‘They Are Properties of the Deity, Not Sentient’: Unfolding the Tibetan Buddhist Concept of Plant-Hood

Abstract

This article explores the concept of ‘Tibetan Buddhist plant-hood’ within the doctrinal and ethnographic contexts of Tibetan Buddhism, proposing it as a framework to understand the karma-intricate relationships between plants, sentient beings, and spiritual entities. By drawing on canonical Tibetan Buddhist texts, this article examines sentience in Tibetan terms, then introduces the notion of procedural sentiency, an extended Buddhist conceptual tool that reveals the dynamic processes through which insentient forms acquire ethical and spiritual significance. Examining specific cases, such as sacred trees, Tibetan highland barley, and Yartsa Gunbu (caterpillar fungus), plants are conceived as embedded within more-than-human Tibetan societies that span the material, spiritual, and ecological worlds. This study also addresses the ethical tensions and relational reconfigurations arising from plant–human interactions, as informed by Buddhist practices and cosmological perspectives. This endeavour aspires to establish Himalayan conceptual frameworks that engage in meaningful dialogues with broader environmental discourses, fostering an integrative perspective on the interplay between local practices, cosmologies, and global theoretical paradigms.

1. Introduction

In mid-September 2023, the time arrived for the harvest of Tibetan highland barley (Hordeum aegiceras), an event that typically spans around ten days in Shiqu County, within the Garze Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture. Situated alongside Drichu, the upper reach of the Yangtze River, the village, where Yang1 stayed for his ethnographic work, is characterised by its small plots of arable land. The barley harvest is a collective endeavour, requiring mutual aid—such as manpower, money, and farm tools—of every household in the village.

Central to this collective labour is the use of a combine harvester, supplemented by the individual contributions of villagers (see Figure 1). Families that owned tractors were expected to bring them for use during the harvest, while those without them were required to pay a nominal fee of CNY 10 (approximately GBP 1) per person, calculated based on household size, to cover fuel costs. Additionally, each household was mandated to provide one or two workers daily to assist with the wide range of communal agricultural tasks. The evening prior to the harvest, a village meeting was convened to organise the labour and logistics, during which a contentious debate erupted regarding who would drive the combine harvester. One villager expressed frustration, arguing that he had taken on the responsibility the previous year and should not be required to do so again. Intrigued by the reluctance surrounding this role, Yang sought clarification from Palmo2, a 21-year-old Tibetan college student who had returned to the village during her academic break to engage in farming and herding work. When being asked why villagers were hesitant to take on the task, she explained, “Villagers believe that the harvester inevitably kills insects, frogs, and snakes in the crops and lands during the process. Operating the machine for ten days means taking many lives, which is very bad”. This moral controversy surrounding the combine harvester began only in 2021, when the machine was purchased with a combination of government subsidies and collective funds contributed by the villagers. The total cost amounted to CNY 120,000 (approximately GBP 13,000).

In light of this moral and karmic concern, the village committee compiled a list of a dozen men deemed skilled in operating the harvester. This list was subsequently submitted to the local monastery, where divination rituals were performed to determine the drivers. Following the monastery’s selection, three men were chosen to rotate the task daily over the ten-day harvest period. In terms of the criteria or rationale behind the monastery’s choices, several villagers consistently replied that they were unaware of the specific logic. Instead, they emphasised their deference to the monastery’s spiritual authority and decisions, adhering to its guidance without question.

It is widely recognised that the act of taking life is regarded as one of the gravest sins within Buddhist doctrine, incurring the most severe karmic retribution3. This prohibition is a central discipline of Buddhist ethics, and both ordained practitioners and lay Tibetan Buddhists are typically vigilant in observing this principle. In the context of the barley harvest, Tibetan villagers expressed a strong aversion to operating the combine harvester due to the harm it might inflict on the living beings residing within or around the barley fields. These included reptiles, insects, and microorganisms, whose lives are inadvertently endangered during the harvesting process. This ethical concern did not arise prior to the 2020s, when local Tibetans traditionally harvested barley using scythes. This method allowed for a gradual, meticulous process of cutting the barley crop, minimising harm to the small creatures inhabiting the fields. Interestingly, during the Yang’s fieldwork, it was observed that neither lay Tibetans nor monastics regarded plants as sentient in the Buddhist cosmological sense. This perspective presented a challenge for a self-identified ethnobotanist and anthropologist specialising in human–plant relationships, particularly at the beginning of research. It highlighted the potential dissonance between the focus of an outside researcher and the lived perceptions and experiences of the local community.

Herding yak and other livestock constitutes the foundation of Tibetan pastoralist livelihoods. At the same time, the Buddhist worldview fundamentally shapes Tibetan life with spiritual aspirations for liberation from the sufferings of samsara (the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth); the attainment of nirvana (transcendental state free from samsaric sufferings); and, ultimately, the transformation into Buddhahood (Cook and Diemberger 2021). Within this dual framework of pastoralism and Buddhist cosmology, it is unsurprising that plants often occupy a peripheral position in daily life, also described by Lambert Schmithausen (1991, p. 26) as the ‘borderline case’, receiving relatively little attention or reverence. This apparent indifference can be understood as consistent with the broader Buddhist cosmology, which prioritises the moral and spiritual dimensions of sentient beings.

Therefore, this article’s renewed focus on plant life—particularly the concept of ‘plant-hood’—offers a crucial shift away from abstract ontological debates surrounding individual plant entities. Instead, it emphasises a more grounded approach that acknowledges the relational and contextual dimensions of plants within Tibetan Buddhist cosmology and quotidian practice. Specifically, compelling questions have been rephrased: why does the seemingly inconsequential status of plants generate ethical dilemmas during the harvest of highland barley in Tibetan villages? What, if any, is the ethical relationship between plants and sentient beings in this context? How are plants conceptualised within the daily practices of Tibetan pastoralist society, and what meanings do they hold within the Buddhist worldview? These questions invite a closer examination of the epistemic and relational place of plants in Tibetan life.

2. Sentience, Procedural Sentiency, and Tibetan Buddhist Plant-Hood

Sentience is often understood as the capacity to feel pain and suffering (Singer 1975) or to exhibit emotional and passionate behaviours (Bekoff 2000). It is commonly perceived as an innate ability to sense and respond to the external world, which is attributed to the actions of an agent. As such, sentience is frequently regarded as a hallmark of animacy and a defining feature of personhood.

