What This Concept Is About
The sign of turning away is not "I hate life," nor is it the despondency that follows frustration. It is a sober reorientation formed through observation: seeing that birth-and-death and all conditioned phenomena cannot provide permanent, reliable security, one ceases to stake one's entire life upon them.
The *Yogācārabhūmi-śāstra* (瑜伽師地論, T1579) gives a precise definition of "turning away" (厭): "Turning away means that, having deeply seen the faults in an object, one's nature is to abandon and turn from it." Two steps here cannot be omitted: first "deeply seeing the faults," and only then "abandoning and turning from." Without the former, the turning away may be mere petulance, fear, or escape; with only the former and not the latter, one may understand much about impermanence yet still live entirely under the sway of attachment.
The "sign" (相, *lakṣaṇa*) is a mode of observation and mental configuration that the mind adopts and repeatedly familiarizes itself with in practice. The "turning away" (離) does not mean first pushing the external world aside; it means the mind begins to withdraw its mistaken investment in it—no longer demanding that changing things remain unchanging, no longer requiring that conditionally assembled things be absolutely under one's control, and no longer mistaking transient satisfaction for ultimate security.
The *Yogācārabhūmi-śāstra* states that the faults seen in turning away are three: impermanence, suffering, and things subject to deterioration. Each has its own emphasis; they cannot be compressed into a single phrase like "life is suffering."
First is impermanence (無常, *anitya*). Whatever exists dependent on causes and conditions is in the process of arising, abiding, changing, and ceasing. Body, relationships, wealth, reputation, abilities, views, and even favorable states in practice—none can remain where it is. Impermanence is not merely "it will eventually disappear"; it also includes that things are changing right now, and cannot be commanded at our will.
Second is suffering (苦, *duḥkha*). "Suffering" here refers not only to pain and grief, but also to the instability and pressure intrinsic to conditioned life itself: scheming to obtain, anxious to maintain, chasing to recover what is lost; even present pleasure carries the latent pressure of being unable to last and unable to be self-directed. Pleasure is not denied; the problem is that it cannot bear the task of "making me forever complete and worry-free."
Third is things subject to deterioration (變壞法, *vipariṇāma-dharma*). Certain experiences are indeed lovely, comfortable, and satisfying at present, but their nature is to deteriorate. Intimacy cools as conditions change; health declines; favorable circumstances turn; meditative states may regress. Observing deteriorating things does not mean "since they will decay, they are worthless," but rather: since they will decay, they cannot be treated as an undecaying refuge.
It is when these three observations converge that the sign of turning away is formed: I can still cherish a relationship, care for my body, and work seriously—yet no longer mistake them for something eternal, absolutely controllable, or sufficient as an ultimate refuge.
The *Yogācārabhūmi-śāstra* lists the sign of turning away as the first of five signs that a beginning meditator should adopt, in order: the sign of turning away (厭離相), the sign of delight (欣樂相), the sign of faults (過患相), the sign of illumination (光明相), and the sign of distinguishing objects (了別事相). The function of the sign of turning away is to first bring the mind back from its habitual pursuit; the sign of faults then further reveals the specific features of those faults. The two are related, yet not mere repetition of the same term: one emphasizes the mind of abandonment that arises after seeing faults, the other emphasizes the observation and disclosure of the faults' features.
The observations given in the treatise are very practical. A practitioner may, through what is directly seen, what is heard, or what is rationally inferred in the mind, observe how oneself and others first enjoy pleasure and then encounter illness, death, and the various losses of lifespan, family, wealth, pure precepts, and right view. What deserves attention here: what can decline is not only the body and property, but also pure precepts (淨戒, *śīla*) and right view (正見, *samyag-dṛṣṭi*). A person may still have a career and a comfortable life, yet through prolonged negligence lose the bottom line of conduct, or gradually lose the ability to distinguish the true path from the false; from the standpoint of the path to liberation, this loss is even deeper than the loss of wealth.
