Mind And "I"

Audio version:

After reading countless Buddhist texts and dedicating twenty-five years to study and practice, I challenged myself to boil Buddhism down to its simplest terms. What is its essence? What is the pivot point around which the tradition turns? I narrowed it down to nine words—nine words that, to me, capture the heart of one of the world’s great spiritual traditions. Here they are:

Mind is distinct from “I.” Pay attention to it.

There it is, in a nutshell. The premise of Buddhism is that the mind has its own status—separate and distinct from the “I,” and separate even from the biological processes that produce the “I.” This may sound absurd in today’s materialist world, in which all phenomena are said to be the product of physical processes. Yet it is the starting point for nearly everything that follows in Buddhist philosophy and practice. It is also aligned with some of the latest thinking in contemporary philosophy and science.

Let us examine more closely what this distinction between mind and “I” signifies. The nature of mind is one of the most profound questions in all of Buddhist thought, and we will return to it often. For now, my goal is to open the door to the idea that it is different from the “I,” and that this distinction is worthy of our attention.

To understand Buddhism, it helps to begin with a basic human inquiry: Who am I? What is my purpose? Why am I here? These questions have challenged humanity for as long as we've had the awareness to ask them.

Buddhist thought approaches these questions by examining the nature of the “I” who is asking. “I” in this context also encompasses the “self,” “me,” “my,” and “mine.” They all describe the fundamental feeling that we experience as ourselves.

In everyday awareness, the “I” seems to be the agent of our lives—my arm, my choices, my feelings, I changed my mind. Notice how, in this view, the “I” owns the mind. The “I” controls the mind, uses the mind, changes the mind. In the modern scientific worldview, both the “I” and the mind are assumed to be products of biological processes—something in our brains produces the feeling of “I,” just as it creates thoughts, memories, and emotions. Biology is considered fundamental. The self and mind are its outputs.

Under this view, life becomes a quest for the “I” to find happiness and fulfillment. Yet that happiness is often elusive, because the pursuit itself is fraught with tension—the very structure of “I” creates friction: conflict, comparison, fear, craving, self-protection, self-doubt. Satisfaction is elusive.

Buddhism introduces a different narrative—one increasingly echoed by leading Western thinkers from philosophy of mind to theoretical physics. Buddhist thought breaks the tight identification between the “I” and the mind. It sees the “I” as a mental construction—useful, functional, necessary, but not something with the solidity we think. It sees mind not as the property of the “I,” but as something that arises within a broader, subtler field that extends beyond the boundary of the self.

In future pieces, we will explore the arguments for this idea. You may be surprised by how rigorous—and how grounded in reason—these arguments are. The key point for now is that, in Buddhist thought, the mind is not the artifact of the brain, the “I,” or the self. It has its own, distinct status.

As we open ourselves to this shift in perspective, we will likely discover profound changes in how we move through the world.

In our ordinary view, the “I” is the hero—the center of our universe, pursuing its own happiness, safety, and fulfillment. In the Buddhist view, the mind is the hero. The aim is not to maximize the comfort of the “I,” but to cultivate a refined quality of mind. As we do, our experience reorganizes around that insight.

Examples include becoming more attentive to the quality of experience; feeling less pressure to prove our worth at every turn; becoming freer to express what flows naturally through us rather than what is expected of us; living from a confidence that comes from within; and experiencing a deeper sensitivity and concern for others’ well-being. In general, life feels fresher, more open, and more spacious.

In short, in the Buddhist view, we struggle when we center our lives on the fragile “I.” We flourish when we see ourselves as expressions of mind—a broader, deeper field of awareness and possibility. The goal is not to withdraw from life, but to engage it from this clearer, more spacious perspective. Not to abandon material needs and opportunities, but to place them in a proper context—as one aspect of human flourishing rather than its ultimate aim.

Separating “I” from mind is like opening another dimension, one that draws attention to the mental aspect of experience. We don’t have to be certain about the mind’s nature to try this on as a way of thinking. We can look at what the “I” wants and needs and compare it with what the mind wants and needs. The answers are often different.

The “I” might want excitement, distraction, or success, while the mind wants calm, connection, and space. The “I” might fear aging, illness, and death, while the mind might want to prepare itself for them. The “I” might be rigid in its needs, while the mind is more open and fluid. We may also find that agitating emotions—anger, craving, jealousy, and so on—serve the “I,” but not the mind.

Future pieces will explore these distinctions. The point here—the takeaway from this piece—is that Buddhist thinking attends to the mind as distinct from the “I.” This is not to deny or suppress the “I.” It is to open a portal to a new dimension and pay attention to it.

One more key point: there are many ways to do this. The modern Western understanding of Buddhism makes meditation seem like the only way to cultivate the mind. In other pieces, we will ask whether and when to try meditation. You might be surprised to discover that, historically, meditation is quite rare among Buddhists, even among Buddhist monks.

The possibilities for cultivating our quality of mind are varied. Archery, flower arranging, tea making, sweeping floors, martial arts, and even the ancient game of Go—all have been used as activities to cultivate the mind. As we'll discover, the point is not the activity itself but the state of mind with which we do it. We can meditate all we want, but if it is in the service of our ego, it won’t benefit the mind much. On the other hand, if we make a cup of tea for a friend with calm, presence, clarity, focus, and warmth in our hearts, it can be as profound as meditation.

The foundation of Buddhist thought, in a nutshell, is the recognition that the mind is not an afterthought in a material universe, but an essential ground of experience. Everything else follows from this.

I’ll end with a brief exercise you can try, without any need for meditation or philosophy—a small step into Buddhist thinking that won’t take more than a minute or two.

What should I do right now?
What should my mind do right now?

What should I do right now? might yield answers like:
“I should get the project finished.”
“I should order that thing I’ve been wanting.”
“I should reply to those emails.”

What should my mind do right now? might yield answers like:
“It should relax, or rest.”
“It should learn more about Buddhist ideas.” (I hope!)
“It should check in on a friend or loved one who is under the weather.” (Do it!)

Just note what comes up for you. Jot it down. Pay attention to it. None of your answers is wrong. They reveal different possibilities, different perspectives on experience.

As we grow accustomed to this way of thinking, we often find that the mind has a different arc than the “I.” It has its own aims, needs, and rhythms. Discovering those can enrich our lives immensely.

If you try it, feel free to share what you discover. I’d love to hear about it.

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