Recent advancements in plant biology and phyto-physiological research challenge and complicate these traditional notions of sentience. For instance, Calvo et al. (2017) have demonstrated forms of communication and responsiveness in plants, evidenced through phenotypic plasticity and mechanisms such as bioelectrical signalling, phloem conduits, and vascular anastomoses. These findings reveal sophisticated modes of interaction and adaptation in plants, suggesting a kind of plant sentience that operates through mediated functions rather than direct sensory or emotional experiences akin to those of humans or animals.

While this physiological evidence supports the existence of purposeful and communicative behaviours in plants (e.g., Trewavas 2002, 2003; Baluška et al. 2006; Gagliano 2018; Schulthies 2021; Ryan 2023), it does not necessarily align with human conceptions of suffering or emotional distress. Plants’ responsiveness to their environments is rooted in biological and ecological processes that differ fundamentally from the mental states or existential uncertainties associated with sentience in human and animal worlds, not to mention the karmic interconnectedness and samsara involvement in Buddhism worlds (Schmithausen 1991; Findly 2002). This gap invites a reconsideration of how sentience is defined and attributed, moving beyond anthropocentric frameworks to accommodate the unique modalities of plant life in impermanent and ever-changing socio-ecological systems.

While this physiological evidence supports the existence of purposeful and communicative behaviours in plants (e.g., Trewavas 2002, 2003; Baluška et al. 2006; Gagliano 2018; Schulthies 2021; Ryan 2023), it does not necessarily align with human conceptions of suffering or emotional distress. Plants’ responsiveness to their environments is rooted in biological and ecological processes that differ fundamentally from the mental states or existential uncertainties associated with sentience in human and animal worlds, not to mention the karmic interconnectedness and samsara involvement in Buddhism worlds (Schmithausen 1991; Findly 2002). This gap invites a reconsideration of how sentience is defined and attributed, moving beyond anthropocentric frameworks to accommodate the unique modalities of plant life in impermanent and ever-changing socio-ecological systems.

The question of whether plants are sentient beings deserving specific ethical consideration is central to ongoing debates in Buddhist environmental ethics. Compassion and altruism, foundational principles derived from the bodhicitta (Simonds 2023c; Swearer 2001), often serve as the basis for humanity’s relationship with nature. However, these principles traditionally extend only to sentient beings—humans, animals, and other sentient beings understood to suffer under karmic interconnectedness and samsara. Some scholars, such as William R LaFleur (1990), argue for expanding these ethical frameworks to include plants, as well as inanimate forms like stones and rivers, as worthy objects of compassion and moral regard. The canonical origins of this discussion can be traced back to Chan-jan (Zhanran), the sixth patriarch of the T’ien-t’ai School, a Mahayana Buddhist tradition in China. Chan-jan advocated the doctrine of the “Buddha-nature of Insentient Beings” 无情有性, asserting that plants and trees possess the qualities of Buddhahood (Chen 2014). However, in Tibetan Buddhist cosmology, plants are categorised as insentient forms, a perspective further supported by ethnographic data presented in this study.

In Tibetan terms, ‘sentient beings’ (sattva) are referred to as sems can (སེམས་ཅན་). The term sems translates to ‘mind’, ‘heart’, ‘consciousness’, or ‘awareness’, while can is a genitive particle, signifying possession. Thus, sems can literally means ‘those who possess a mind’. Here, sems encompasses not only the general concept of mind but also the spectrum of mental activities and awareness. This raises an important question: how does sems relate to the concept of consciousness within Buddhist discourse?

In the Yogācāra tradition of Mahayana Buddhism, the classification of the eight consciousnesses provides a nuanced framework for understanding mental phenomena. This system is one of the most influential and widely accepted within the broader Buddhist world. The eight consciousnesses comprise the five sense consciousnesses—those associated with the eye, ear, nose, tongue, and body—supplemented by three additional layers: mental consciousness (mano-vijñāna), self-referential consciousness or defiled mental consciousness (kliṣṭa-mano-vijñāna), and store-house consciousness (ālaya-vijñāna).

The eighth, or store-house consciousness (ālaya-vijñāna), is particularly significant as it serves as the foundational basis for the preceding seven consciousnesses. It functions as a repository, storing karmic imprints and latent potentials accrued through past actions. This consciousness is continuously conditioned by external and internal factors, perpetuating the cyclical existence of saṃsara. The seventh consciousness, defiled mental consciousness (kliṣṭa-mano-vijñāna), is responsible for the sense of self-referentiality or self-grasping. Reflecting upon the stored karmic imprints, this consciousness identifies with them, thereby constructing the illusion of a permanent and independent ‘self’.

In the Laṅkāvatāra Sūtra4, as preserved in the Tibetan Kanjur edition, the Buddha is recorded as delivering a sermon in Sri Lanka, during which he elucidates the concept of the eight consciousnesses. The text proclaims the following:

“The eight types of consciousness. What are the eight? They are as follows: the essence of the Tathāgata (the Buddha-nature) is proclaimed to be the ālaya-vijñāna (store-house consciousness), along with the mind (sems), the mental faculty (yid), the mental consciousness, and the aggregate of the five categories of consciousness. These are not to be explained by non-Buddhists (heretics)”.

The initial six consciousnesses—comprising the five sense consciousnesses and mental consciousness (mano-vijñāna)—are broadly agreed upon and accepted across various Buddhist traditions. However, substantial divergence emerges when addressing the seventh and eighth consciousnesses. The central debate among Buddhist schools revolves around the metaphysical relationship between Buddha-nature and ālaya-vijñāna (store-house consciousness). Some schools, such as the T’ien-t’ai tradition under Chan-jan (Chen 2014), propose that Buddha-nature not only transcends the eight consciousnesses but also the associated mental faculties, as well as characteristics of material forms and formations, whose perspective has profoundly influenced East Asian Buddhist thought (such as “plant enlightenment”—“sōmoku jōbutsu” 草木成仏—doctrine in Japanese Buddhism), where ālaya-vijñāna is regarded as one significant—but not exhaustive—dimension of Buddha-nature.