Therefore, what turning away faces is not only "bad days." Favorable circumstances are equally its object of observation: though present prosperity and ease are genuinely perceptible, they are hard to obtain, easily lost, and cannot be relied upon. As long as one is still in the flow of birth-and-death, not yet having entered parinirvāṇa or attained liberation of mind, one cannot demand that any conditioned condition forever guarantee one's security.
But Buddhism does not train the mind into bleakness here. The *Yogācārabhūmi-śāstra* says: "Taking the sign of turning away, one tempers the mind; taking the sign of delight, one nourishes the mind." The sign of turning away and the sign of delight must be practiced in mutual support. Turning away tames the mind out of its mistaken dependencies; delight enables the practitioner to see the regretlessness and joy born of pure precepts, to see the superior benefits of dispassion, calming-and-insight, and liberation, giving the mind direction, strength, and nourishment. Only turning away without delight tends toward barrenness; only delight without turning away may turn practice into another kind of craving for comfortable states.
The treatise also uses the words "aversion" (惡), "opposition" (違), and "turning the back" (背) to indicate the successive depth of abandoning after seeing faults: "Abandoning after first seeing faults is called aversion; abandoning after middle seeing of faults is called opposition; abandoning after deeply seeing faults is called turning the back." Here "aversion" is not evil in the moral sense, but the initial no longer gladly gravitating toward; "opposition" is the mind gradually conflicting with its former attachments; "turning the back" is a deeper turn, no longer taking conditioned things as the ultimate destination. The key is not to translate three synonyms, but to see that turning away deepens progressively: from feeling something is wrong, to refusing to continue complying, to truly changing the direction of one's life.
Its position on the path to liberation is also clear. The treatise says: "Turning away means that, having seen the truths, one is averse and opposed to all conditioned things; dispassion means that, through cultivating the path, craving is permanently abandoned; liberation means that, through abandoning craving, the mind attains liberation; perfect liberation means that, because the defilements are cut off, one attains liberation from the sufferings of birth and so forth." Thus turning away is not equal to dispassion, let alone liberation. It is a reorientation that arises from seeing things as they are; only by continuing to cultivate on that basis can one speak of permanently abandoning craving, attaining liberation of mind, and even universally liberating from birth and other sufferings.
One can understand it as a "revocation of authorization" on the path to liberation: previously, the mind authorized impermanent objects to determine its own worth, safety, and satisfaction; now, because it sees their limits, it begins to reclaim that authorization. But reclaiming authorization is not destroying the world; it is stopping the demand that the world accomplish what it was never able to accomplish.
A Walkthrough in Everyday Life
Let us walk through a very contemporary scenario: after work in the evening, you squeeze into the subway and habitually scroll your phone.
First step: identify what is present before you, without hastily labeling yourself "greedy" or "undisciplined." In the phone appear a colleague's promotion news, a friend's travel photos, an infuriating trending topic, and short videos recommended by the platform. The mind accordingly gives rise to envy, anxiety, anger, and brief excitement. The sign of turning away is not aversion to the phone as an object, nor is it simply concluding "the internet is all bad"; it observes how one hands over attention, emotions, and self-worth to these constantly changing conditions.
Second step: observe impermanence. The excitement from the previous video has not yet stabilized before the next one covers it; the trending topic everyone valued in the morning may be discussed by no one by evening; the like-count you had been waiting for, once increased, brings only a moment of satisfaction, soon followed by new comparisons. Algorithms indeed optimize recommendations based on behavioral data, but this can only serve as auxiliary illustration for contemporary experience; it cannot be equated with the Buddhist theories of dependent origination, karma, or consciousness. Algorithm research also cannot replace direct observation of one's own attachment.
Third step: observe suffering. Suffering here does not necessarily manifest as obvious discomfort. You may be scrolling with enjoyment, yet unable to stop at will; intending to rest for ten minutes, you end up more exhausted after forty; each stimulus feels like it satisfies a need, yet simultaneously cultivates the tendency to need the next stimulus. Suffering is manifesting in this being-dragged, this difficulty of self-mastery, this insatiability.
