake the processed product for the raw material, the projection for the fact, and the script of my emotions for the ultimate truth.

This is uniquely critical for modern people. The world we see daily is largely no longer direct experience, but a world processed by media, social networks, headlines, algorithms, editing, and retellings. These external processings trigger the seeds already residing within us. Consequently, we do not see a person; we see a label. We do not see an event; we see an ideological war. We do not see causes and conditions; we see friend versus foe. If Consciousness-Only still holds power today, it is because it reminds me: after external images enter my eyes and ears, they must pass through layers of internal seeds and discrimination before becoming the world that enrages me.

IV. On the Alaya-Vijnana as a Torrent, and the Reason Why One Cannot Become a Sage Overnight

The Cheng Weishi Lun states that the Ālaya-vijñāna “turns constantly like a torrent” (恆轉如瀑流). I have always felt this is the metaphor in Consciousness-Only that closest mirrors human experience. A torrent is continuous on one hand, yet at every single instant, it is not the same water. If you say it is interrupted, its flow is visibly continuous; if you say it is permanent, it changes every moment. The treatise explains that “constant” means it has flowed continuously without a beginning, while “turning” means it arises and ceases moment to moment, changing from before to after. Because the fruit arises, it is not annihilated; because the cause ceases, it is not permanent. Being neither annihilated nor permanent—this is the principle of dependent origination.

This brings to mind human character. People often say, “This is just how I am.” This statement is half true and half false. If it were entirely false, why would our habits be so stubborn? If it were entirely true, how would practice and education remain possible? A person’s anger, fear, attachment, shame, and arrogance have an inertia like a torrent. It did not form suddenly today, nor will it vanish instantly just because I read a passage of scripture today. Yet, it is not a fixed essence. If it were a fixed essence, the Dharma would be meaningless; if it had no continuity, the fruits of karma could not be established.

Therefore, spiritual practice cannot be romanticized. One cannot claim to understand emptiness today and find their ego-attachment completely gone tomorrow; one cannot speak of Consciousness-Only today and expect all seeds to cease manifesting tomorrow; one cannot speak of compassion today and never feel anger tomorrow. A torrent is a torrent because it has carved its path over a long period of erosion; practice is practice because it must alter the direction of the flow over a long duration.

The Cheng Weishi Lun states that seeds are of two types: inherently existing (本有) and newly cultivated (始起). It further explains that defiled and pure dharmas cause seeds to grow through perfuming (熏習); that which perfumes and that which is perfumed arise and cease together, allowing the seeds to grow, “just as sesame seeds are perfumed by flowers.” This explanation is very rustic, yet brutal. It tells me that every single movement of the mind is manufacturing the future self. Not in a deterministic way, but in a dispositional way. Expressing anger one more time today makes the path of anger a little smoother tomorrow; observing with clarity one more time today makes the path of clarity a little smoother tomorrow.

Hence, I maintain a degree of skepticism toward language that proclaims “instantaneous liberation leaving all things unhindered after sudden enlightenment.” I am not negating sudden enlightenment, but rather suspecting that ordinary people too easily imagine sudden enlightenment as an escape from gradual cultivation. If seeds continue to succeed one another in the Ālaya-vijñāna, if the Manas-vijñāna constantly deliberates without beginning, and if self-delusion, self-view, self-pride, and self-love have long been associated with the defiled mind, then a shift in view is certainly important, but it must enter repeated perfuming before it truly alters the direction of a life.

Humans love climaxes but dislike repetition. Yet, the majority of practice is completed within repetition. Repetitively noticing one’s own anger; repetitively pausing between sensation and grasping; repetitively refusing to turn the other person into an absolute enemy; repetitively apologizing; repetitively taking responsibility; repetitively refusing to let suffering expand further from oneself. These acts are not glamorous, but they are what truly transform the seeds.

V. On the Manas-Vijnana, or the Defense Attorney in My Mind Who Never Rests

If the Ālaya-vijñāna is like a torrent, the Manas-vijñāna (末那識) is like a defense attorney beside the torrent who never rests. It constantly argues: This is me, this is mine, this is the injury I sustained, this is the respect I deserve, this is what was stolen from me, this is the dignity I must protect.