In the path toward awakening, ālaya-vijñāna undergoes a pivotal transformation. Once defiled by karmic imprints and ignorance, it is purified to reveal its inherent luminosity. Through this process, ālaya-vijñāna transforms into the Great Mirror Wisdom (ādarsajñāna), which reflects reality in its pure, undistorted form. This transformation signifies the cessation of delusion and the realisation of primordial purity, affirming the underlying unity between Buddha-nature and enlightened wisdom. Thus, the concept of ālaya-vijñāna offers significant insights into both the cosmological framework and the soteriological aims of Mahayana Buddhism.

In the Tibetan Laṅkāvatāra Sūtra context, Buddha-nature is equated with ālaya-vijñāna, reflecting a conceptualisation that is profoundly centred on consciousness and mind. This interpretation suggests that Buddha-nature both transcends and encompasses the eight consciousnesses, positioning itself as the purified seed at the root of their emergence and transformation. Compared to other Buddhist schools, Tibetan interpretations elevate ālaya-vijñāna to a more exalted status, equating it directly with Buddha-nature. Within this framework, ālaya-vijñāna represents the repository of karmic imprints and latent potentials as well as the untainted core of enlightenment that resonates with the universal Dharma.

The seventh consciousness, referred to as kliṣṭa-mano-vijñāna in Sanskrit, is represented in Tibetan as yid. This consciousness corresponds to the defiled or self-referential mental faculty, which is central to the process of self-grasping. Yid shapes the quality and disposition of one’s mental faculties, producing mental consciousness (mano-vijñāna) as concrete thoughts or ideas, the sixth consciousness in the Buddhist taxonomy. Critically, kliṣṭa-mano-vijñāna, as a conditioned ‘self’, arises from one’s ālaya-vijñāna. The ālaya-vijñāna, in turn, bears karmic imprints and ignorance and also serves as a channel through which the unconditioned Buddha-nature penetrates. This conceptualisation highlights the interconnectedness between sentient beings’ ālaya-vijñāna and their inherent Buddha-nature through potentials for Buddhahood, which is universal and transcendent.

In the text, the concept of sems (sentience) occupies a liminal space between yid (kliṣṭa-mano-vijñāna) and ālaya-vijñāna. It appears to have taken the position of the eighth consciousness. It is seen as a mediating factor, bridging Buddha-nature consciousness and the self-referential mental faculty. We thus argue that sems represents ‘the reified karmic consciousness of an individual in samsara’, derived from the eternal Buddha-nature consciousness. It gives rise to self-referential awareness (kliṣṭa-mano-vijñāna), thereby anchoring sentient beings to the formation of the self.

In Tibetan Buddhism, sentient beings (sems can), defined through sems, are firmly rooted in the realm of consciousness and are distinct from insentient entities within the material container world. In everyday Tibetan life, both lay practitioners and monastics use the term sems to describe beings endowed with consciousness and mind. This includes humans, animals, and also deities and spiritual beings, all of whom are enmeshed in the karmic web and remain subject to the suffering of samsara. This perspective underscores the deeply consciousness-focused worldview of Tibetan Buddhism and its delineation of sentience as a defining characteristic of beings capable of attaining liberation.

The primary contribution of this article lies in its extension of ethnographic case studies to Buddhist doctrinal interpretations, offering an integrative perspective on sentience and materiality. A particularly illustrative case is that of Yartsa Gunbu (Cordyceps sinensis), commonly known as caterpillar fungus, which occupies an ambiguous ontological status in Tibetan cosmology. Tibetan communities generally classify it as a plant, yet its life cycle complicates such categorisation. The host organism, the ghost moth larva, initially exists as a sentient being. However, after being infected by Cordyceps, it undergoes a transformation—first suffering through parasitism, then dying, and ultimately being subsumed by the fungal body, transitioning into an insentient form. During the harvesting process, Tibetan collectors exercise meticulous care to avoid harming other sentient beings inhabiting the soil surrounding Yartsa Gunbu. Furthermore, they regard Yartsa Gunbu not merely as an economic resource but as a sacred entity under the protection of local mountain deities. Ritual offerings, prayers, and acts of reverence accompany the collection of this fungus, reflecting a cosmological framework in which plant, insect, and divine agencies intersect.

This dynamic interplay between sentience and insentience in the caterpillar fungus lifecycle offers a compelling lens through which to re-examine Buddhist canonical understandings of sentience. It is in this context that the concept of ‘sentiency’ emerges—a theoretical formulation that accounts for the shifting, relational nature of sentience. Procedural sentiency refers to the dynamic processes and states through which sentience is continuously reconstituted and attributed by sentient beings (sattva), in relation to the material forms they engage with, within the framework of Tibetan Buddhist cosmological systems. Sentience, in this context, denotes an inherent reified karmic consciousness of an individual in samsara, whereas sentiency is understood as the procedural and relational status of this consciousness and adhesive mental faculties. Insentient forms are procedurally imbued with the consciousness, ethical significance, spiritual value, and divine recognition typically ascribed to sentient beings. These attributions operate within the conceptual boundaries of a specific Tibetan Buddhist worldview, where distinctions between sentient beings and insentient forms remain ontologically fixed.

Specifically, based on the abovementioned literature and canonical examinations, this article proposes that the characteristics constituting ‘sentience’ should be situated within a triangular theoretical framework:

(1)

The Sensory–Emotional Dimension: this includes the ability to suffer, feel, and respond to external stimuli, as well as the capacity for self-reflection and the expression of thoughts, emotions, and consciousness.

(2)

The Spiritual–Ethical Dimension: this involves the facts and potentials to hear the Dharma, understand karmic causality, and participate in the cycles of samsara (birth, death, and rebirth).

(3)

The Transformative Dimension: this refers to the potential and ability to attain Buddhahood through mediation, self-cultivation, and spiritual practice.

These triune abilities are neither isolated nor inherent but are afforded through relationships and interactions with insentient forms, such as plants, which act as mediators in the process of attributing sentience. This also suggests that despite contemporary biological research demonstrating plant intelligence and cognition—indicating their ability to perceive suffering and avoid pain (Simonds 2023a)—individual plants cannot hear the Dharma or attain Buddhahood. Moreover, no human can claim the possibility of being reborn as a plant.