Fourth step: observe things subject to deterioration. Online praise will pass; appearance will change; professional advantages will be rewritten; the intensity in intimate relationships will fade. Even the rare focus, calm, and motivation for practice right now will change with conditions. The easiest place to mis-map is understanding "things subject to deterioration" as "these things are essentially evil." What the classics point out is that they will deteriorate and cannot be relied upon—not that all relative value is nonexistent.
Fifth step: see how one usually responds. If one merely thinks "life is really meaningless," and then continues scrolling more numbly, that is only lamentation and dejection, not turning away. If one deletes the app in anger, only to reinstall it days later with the same dependency, that too is mainly suppression or rebound. Genuine "abandoning and turning from" is clearly seeing that this entire cycle cannot give the security one expects, and so the mind no longer complies wholesale: at this moment, put down the phone, let attention return to the body and breath; in the future, adjust how you use it; at a deeper level, observe why you so need comparison, confirmation, and stimulation.
Now place this set of observations in an intimate relationship. Your partner does not reply to your message promptly, and you immediately suspect you are not valued.
Impermanence: feelings, expressive capacities, and life conditions in the relationship are all changing. Suffering: when you make "the other must consistently respond to me in a certain way" a guarantee of safety, the mind is continually pressured. Things subject to deterioration: passion, mutual understanding, and even the conditions of shared life may all change. Turning away is not coldly saying "since everything is impermanent, love no one," but abandoning possessiveness-driven demands: no longer making the other person bear the task of guaranteeing "I am forever worthy of love." Paradoxically, this may enable more genuine communication, because communication is no longer merely forcing the other to eliminate one's own fears.
Here it is also easy to go wrong: mapping turning away onto annoyance with one's partner, or turning "all conditioned things are impermanent" into an excuse for avoiding commitment. What turning away departs from is clinging, not responsibility; what it sees through is false permanent guarantees, not the genuine goodwill, care, and karmic consequences between real people.
The same applies to parenting. Parents naturally want their children to be healthy, excellent, and minimally harmed; but if the child's grades become proof of one's own worth, one enters the coercion of conditioned things. Grades are impermanent; educational conditions change; the child's interests and abilities change; the ease bought by grades cannot last—it is a deteriorating thing; and controlling, comparing, and scolding in order to maintain that ease causes suffering for both parent and child. Turning away is not not caring for the child, but departing from the attachment "I must obtain absolute security by controlling my child." Once this attachment is removed, care may become more accurate: set boundaries when boundaries are needed, accompany when accompaniment is needed—rather than experiencing every fluctuation as a collapse of the self.
Overtime work and career competition can be walked through likewise. Position, income, and professional competence have real functions; Buddhism does not require laypeople to treat bills as illusions. But they all depend on conditions of body, market, organization, relationships, and the times: this is impermanence. Needing constant maintenance while never being fully in control: this is suffering. Today's advantage becoming tomorrow's burden: this is a deteriorating thing. When turning away occurs, one may not immediately resign, but first ceases to treat position as one's final identity, and no longer unconditionally sacrifices pure precepts, right view, and body-mind for temporary gains. For the *Yogācārabhūmi-śāstra* reminds us that decline is not only the decline of wealth, but also the decline of pure precepts and right view.
Therefore, a complete life walkthrough is not "discover imperfection, therefore negate everything," but:
See the object and one's own mode of dependency; observe its impermanence, suffering, and deterioration separately; recognize the attachment and pressure arising from it; cease complying with meaningless cycles; then direct the mind toward a more trustworthy direction—the regretlessness born of upholding precepts, clear observation, the training of calming-and-insight, and the freedom that comes as defilements lighten. This final step is where the sign of turning away connects with the sign of delight.
Why Contemporary People Need It
Contemporary life is very good at packaging "convenience" as "refuge." Platforms provide connection; consumption provides choice; careers provide identity; data provides feedback. All of these have relative functions, yet are easily elevated by the mind into ultimate promises: if I am just a little more successful, a little more popular, a little more optimized, I will be completely secure.
What the sign of turning away cuts through is precisely this perpetually deferred promise.
