Only Across the River Is the Other Shore

4.1 Only Across the River Is the Other Shore

Dāna-pāramitā—of this term, the first half we already know very well; the second half, pāramitā, is a new word.

Pāramitā comes from the old language of India, and it means, literally, "reaching the other shore"—crossing a river and arriving at the far bank. So dāna-pāramitā, rendered directly, is "the giving that can ferry a person across to the other shore."

Here the question comes: giving is giving—what kind is merely ordinary giving, and what kind counts as the giving that "reaches the other shore"? In the Mahāyāna sūtras there is one sentence that draws this line with complete clarity.

Only with Prajñā Does It Reach the Shore

In the Great Prajñā Sūtra (Mahāprajñāpāramitā-sūtra), the Buddha says:

"As for the one who gives: without prajñā-pāramitā, the gift only attains the name of giving and is not 'reaching the other shore'; only by prajñā-pāramitā does it attain the name of 'giving that reaches the other shore.'"

Prajñā is the wisdom that sees through to how things really are. What the sentence means is this: whether a gift deserves the name "reaching the other shore" turns not on how much you gave, but on whether, inside this giving, there is that one touch of seeing-through wisdom.

Giving without that touch of wisdom—however much, however generously you give—is still only "giving." It can purchase merit; it cannot ferry anyone across. Giving with that touch of wisdom—even a bowl of rice, a strip of cloth—is dāna-pāramitā, and it can carry a person all the way to the far bank.

This is a reversal that matters greatly. Before, when we measured giving, we looked outward—what was given, how much, to whom. Now this sentence says: do not look outward; look inward—does this giving heart hold that one point of seeing through?

"I Give, That One Receives, the Thing Given"

Then this "one point of seeing through"—what does it see through?

The Mahāprajñāpāramitā Śāstra, the great treatise on prajñā-pāramitā, puts it most plainly. It says: when you give, if the mind still thinks—it is I who give; it is that one who receives; this is the thing I have given—then this giving can only be called "obtaining (the merit of) giving"; it does not yet count as "reaching the other shore."

Look at these three thoughts: I, the other, the thing. One who gives, one who receives, one thing that is given. The Dharma calls these three "the three wheels"—like three wheels turning, and a gift turns upon them.

In ordinary giving, all three wheels turn as solid fact: plainly there is an "I" giving, a "he" receiving, a "thing" passing from hand to hand. The mind grips these three and will not let go. This is called "the three wheels held as real."

But in the dāna-pāramitā that reaches the other shore, these three wheels have all loosened through, emptied out—in the giving, the mind no longer clamps down on "it is I who give," "he receives," "this is my thing." This is called "the three wheels—giver, receiver, gift—all empty."

Note well: "the three wheels empty" does not say "no one is giving, no one is receiving, nothing was given"—that is a different matter, and the next chapter and the one after will take it apart carefully. It says: the giving goes on exactly as before, but the mind no longer clenches "I, the other, the thing" into something solid and impossible to set down. The hand gives; the mind is loose—loose enough that even the thought "I am giving" no longer snags.

This joins straight back to what the opening of Part Four said: the first three parts loosened "mine"; here, what must loosen is the "I who is giving" itself.

An Unexpected Reversal: The Beggar Completes You

The Mahāyāna adds here one more teaching that catches people off guard.

We always feel that in the affair of giving, the giver stands high—the bestower, the one with virtue—while the one who begs, the one who receives, stands low: the one being helped. The giver above, the receiver below.

But the Mahāyāna treatises say: without someone coming to ask, dāna-pāramitā could never be fulfilled at all. A bodhisattva who has set his heart on practicing dāna-pāramitā—precisely because someone comes to beg from him—has somewhere for this giving to land, has a way to bring it to completion. So the one who comes asking is not there to take advantage of you. He has come to complete you. It is he who gives you the chance to fulfill dāna-pāramitā.

This one reversal wipes flat whatever height stood between giver and receiver. No longer "I, from on high, bestow charity upon you," but "the two of us—one giving, one receiving—completing one thing together."

And see—this too is loosening that "I": loosening the self-elevation of "I am the benefactor who confers favors on others." Even the faint, hidden satisfaction of "I am doing good, I am helping people" must be set down here.

The Last "I"

The first three parts loosened "mine"—my wealth, my goods, my calculations. Here, what must loosen is the "I" behind "mine": the "I who is giving."

This answers to the word the gate of giving faces. The Heart Sūtra says "crossing over all suffering and distress"; among the Six Practice Gates, the gate of giving corresponds to this "crossing." (This correspondence between the Six Practice Gates and the Heart Sūtra is a reading this book offers; the sūtra itself does not state it.) To cross over, to reach the other shore, is pāramitā. And to cross the river, to reach the far bank, depends not on piling the goods on this side higher, but on unloading the surplus "I" from the boat. When the hand is loosened to its very end, that is losing the "I"; and losing the "I" is where crossing begins.

Walking On

This chapter has made clear what the "promotion" is: a gift, with that one touch of seeing-through wisdom added—the three wheels loosened through—crosses the river, from ordinary giving into the dāna-pāramitā that can ferry people across.

But "the three wheels empty" is still abstract. These three—"I, the other, the thing"—how exactly are they "empty"? Once "empty," how does one still give? And "the other shore"—where, in the end, is that shore?

The next chapter has a story—very famous, and very painful—about an eye given away, and it can make all of these things plain at once.