Instead, procedural sentiency emphasises the relational and contingent nature of sentience, illustrating that it cannot emerge or operate independently of external mediation and stimuli. Plants function as conduits or facilitators that enable the attribution of sentience to sentient beings. Moreover, the multi-faceted affordances of different plants enable the lived or latent sentience of humans, other species, and spiritual beings to interact dynamically. This upholds a truly more-than-human world that is continuously coming into being within the Tibetan Buddhist cosmological framework. This is how the concept of Tibetan Buddhist plant-hood serves as a valuable framework for researching the role of plants in Tibetan societies.

3. Canonical Tibetan Buddhist Texts About Plants

Concerns about the examination of recorded materials are critically addressed in Joy L.K. Pachuau and Willem van Schendel’s Entangled Lives (Pachuau and van Schendel 2022, p. 9), which investigates more-than-human histories within the Eastern Himalayan Triangle. The authors highlight the responsibility of historians and anthropologists to explore fundamental questions, such as “what constitutes relevant and reliable evidence” and “how to validate explanations”. These inquiries aim to construct “a shared sense of the past”, which, in turn, informs how we navigate the present and envision the future. This process challenges conventional approaches to historical representations, which often rely on chronometric and diachronic frameworks. These frameworks, however, are frequently entangled in the agendas of various political stakeholders, effectively transforming historical narratives into contested domains of power and legitimacy. Given these complexities, ethnographic accounts become essential for supplementing and interrogating recorded histories. Ethnographic approaches allow researchers to move beyond treating historic events as static beliefs or immutable truths (de la Cadena 2015). Historical records thus are inherently incomplete and always embedded within the politics of inclusion and exclusion specific to their contexts of production. Representations and narratives—whether textual, visual, or oral—carry implicit assumptions and biases that must be interrogated to reveal the power relations and contestations underlying them.

In the cosmologies of many Himalayan communities, forests and trees appear omnipresent, showing the ways in which humans engage and deal with their environments (Pachuau and van Schendel 2022). A prominent example of this interconnectedness is reflected in the Tibetan term ’dzam gling (འཛམ་གླིང་) that regards the ‘world’, which corresponds to the Sanskrit Buddhist term Jambudvīpa (जम्बुद्वीप). This term refers to the southern continent of the terrestrial world, considered the domain of ordinary human beings and one of the four continents surrounding Mount Sumeru, as described in Buddhist cosmologies. It also features prominently in Hindu and Jain traditions, highlighting its significance across multiple South Asian religious systems.

The component ’dzam or jambu (འཛམ་) specifically denotes the jambu tree (Syzygium samarangense), commonly known as the rose apple tree, which is native to and widely distributed across South and Southeast Asia. This tree holds a place of exceptional value in Buddhist history and mythology. According to Buddhist accounts, Siddhartha Gautama, the prince of Kapilavastu who would later become the Buddha, had significant visionary encounters with the jambu tree. As a teenager meditating under a tree, he dreamt of the jambu tree and its unique qualities, which symbolised the path to enlightenment. Consequently, Jambudvīpa is revered as the only continent where Buddhas can be born and where sentient beings possess the highest potential to attain Buddhahood5. In Hindu cosmology, the jambu tree also occupies a significant role. Jambudvīpa is described as one of the seven continents in Hindu traditions, with its name derived from this majestic tree. Mythical narratives elaborate on the tree’s remarkable attributes: its roots are said to produce gold, and its fruits—immense rose apples as large as elephants—fall upon mountain peaks. The juice of these fallen fruits is believed to flow into the sacred Jambu River, which nourishes all inhabitants of the continent (Holt 2024). These associations position the jambu tree not only as a symbol of the terrestrial world but also as a representation of prosperity, abundance, and the metaphysical processes of creation and sustenance. Through these rich cultural and cosmological associations, the jambu tree emerges as a powerful symbol linking ecological realities with spiritual ideals.

The second component of the term, gling or dvīpa (གླིང་), translates as ‘continent’, ‘land’, or ‘island’, situating Jambudvīpa as the geographical and cosmological realm of human habitation. As demonstrated above, this term provides evidence of the religious correlations between Hinduism and Buddhism regarding the conceptual origins of the human continent. In ancient Indian cosmology, the Indian subcontinent was conceived as Jambudvīpa, a notion that informed regional and historical understandings of the world across South Asia and beyond. Historically, Jambudvīpa gained prominence during the reign of Emperor Ashoka in the third century BCE. Ashoka, a key figure in the propagation of Buddhism, employed Jambudvīpa to describe his vast realm, linking the geographical domain to the cosmological and spiritual significance of his empire (Lahiri 2015; Holt 2024). This usage positioned Jambudvīpa not only as a terrestrial space for human existence but also as a cultural and spiritual centre within the broader Buddhist cosmological framework.

The Tibetan adoption of the term ’dzam gling reflects the integration of Indian cosmological and cultural concepts into Buddhism, then Tibetan Buddhism. This syncretic process illustrates the dynamic ways in which cosmological ideas were transmitted, transformed, and localised across South Asia and Tibet. In this context, ’dzam gling represents more than a linguistic borrowing—it embodies a rich interweaving of religious, cultural, and environmental imaginaries. The enduring symbolic significance of plants, such as the jambu tree, further enhances the conceptual depth of Jambudvīpa and its Tibetan counterpart. The jambu tree serves as both a physical and metaphysical metaphor, linking the material world to spiritual aspirations. Its inclusion in these cosmological frameworks highlights the centrality of natural forms in shaping both geographical understandings and spiritual and cultural narratives (Ives 2017; Harris 1991).

The divine associations surrounding the jambu tree are evident in its cosmological significance. However, these associations do not attribute sentience to the tree itself; rather, the jambu tree is portrayed as a vital component of cosmological formations, such as continents, mountains, rivers, and gold. Actually, one of the earliest recorded debate in the Tibetan tradition on whether plants possess sentience or life can be traced to the ninth book of the Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra. This text, preserved in the Tibetan Kanjur—a comprehensive compilation of the Buddha’s sermons—is a foundational element of Tibetan Buddhist canonical literature. According to Buddhist tradition, the Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra recounts teachings delivered by the Buddha during the final phase of his earthly life, just before his entrance into Nirvāṇa. Traditionally dated to the fifth century BCE, this sutra occupies a pivotal position in Buddhist doctrine, addressing profound themes of life, death, and ultimate liberation.