First, it helps us distinguish "use" from "taking refuge." One can use technology without wholly handing over attention to it; can build a career without making position one's sole self; can love a person deeply without requiring that they eliminate all of life's uncertainty; can care for health without fantasizing that the body will henceforth be exempt from aging and death. Turning away does not reduce the seriousness of life; it reduces mistaken projection.
Second, it turns "impermanence" from a consoling phrase into a view that changes behavior. Many people say things are impermanent only after losing them, yet the next time they still treat impermanent things as if they could never be lost. Genuine turning away changes the mode of investment: knowing the body will decay, one neither indulges excessively nor deifies the body; knowing relationships will change, one cherishes them in time and does not substitute control for love; knowing views may regress, one protects right view and does not let long-term desires and collective emotions think for one.
Third, it enables one to distinguish distress from turning away. The *Yogācārabhūmi-śāstra* makes a strict distinction: even those who indulge in sensual pleasures, when they think of change, disintegration, and impermanence, may only lament and be dejected, without generating turning away toward conditioned things. Because the sadness itself has not dissolved attachment; sometimes the more distressed one is, the more it proves the mind still demands that the object exist according to one's wishes.
Outsiders may have a partial aversion and attain some degree of dispassion, yet still only turn away from a portion of conditioned things. For example, one tires of coarse sensual pleasures and becomes attached instead to subtler meditative states; one tires of secular identity and builds a certain spiritual experience into a new permanent self. The noble disciple's direction, by contrast, is to fully contemplate the impermanence of all conditioned things, and to be utterly averse to and liberated from all conditioned things. "All conditioned things" means one cannot only see through what one dislikes while quietly exempting what one likes, what is pure, or what is subtle. Whatever arises from causes and conditions, whatever is made by conditions, cannot be grasped as ultimate security.
This is precisely the weight of the sign of turning away on the path to liberation: it is not an emotional management technique, but the pivotal turn from a birth-and-death orientation to a liberation orientation.
Before one has observed, one usually understands suffering as "I did not get what I wanted"; as turning away gradually matures, one sees a deeper layer: even when one gets it, as long as the self is maintained through grasping, the cycle has not ended. The goal of practice thus changes accordingly—no longer merely obtaining more favorable conditions, but weakening the mind that can only stand by relying on favorable conditions.
In the context of directly realizing the noble truths, the *Yogācārabhūmi-śāstra* also describes the practitioner observing that one still lacks the attainment of the fruits of the śramaṇa, generating "mental aversion" (心生厭患): still dominated by defilements, possibly creating karma through defilements; not yet corresponding to ultimate nirvāṇa, the samādhi of the higher training of mind, or the subtle noble path of the higher training of wisdom. This aversion is not self-humiliation, but ceasing to whitewash one's actual situation. It is like a person finally admitting: the problem is not only that the external world has failed to cooperate with me, but that defilements can still dominate my judgments and actions.
Seeing this, one genuinely practices non-negligence (不放逸, *apramāda*). Non-negligence is not tensely monitoring oneself, but no longer continuously investing life in meaningless matters, and striving to "set a boundary" (作成邊際) for such investment—to give it an end.
And after turning away there must be a direction toward which to go. The treatise says that upon seeing the excellent qualities of dispassion, one can enter into it, generate pure faith, abide in the object of meditation, and even cause defilements to be released from their bonds. In other words, Buddhism does not merely prove "the world cannot be relied upon"; it also trains a path through precepts, concentration, and wisdom that leads to dispassion and liberation. Turning away provides the strength to leave; delight provides the strength to advance; calming and insight transform momentary feelings into a stable, clear, and delusion-cutting practice.
Common Misreadings and Clarifications
First, turning away is not depression, burnout, or despair.
Depressive states may cause loss of vitality, interest, and hope, and require appropriate social support and professional care; the sign of turning away presupposes genuinely seeing faults, and functions to reduce attachment and move toward purity and liberation. Subjectively, both may sometimes appear as "loss of interest," but their structure and direction differ; they cannot replace each other, and one certainly should not urge a person in serious psychological distress to explain away their illness as "a spiritual state." Buddhist practice also does not replace medical diagnosis and treatment.