The Cheng Weishi Lun states that the Manas-vijñāna “constantly and minutely deliberates” (恆審思量), and that before its transformation, it constantly takes the storehouse consciousness (ālaya) as its object, grasping it as the inner self, while remaining associated with the four afflictions: self-delusion (我癡), self-view (我見), self-pride (我慢), and self-love (我愛). These four can practically explain the majority of an ordinary person’s daily psychology. Self-delusion is ignorance of non-self; self-view is mistakenly imagining a self where there is no self; self-pride is relying on the grasped self to elevate the mind with arrogance; self-love is deep attachment to the grasped self.

I sometimes feel these four afflictions are not abstract terms, but the four most familiar voices in daily life. When someone criticizes me, self-delusion says, “Indeed, a self has been harmed.” Self-view says, “This harmed self is real.” Self-pride says, “How dare they treat me this way?” Self-love says, “I must protect myself; I cannot allow myself to be diminished.” Then, the intellect (mano-vijñāna) begins to project, gathering evidence for these four, fabricating histories, designing counterattacks, seeking allies, and ultimately turning a fleeting circumstance into a full-blown theater of birth and death.

This is not to say that a harmed person should not protect themselves. On the contrary, protection is certainly necessary within the conventional. But the Buddhadharma requires me to distinguish: Must protection be built upon ego-attachment? Must refusal be built upon hatred? Must establishing boundaries require turning the other party into an eternal villain? If the Manas-vijñāna is in power, the answer is usually yes. It feels that without hatred, it cannot leave; without anger, it cannot achieve justice; without clinging to the self, it cannot protect itself. Practice is about slowly discovering another possibility: to be clear without hatred, to be firm without self-sanctification, and to walk away without repeatedly feeding the enemy within one’s mind.

The Cheng Weishi Lun states that the defiled mind causes the external active consciousnesses to be perpetually defiled, preventing sentient beings from escaping the cycle of birth and death. This sentence helps me realize that what truly keeps me in saṃsāra is not merely the external environment, but my internal appropriation of the environment. Circumstances themselves come and go, but the Manas-vijñāna enlists every circumstance into the history of “me.” It turns a single comment into my wound, a single failure into my identity, a single success into my value, and another person’s glance into the validation of my existence.

Without practice, a person might spend their entire life working for this defense attorney. On the surface, they may have a career, ideals, faith, and knowledge; yet internally, they are merely defending the “self” over and over. Even practice can become new material for it: I understand emptiness, I understand Consciousness-Only, I am soberer than others, more compassionate than others, less attached than others. This is the ultimate cunning of the Manas-vijñāna. It can nourish the self with worldly things, and it can just as easily nourish the self with the Dharma.

Therefore, I increasingly feel that true language of the Dharma must be able to turn back and bite its user. If I speak of emptiness, this emptiness must first pierce my own grasping; if I speak of Consciousness-Only, this Consciousness-Only must first illuminate my own discrimination; if I speak of non-self, this non-self must first dismantle my sense of superiority born from the name of non-self. Otherwise, the Dharma is merely the ego’s new clothes.

VI. On How Tathatā Cannot Be Turned into the Final Ontological Essence

I used to understand very well why people love terms like Tathatā (Suchness/真如), Buddha-nature, original enlightenment, or the pure mind. Living in this world brings too much insecurity. The body decays, relationships change, wealth vanishes, eras flip, memories blur, and even the concepts one believes in are eroded by time. In the midst of this impermanence, humans naturally yearn for something unmoving. When the Buddhadharma speaks of Tathatā, people easily mistake it for that unmoving thing.

However, the Cheng Weishi Lun is exceedingly cautious regarding Tathatā. It states:

“Tathatā is also a provisionally designated name. To prevent it from being dismissed as non-existent, we say it ‘exists’; to prevent attachment to it as inherently existing, we say it is ‘empty’; lest it be thought of as purely illusory, we say it is ‘real’; because its principle is neither false nor inverted, it is named ‘Tathatā’.”

It further notes:

“Unlike other schools, it is not a real, permanent dharma that exists apart from form, mind, and so forth, called Tathatā.”