A critical section from the ninth book presents a dialogue in which the Buddha addresses a distortion of his teachings, attributed to heretical misrepresentations. These distortions, described as demonic, introduce claims inconsistent with core Buddhist principles. The Buddha explicitly refutes these erroneous interpretations, asserting the following:

“Eating poison, jumping into fire, engaging in self-torture, jumping off a cliff, clinging to self-existence, killing oneself, indulging in anger, reciting mantras of knowledge, reciting secret mantras, performing acts of creation. All of these, I do not permit. The five types of nectar, honey, grain flour, and so forth, silk fabric, conch shells, shoes, grain, and similar things. I do not allow them to have the perception of flesh. All trees, I allow them to have the perception of lifelessness and the absence of mental perception. Any other views that exist are those of the śrāvakas (hearers) of the tīrthikas (heretics). Whatever accords with my words and actions, those are my śrāvakas (hearers), I declare. But I do not say that there is life (srog) and cognition (’du shes) in the four great elements (kham bzhi). The sūtras and Vinaya that say such things are those taught by the Buddha, so understand them correctly”6.

This passage provides significant doctrinal clarifications. Firstly, it establishes that material substances, including dairy products, silk, and grains, lack sentience. While the animals producing these substances—such as cows and bees—are recognised as sentient beings endowed with life, and their by-products are categorised as non-sentient and devoid of cognition. Similarly, creatures like cicadas and sea conchs are sentient, but their derivatives—such as shells and silk—are viewed as lifeless material entities. This distinction underscores the Tibetan Buddhist cosmological framework, which differentiates between sentient beings and insentient substances, reflecting a nuanced understanding of life and materiality.

Secondly, the Buddha explicitly denies sentience to plants. His statement, “all trees, I allow them to have the perception of lifelessness and the absence of mental perception”, positions plants as fundamentally insentient within the Buddhist framework. While plants biologically grow, exhibit phenotypic changes, and engage in processes such as photosynthesis (Baluška et al. 2006; Calvo et al. 2017), these abilities do not meet the criteria for sentience as defined in early Mahayana thought. Plants are categorised as non-sentient entities.

Thirdly, the passage reinforces the classification of the four great elements—wind, fire, water, and earth—as non-sentient and non-cognitive. Although integral to the material world, these elements are described as devoid of life and sentience, aligning with both Tibetan Buddhist and Bön cosmological traditions. Plants and forests are particularly constitutive parts of earth forms.

The Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra thus serves as a doctrinal cornerstone, delineating the boundaries of sentience within Buddhist cosmology and countering misinterpretations that equate sentience with physical or biological function. The Buddha’s refutations not only clarify key aspects of Buddhist presupposition but also critique heretical views that expand sentience to encompass plants and elemental forms. These teachings illuminate the intricate relationship between relationality, ethics, and cosmology in Buddhist thought, reaffirming the distinction between sentient beings—who suffer from the karma and samsara—and the material world.

4. The Plant Chapter in the Kanjur

The agential relationality among plants, animals, and more-than-human entities has been widely acknowledged in Himalayan contexts (Govindrajan 2015; Mathur 2021; Pachuau and van Schendel 2022; Bhutia 2024), as does this article. However, it is crucial to avoid the pitfalls of homogenisation and the flattening of ontologies across diverse actants, as this risks oversimplifying the intricate and varied ways in which vegetative beings relate to one another. Research on plants faces particular challenges. Plants often become a typical victim of such reductionist approaches, because biological sciences have already established their status as living organisms (Darwin and Darwin 1880). Yet this biological recognition does not translate into a uniform cosmological or relational understanding of plants across cultures. Local Tibetan pastoralism practices, for instance, may not assign the same ethical or spiritual weight to plants as they do to animals, spirits, or humans, despite acknowledging their vital role within ecological and cosmological systems.

One vinaya story about plants is recorded in the Kanjur. During one occasion, the Buddha was residing in Śrāvastī when a radiant deity (lha, ལྷ)7, distinguished by its luminous and powerful aura, approached him. The deity, which dwelled within a tree, sought the Buddha’s guidance due to the intolerable cold that plagued its abode. The term lha (ལྷ) encompasses a broad spectrum of meanings, including ‘deities’, ‘spirits’, and ‘gods’ (Woodhouse et al. 2015; Diemberger 2022). These entities are often conceptualised in Tibetan linguistic and cultural frameworks as beings above, a dual designation with distinct dimensions. The first pertains to celestial gods and devas residing in the heavens, occupying the highest strata of the six realms of rebirth (samsara). The second refers to earth-bound spirits and deities dwelling above the ground, contrasting with klu (ཀླུ) spirits associated with water and subterranean realms (Woodhouse et al. 2015). All of them are sentient beings.

Within Tibetan cosmology, lha and klu are frequently interpreted as sacred yet secular entities that exert a direct influence on human practices, particularly those related to pastoralism, and are often rooted in experiences derived from Bön traditions. While the narrative of the tree-dwelling deity originates in ancient India, it has been preserved and transmitted within Tibetan Buddhist texts. The deity in this account likely represents an Indian local spirit rather than one associated with the Tibetan Bön tradition. Nevertheless, this tale offers significant insights into the processes through which Buddhism engaged with and integrated local cosmologies as it expanded across diverse cultural and historical contexts (Cook and Diemberger 2021). This story exemplifies the intricate dialectics underpinning the dissemination of Buddhism and its adaptive capacity to engage with local landscapes and spiritual entities. Buddhism’s ability to incorporate and transform indigenous deities and their associated landscapes into its divine cosmological framework reflects its enduring influence and flexibility (Samuel and Oliphant 2020). Through such integrations, Buddhism not only asserted its authority over local traditions but also redefined and tamed them within a broader spiritual and cosmological order.