Second, turning away is not aversion to the world, the body, or other people.
What "abandoning and turning from as one's nature" departs from is grasping and mistaken identification regarding conditioned things—not projecting hostility toward sentient beings. If practice makes a person increasingly harsh, quick to disdain "unclean people," that is likely just anger wrapped in Buddhist vocabulary. Genuine turning away weakens clinging, and should correspondingly reduce harm rather than increase superiority.
Third, turning away is not merely sighing over impermanence after disasters occur.
Saying "it's all impermanent" after unemployment, illness, or a breakup may be a starting point for observation, but does not necessarily mean turning away has arisen. One must look at whether the mind has actually changed its mode of dependency. If, while sighing over impermanence, one more urgently seeks the next object to permanently possess, one remains in dejection or conceptual understanding.
Fourth, turning away does not hold that happiness does not exist.
The point made in the *Yogācārabhūmi-śāstra* is that present prosperity and ease also belong to impermanence—hard to obtain and easily lost—not that pleasant experiences do not genuinely occur. What turning away negates is the added judgment that "this happiness can last forever and free me from suffering ultimately." Being able to enjoy a cup of tea without demanding it save one's life is closer to reality than anxiously possessing it.
Fifth, turning away is not passive withdrawal from the world or shirking responsibility.
Leaving a harmful job may be wisdom, or it may be escape; staying in place and bearing responsibility may be compassion, or it may be fear. One cannot judge turning away by external actions alone. The key is: whether, through deeply seeing impermanence, suffering, and deteriorating things, attachment and defilements have been weakened; whether one better protects pure precepts and right view and moves toward purity. Turning away is first a transformation of mental conduct; external choices must be judged in light of conditions and ethical responsibility.
Sixth, turning away is not equal to dispassion, nor is it liberation.
Turning away is aversion to conditioned things after seeing faults; dispassion is the permanent abandonment of craving in sustained cultivation; liberation is the mind's release through abandoning craving; perfect liberation is the cutting off of defilements, with universal release from the sufferings of birth and so forth. A strong feeling of impermanence, even a period of no longer pursuing sensual pleasures, cannot masquerade as defilements being fully cut off. Calling the starting point the destination only obscures the precepts, concentration, and wisdom that should be cultivated subsequently.
Seventh, turning away cannot be directed only at coarse sensual pleasures.
One may grow weary of consumption, socializing, and competition, yet begin to cling to solitude, feelings of purity, meditative joy, or the identity of "I am a practitioner." That is merely changing the object. Complete turning away points to all conditioned things: not only wealth and fame are impermanent; pure experiences, meditative states, and the identity of a practitioner are equally formed by causes and conditions. They can serve as supportive conditions on the path, but should not be grasped as eternal entities or a final self.
Eighth, turning away and delight do not cancel each other out; they complete each other.
"Taking the sign of turning away, one tempers the mind; taking the sign of delight, one nourishes the mind." Emphasizing only faults may cause the mind to contract; emphasizing only joy may cause the mind to indulge in pleasant feelings. Mature practice both sees that birth-and-death cannot be relied upon, and sees the superior benefits of precepts, dispassion, calming-and-insight, and liberation. It can both say "no longer thus" and know "where to go."
Therefore, the deepest meaning of the sign of turning away is not to take life lightly, but to no longer squander life carelessly. Precisely because family, lifespan, wealth, pure precepts, and right view can all decline, one must discern what is worth protecting; precisely because favorable circumstances cannot be relied upon, one should not indefinitely postpone liberation; precisely because all conditioned pleasures change, one must learn to use them compassionately amid change, without demanding eternity from them.
Turning away is not a statement of "I want nothing anymore," but an increasingly honest understanding: finite things can be cherished and well used, yet no longer mistaken for the infinite; experiences within birth-and-death can serve the functions of life, but cannot bear the function of ultimate liberation. When the mind truly sees this, it begins to turn around from the momentum of endless pursuit. This turning is not the completion of the path, but it is the path finally no longer pointing toward where it originally pointed.