These sentences effectively block all paths for those wishing to hide inside Tathatā. Tathatā is not an entity existing apart from form, mind, and all dharmas; it is not a permanent ruler to substitute for a creator god, nor is it a safe zone allowing me to escape cause and effect.

If I turn Tathatā into an ontological essence, I have already defiled it. Because I need it, I possess it, and I turn it into my ultimate reliance. Such a “Tathatā” is not the perfected nature (pariniṣpanna) free from imagined attachment; it is the imagined nature (parikalpita) wearing its most solemn name.

The difficulty of the Buddhadharma lies precisely in this: on one hand, it must speak of Tathatā, otherwise people easily fall into the view of annihilationism; on the other hand, it must constantly prevent people from substantializing Tathatā, otherwise they fall into the view of eternalism. It speaks of existence to ward off non-existence; it speaks of emptiness to ward off attachment to existence; it speaks of reality to ward off illusion; it speaks of Tathatā to point toward the non-inverted nature of reality. If I grasp only one side, I misunderstand its intent.

This reminds me of the Fourfold Two Truths of Madhyamaka. First, emptiness refutes existence; next, neither-existence-nor-emptiness refutes attachment to emptiness; then, non-duality is refuted; and finally, even the state where words fail and thoughts are cut off cannot be turned into a dwelling place. Though Consciousness-Only uses different terminology, its spirit is equally rigorous. It speaks of Consciousness-Only to dispel the substantial existence of external environments; yet if one grasps Consciousness-Only as truly existing, that too becomes a dharma-attachment. It speaks of Tathatā to reveal the nature of reality uncovered by the two emptinesses; yet if one grasps Tathatā as a real, permanent dharma separate from form and mind, it becomes another non-Buddhist essence.

Thus, before I speak of Tathatā, I had better ask myself: Am I speaking of the nature of reality after leaving attachment behind, or am I searching for an eternal room to avoid facing life? Am I dismantling illusory discrimination, or am I establishing a subtler self-consolation? When I claim to be ‘inherently pure,’ have I forgotten that I am currently still perfuming hatred? When I speak of ‘neither arising nor ceasing,’ am I using it to evade apologies, corrections, care, and action in the conventional world?

VII. On Misconceived Emptiness, or How the Greatest Danger Is Not Disbelieving the Buddhadharma, But Misusing It

I often think that the errors of non-Buddhist paths are sometimes not as terrifying as the misuse of the Dharma from within. Those who do not believe in the Buddhadharma simply do not take this path; those who misuse the Dharma, however, may use it to consecrate their own afflictions. The greedy speak of freedom, the angry speak of justice, the ignorant speak of the inconceivable, the arrogant speak of elevated views, and the evasive speak of emptiness. Consequently, the language of the Dharma becomes armor for afflictions.

There is a passage in the Cheng Weishi Lun that serves as a particularly stark warning. It criticizes those who, relying on the “principle of emptiness that dispatches characteristics” (遣相空理), dismiss the eighth consciousness and all dharmas entirely. As a result, defiled and pure cause and effect, understanding, elimination, realization, and cultivation all become unreal, culminating in a great false view. It notes that if all dharmas were truly non-existent, Bodhisattvas would not diligently cultivate the provisions for enlightenment to abandon birth and death. This is precisely the critique of misconceived emptiness (惡取空). If emptiness leads a person to negate defiled and pure cause and effect, negate the stages of practice, and negate the provisions of a Bodhisattva, it is not wisdom (prajñā)—it is a false view.

This passage carries immense weight. It tells me that emptiness cannot render practice unnecessary. If everything could be canceled out by “emptiness,” why would Bodhisattvas practice the six pāramitās? Why would they sever the two obstacles? Why would they achieve transformation? Why would they bring benefit and joy to sentient beings? Why would they endure insults, practice diligence, cultivate samādhi, and refine wisdom across vast eons? If emptiness leads to laziness, it is not the emptiness of the Buddhadharma; the emptiness of the Buddhadharma must lead to a diligence that abides nowhere.