Continuing with the narrative, the deity, accompanied by its family, relatives, and followers, approached the Buddha. In a gesture of profound reverence, it prostrated itself at the Buddha’s feet, bowing with its head to the ground, before sitting respectfully to one side. The deity then expressed its grievances, lamenting the actions of certain ignorant and unwise monks. It explained that some of these monks, despite being ordained, lacked the wisdom and discernment befitting their status. These individuals had destroyed vast areas of forests to construct monastic buildings, an act that had deeply affected the deity’s existence. The deity described the forest as integral to its being, serving as its continent (gling, གླིང་), protector and defender (skyob pa, སྐྱོབ་པ་), refuge (skyabs, སྐྱབས་), companion and ally (dpung gnyen, དཔུང་གཉེན་), dwelling place (gnas mal, གནས་མལ་), foundational base (gzhi, གཞི་), and source of support and sustenance (rten, རྟེན་). During the harsh winters, the deity explained, its radiance alone was insufficient to shield itself from the wind and cold. Additionally, its younger progeny, being fragile and vulnerable, struggled to survive under such conditions without the shelter of the forest.

At dawn the following day, the Buddha convened an assembly of monks and relayed the deity’s concerns to them. The monks, however, responded defensively, arguing that the deity’s resentment, its potential curses against the Dharma, and its opposition to monastic activities—even if triggered by the destruction of the forest—were unfounded and unreasonable. They dismissed the deity’s grievances as unjustified.

The Buddha, however, reflected deeply on the matter and recognised that the underlying issue stemmed from the actions of the monks who had cut down the trees. These actions had caused not only material destruction but also significant suffering and disruption to the deity and its kin. Concluding his reflections, the Buddha addressed the assembly of monks, admonishing their behaviour: “Cutting down trees and causing such destruction must cease. These actions are gravely inappropriate and constitute a violation of the principles of the Dharma”.

As we can observe, this narrative underscores the intricate divine-material affordances that trees provide for the deity. The deity describes the trees as both a material habitat (gling), drawing a parallel with the Buddhist cosmological term ’dzam gling (the continent of Jambudvīpa), and as a refuge (skyabs), dwelling place (gnas mal), foundational base (gzhi), and source of karmic support (rten). Anthropomorphically, trees are also depicted as protectors and even as comrades in arms, actively contributing to the deity’s survival and well-being. While trees are neither sentient nor traditionally considered living beings within Tibetan Buddhist cosmology, they are imbued with a form of agency, functioning as active participants in the deity’s survival and divine relationality. This dynamic reveals that trees, far from being merely resources to be felled by humans or consumed by animals, also serve as divine-material receptacles, accommodating the needs of spiritual beings. Furthermore, the deity’s changing state of sentiency—from comfort and warmth to suffering and cold—is directly influenced by the act of felling trees. This transformation highlights the profound interconnectedness between the material and spiritual realms, demonstrating how the destruction of trees disrupts not only ecological systems but also the divine networks they sustain. This narrative thus positions trees as vital, multi-affording entities that mediate between human, ecological, and spiritual domains, sustaining divine interactions between insentient plants and sentient spirits.

Secondly, the Buddha’s response highlights his recognition of plants as integral to the deity’s domain and identity. In order to honour, protect, and placate the deity and its kin, the Buddha established a prohibition against cutting down trees, embedding a moral obligation to preserve the natural environment as part of monastic discipline. This act underscores the Buddha’s dynamic engagement with local deities and cultural traditions—a process that Mumford (1989) aptly describes as the intersection of Buddhism with indigenous beliefs. However, it is important to note that trees were not considered kin to the deity but instead functioned as shelters or forms of property. In addressing the deity’s grievances, the Buddha elevated the status of trees to objects of moral and disciplinary significance within the framework of monastic practice, creating a broader ethical consideration for the natural world. This negotiation also demonstrates the reciprocal relationship between Buddhist teachings and local cosmologies. In this context, trees served a dual function: they were agents in the divine relationship between the deity and the Buddha, and they acted as a focal point for disciplinary regulations concerning the use of natural resources in the secular world.

Further evidence of this reciprocal negotiation can be found in another story recorded in the Kanjur8. In this account, the demand for timber to construct a temple led to complaints from the monks about the Buddha’s prohibition against cutting trees. The Buddha is said to have addressed this tension through a series of measures, including offering rituals, delivering lectures, and performing acts of appeasement. These actions sought to reconcile the competing needs of the deity, the monks, and the practical requirements of monastic construction. By doing so, the Buddha accommodated both the divine sensibilities of the deity and the everyday utilitarian demands for wood.

This narrative exemplifies the complex balancing act that characterises the Buddhist adaptation of secular and local practices. It illustrates how trees, as both material and symbolic entities, mediate divine relationships while simultaneously addressing practical human needs. However, the ethical contestations presented here do not directly centre on plants themselves. Rather, they emerge within the procedural sentiency of both spiritual and secular sentient beings and the varying materialities and affordances offered by plants. This interplay destabilises the object–subject ethical binary, which often reduces moral questions to oversimplified dilemmas, such as whether killing a plant is inherently good or bad. Such reductionist frameworks fail to capture the intricate web of relationalities that underpin Buddhist ethics.

In the Buddhist worldview, the karmic connection is not a simple, individualised rational causality. Instead, one’s actions are interwoven with one’s inner intentions, the lives of others, and the larger flows of Dharma and samsara. The suffering of one individual is intimately connected to the suffering of all, particularly through the Dharma relational entanglements of sentient beings and insentient forms. This interconnectedness is deeply embedded within Buddhist principles of interdependence and emptiness (Karmapa 2017; Simonds 2023b). Within this context, the question of whether or not to kill a plant becomes a misleading inquiry, one that risks obscuring the deeper relational and ontological dynamics at play.

5. Highland Barley and Symbiotic Others

Plants exhibit a remarkable capacity for volatility and diverse forms of communicative interaction, including the transmission of odours, pollen, farina, and chemical signals that facilitate relationships with other plants and, crucially, insects (Baluška et al. 2006). In Yang’s ethnographic sites, the Kham Tibetan highlands, villagers regard barley crops as their own sources of subsistence, and also as vital shelters for various non-human beings, including insects, frogs, and snakes. These ecological associations underscore the interconnectedness between cultivated plants and their surrounding biotic communities. Before 2021, the ethical dilemma posed by combine harvesters did not arise, as traditional harvesting methods—using scythes—allowed for slower and more deliberate processes. When Tibetans harvested small clumps of barley with scythes, the gradual movements gave insects and animals ample time to escape, thereby minimising harm. The farmer wielding the scythe would proceed with patience and caution, reinforcing the ethical dimensions of these traditional practices.

In contrast, combine harvesters operate at much greater speeds and efficiency, fundamentally altering the dynamics of the harvesting process. Equipped with components such as a reel, cutter bar, auger, and feeder conveyor, the harvester’s cutting unit can simultaneously sever and process large quantities of barley. Two-thirds of the barley stalks are cut and transported via the feeder conveyor to the cylinder and concave assembly, where threshing occurs. This process separates the grains from the straw, with the latter being discharged into the field from beneath the machine. The long lemma (measuring 10–20 cm) is also threshed and expelled from the rear of the harvester. The grains, still enclosed by the palea, are collected in the grain collection pan, ready for eventual release. However, this mechanised efficiency comes at a cost to the ecological relationships embedded within the fields. Many insects, which take refuge in the barley stalks, are swept into the machinery alongside the crops. These insects are often carried through the feeder conveyor and deposited with the grains or released into the fields along with the straw and other by-products. Unlike the scythe, which enables a more careful and selective harvesting process, the combine harvester inadvertently disrupts the ecological balance by accelerating the harvesting process and eliminating the possibility for non-human sentient beings to escape.

When the combine harvester completed its task on a patch of land, a tractor was driven to the harvester and positioned to collect the grains. Yang joined the villagers on the tractor as they worked to sort the grain. Using climbing ploughs, the villagers transferred the grain from the harvester’s outlet into the tractor’s loading basket. Meanwhile, Yang rummaged through the piles of grain, taking care to stay in the corner so as not to disrupt their labour. During this process, a multitude of insects, large and small, emerged from the grain piles. Many flew away, while others, clearly injured, could only crawl slowly (see Figure 2). This scene vividly highlighted the shifts in agricultural practice and their impact on the barley crop’s affording roles, as well as the resultant karmic injuries inflicted on insects.

The introduction of advanced agricultural machinery, such as the combine harvester, has fundamentally altered the material and symbiotic dimensions of highland barley and its associated harvest practices. The crop’s reapability has enabled technological advancements that move beyond traditional sickles to combine harvesters and tractors. These innovations, regardless of their financial costs, have been embraced primarily for their capacity to increase efficiency and productivity in harvesting. It is not possible to state that local villages should be expected to forgo the convenience and utility of modern agricultural technologies in the name of adhering to traditional ethics. However, the forward momentum of scientific and technological progress in human communities is undeniable. What remains an imperative is to examine the structural inequalities embedded within this process and to address the ethical, livelihood, cosmological, and political transformations it triggers, during which new winners and losers have been continually reproduced.

The ethical considerations surrounding barley crop assemblages have, therefore, become increasingly complex. Harvesting, once a straightforward interaction between crops and sickles, is now reconfigured into a multifaceted assemblage involving crops, insects, harvesters, villagers, and monasteries. These changes involve an expanded network of sentient and non-sentient beings, intensifying the moral dilemmas and ethical tensions among them. As barley transitions from a traditional crop to a technological and ethical assemblage, it demands re-examination of its changing procedures of sentiency in relation to insects, villagers, and monks who coordinated this issue through monastic divination.

6. They Are Properties of the Deity

Around late April, coinciding with the highland barley seedtime, it was also the period for summer yak transhumance. During this time, pastoralist families in the village drove their yak herds to higher-altitude alpine pastures, marking the seasonal migration integral to their agro-pastoralist livelihoods. Additionally, early May signalled the commencement of the month-long harvest of caterpillar fungus (Cordyceps sinensis), an activity that occupied most agro-pastoralist villagers. This dual seasonal rhythm reflects the intricate interplay between agricultural and pastoral cycles in Tibetan highland communities. The harvesting of caterpillar fungus, known locally as Yartsa Gunbu (literally translated as ‘summer herb, winter worm’), represents a vital source of cash income for Tibetan farming and herding families (Winkler 2008), particularly in the Kham Tibetan regions. Despite its biological nature as a parasitic fungus, Yartsa Gunbu is often classified and treated as a type of grass within the practical taxonomy and ecological experiences of Tibetans.

During this period, Yang joined Tenpa’s family on their expedition to a snow-capped mountain rising to an altitude of 5000 metres above sea level (see Figure 3). Together, they camped there for over six weeks, tenting amidst the rugged landscape and participating in the laborious yet economically critical task of hunting for caterpillar fungus. This immersive experience provided a profound insight into the intricate nexus of ecology, labour, and cosmology that underpins this activity.

Scholarly works, such as those by Yeh and Lama (2013), have explored the ethical dilemmas associated with harvesting Yartsa Gunbu, particularly during Buddhist sacred festivals, framing these debates within broader political–economic logics. Such studies illustrate the tensions between economic necessity and spiritual values in Tibetan pastoralist societies. However, the relational complexity of Yartsa Gunbu extends beyond its political economy. Its perceived plant-hood complicates its ethical and material status, challenging conventional distinctions between plant and animal, sentient and insentient. This ambiguity opens up new avenues for examining the cosmological and ecological frameworks through which Tibetan communities navigate their interactions with the natural world.

In one conversation, Yang asked Tenpa whether he believed that Yartsa Gunbu was alive or sentient. He replied candidly, “Clearly, we all know the caterpillar was alive, but now it is grass, a dead one. Whatever the case, it’s impossible not to dig it up and sell it.” His response shows the pragmatic relationship many Tibetan villagers maintain with Yartsa Gunbu, shaped by economic necessity rather than strict ethical deliberation. A more complex and philosophically nuanced perspective emerged during a discussion with Khenpo Thubten in another fieldwork village located in Kangding City, within the Garze Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture. Reflecting on the subject, the Khenpo offered a deeply insightful interpretation:

“The Yartsa Gunbu is unique. Undoubtedly, the caterpillar is alive and sentient. However, it must have undergone immense suffering when it was overtaken by the fungus growing within it. This suffering is analogous to the universal experience of all sentient beings in samsara. Eventually, the caterpillar perishes, sometimes even developing horns as part of this transformative process. What remains is the fungus, a consequence of the caterpillar’s individual karma. Each Yartsa Gunbu manifests differently, shaped by the distinct karmic conditions of the caterpillar it originated from—much like the way the horns of yaks vary according to their own karmic circumstances”.