Let us bring this truth into daily life. If I commit an error and say “it is all empty,” that is misconceived emptiness. If I hurt someone and say “non-self,” that is misconceived non-self. If I refuse to correct my habits yet claim to be “inherently pure,” that is misconceived inherent purity. If I remain indifferent to another’s suffering yet say “each has their own karma,” that is a perverted view of karma. A true view of karma does not coldly say, “That is their karma”; it soberly asks, “Within this web of causes and conditions, can I reduce the suffering?”

VIII. On How I Wish to Use These Sutras and Treatises in Daily Life

If sutras and treatises remain only on the desk, they can easily breed an elegant ignorance. I wish to place a few sentences from the Cheng Weishi Lun into my daily life, like carrying a few small mirrors in my pocket.

• When I feel I have been harmed, I remember “self and dharmas are provisionally spoken of.” This does not ask me to deny the harm, but reminds me: right now, the harmed self is being jointly constructed by physical sensations, memories, language, the Manas’s ego-grasping, and the intellect’s projections.

• When I believe I am absolutely correct, I remember “if one grasps Consciousness-Only as truly existing, it is just like grasping external environments, and is likewise a dharma-attachment.” This reminds me that even if my concept appears to be the Dharma, it can still be just another form of grasping.

• When I fall back into old habits, I remember “it turns constantly like a torrent.” This ensures I do not despair over a temporary failure, because the torrent can change direction; nor do I dare become complacent over a temporary clarity, because the torrent still carries its old momentum.

• When I wish to use emptiness to escape, I remember the critique of misconceived emptiness in the Cheng Weishi Lun. If my emptiness causes me not to cultivate, not to sever, not to realize, not to assume responsibility, and not to show compassion, then it is not emptiness—it is my laziness wearing a monk’s robe.

• When I face injustice in the world, I remember “because the mind is defiled, sentient beings are defiled; because the mind is pure, sentient beings are pure.” This does not tell me to only cultivate my inner mind and ignore the outside world; rather, it reminds me that if I fight a defiled environment with a defiled mind, the world will only gain one more layer of defilement. A pure mind is not weak; it simply refuses to let hatred become the master of action.

Finally, I wish to encourage myself with these steps:

When a circumstance manifests, do not rush to call it empty. First, see how it manifests, how I feel it, how I name it, how I categorize it into an old story, how it is grasped as “me” by the Manas-vijñāna, and how it prepares to perfume into a new seed.Then, observe its emptiness. Observe that it arises dependently on causes and conditions, observe its lack of intrinsic nature, observe it as an illusion and a dream, observe that both self and dharmas are provisional establishments, and observe that if this mind no longer grasps, it does not need to turn this moment into fuel for the next cycle of saṃsāra.Finally, still take action. Say what needs to be said, stop what needs to be stopped, leave what needs to be left, bear what needs to be borne, correct what needs to be corrected, and offer compassion where compassion is due. Only, after acting, do not enfeeble the outcome into your own victory or defeat; do not enfeeble justice into your own greatness; do not enfeeble practice into your own loftiness; do not enfeeble the Dharma into a new palace for the Manas-vijñāna.

In this way, emptiness will not resemble an escape, Consciousness-Only will not resemble self-enclosure, Tathatā will not resemble an ontological comfort, and non-self will not resemble a shirk of responsibility.

If the Dharma is truly a mirror, I pray it reflects how I escape. If the Dharma is truly a medicine, I pray it first cures my deepest ego-attachment. If the Dharma is truly a raft, I pray it carries me into the world without drowning me, allowing me to leave signs behind without ever leaving sentient beings.

The spiritual practice I can comprehend at present is probably just this:

• In the conventional, do not escape cause and effect;

• In the ultimate, do not establish intrinsic nature;

• In Consciousness-Only, observe how the mind manufactures the world;

• In Madhyamaka, do not even grasp this observation as my own wisdom.

If one day, when I say “everything is empty,” my heart can still give rise to tenderness for a specific, suffering human being; If one day, when I say “non-self,” I can still honestly admit my own mistakes; If one day, when I say “Consciousness-Only,” I still do not look down upon the real situations of others; If one day, when I say “Tathatā,” I am still willing to wash the dishes, apologize, work, care for the sick, halt injustice, and bear retributions; At that moment, perhaps I will slightly begin to understand: the Buddhadharma does not ask me to leave life behind, but rather asks me to stop living life in the manner of ignorance.