(Personal communication with Bo Yang, January 2024)

The Khenpo’s response encapsulates a layered understanding of sentience, suffering, and karmic causality, intricately merging ecological observations with Tibetan Buddhist spiritual doctrine. His interpretation situates the transformation of the caterpillar into Yartsa Gunbu within a karmic framework, viewing the fungal growth as both a marker of the caterpillar’s individual karma and an allegory for the cyclical suffering inherent in samsara. The idea is that each of Yartsa Gunbu’s unique characteristics reflects the specific karmic conditions of its caterpillar origin and its Tibetan Buddhist plant-hood at hand.

For traditional Tibetan ecological knowledge, fungi, including Yartsa Gunbu, are categorised as plants. This classification carries significant ethical implications. Unlike the killing of sentient beings, which is believed to generate negative karma, the harvesting of plants is not subject to such moral scrutiny. Consequently, the collection of Yartsa Gunbu is not regarded as a morally problematic act within the Buddhist ethical system. Instead, it is viewed as a permissible and even necessary activity, integral to the livelihoods of many Tibetan agro-pastoralist communities.

This phenomenon profoundly invites reflection on the intra-actions (Barad 2007) and bodily forms (Tsing 2014) that define the lifecycle of Yartsa Gunbu. The caterpillars are perceived as carrying the weight of negative karma, which materialises through their physical suffering, illness, and untimely deaths. This karmic burden manifests visibly in their bodies as they undergo a dramatic metamorphosis, marked by the parasitic invasion of the fungus. The parasitic growth—metaphorically described as horns emerging from their heads—visibly symbolises the culmination of their karmic retribution.

The Khenpo’s interpretation underscores this transformative process as a manifestation of procedural sentiency, wherein the caterpillars’ pain and suffering are not merely biological or ecological events but are deeply embedded in the Buddhist cosmological framework of samsara. Their suffering exemplifies the cyclical nature of existence and karmic cause and effect, as their physical bodies become sites of karmic resolution. This procedural transformation—from sentient caterpillar to fungal growth—marks both the cessation of one life and the emergence of another material form, distinct yet intrinsically tied to the caterpillar’s karmic narrative. In this light, the bodily metamorphosis of Yartsa Gunbu becomes a material and symbolic testament to the interconnectedness of life, death, and suffering. It reflects how karma not only governs the metaphysical realms of existence but also becomes tangibly enacted in the physical transformations of beings. These intra-actions between sentient caterpillar and insentient fungal parasite challenge traditional binaries between life and death, sentience and insentience, and animate and inanimate.

During the harvest season of caterpillar fungus, which predominantly spans the fourth month of the Tibetan calendar (from 20 May to 18 June in 2023), a significant intersection between ecological practices and Buddhist cosmology becomes evident. This period coincides with the sacred month of Sa Dga, commemorating key events in the Buddha’s life: his birth on 26 May (7 April in the Tibetan calendar), his enlightenment, and his passing into nirvana on 4 June (15 April in the Tibetan calendar). On these two holy days, all Tibetans in the mountains temporarily cease the harvesting of Yartsa Gunbu. This pause in activity is not due to a unanimous belief that the fungus is alive or sentient at the time but rather stems from a complex interweaving of all beings. They believe that the act of digging into the earth with a hoe inevitably results in the unintended harm of countless small insects and other imperceptible life forms inhabiting the soil. This ethical concern is heightened on particularly sacred days.

Interestingly, this practice reflects both Buddhist moral philosophy and the influence of modern ecological awareness. The spread of scientific ecological knowledge has informed the adoption of protective practices, such as backfilling the soil after digging for cordyceps to maintain the integrity of the turf. It is believed that beneath the soil lies a multitude of micro-lives and spiritual entities that are intimately connected to the caterpillar fungus and its surrounding plants. Pulling up a plant or disturbing the soil is understood to disrupt this delicate web of interdependence, causing potential harm to unseen sentient beings and spiritual forces.

This extraction dilemma, therefore, extends beyond the caterpillar fungus itself. It is embedded within a broader understanding of Tibetan Buddhist plant-hood, which positions the fungus as an affording enabler of numerous other actants, both material and immaterial. In other words, this extension of monastic discipline to laypeople in the prohibition against digging serves not as a direct effort to protect individual insentient plants but rather as a means to safeguard the sentient beings that are afforded by and relationally entangled with those plants. Furthermore, this regulation invokes the workings of karmic law, emphasising the profound interconnectedness between all beings and forms within the Buddhist cosmological framework. By refraining from digging, practitioners acknowledge and uphold an ethical stance that seeks to minimise harm to the minute, often invisible, sentient beings residing in the soil. The spiritual gravity of this practice is amplified on the holy days of Sa Dga, during which karmic consequences are believed to be exponentially magnified—both good deeds and sins are thought to accumulate a trillionfold.

On the final day of the cordyceps harvest, as the families prepared to descend from the mountains, an important ritual was performed to worship the lha and klu deities. The families dismantled their tents, packed their belongings, and gathered for the ritual worship, which involved burning offerings of yak dung; barley grains; and aromatic plants, such as cypress (see Figure 4). This ritual was an act of gratitude and reverence towards the spiritual entities believed to govern and protect the sacred mountain.

As Tenpa explained to Yang, “We come to this sacred mountain to hunt Yartsa Gunbu because the products here can sell for more money—they are of higher quality with stronger potency. They are properties of the deity”. Cordyceps is not merely a natural resource but rather a gift bestowed by the mountain deity, requiring rituals of acknowledgment and respect to maintain balance and harmony.

Curious about the spatial boundaries of this ritual burning, Yang pointed to a distant mountain and asked Tenpa why they did not make offerings to the deity of that peak. He replied matter-of-factly, “That is a mountain deity from another village”.

7. Conclusions

This article has introduced the framework of Tibetan Buddhist plant-hood, critically examining its doctrinal dimensions within Tibetan Buddhism while integrating ethnographic research to reflect and substantiate its validity. In the Tibetan and early Buddhist context, plants are traditionally regarded as insentient forms. Rather than posing a conceptual challenge, this article opens opportunities to deepen our understanding of the Buddhist philosophical principles of sentience and interconnectedness. These principles bridge the realms of sentient beings and insentient forms, demonstrating their mutual interdependence. As explored through primary texts and ethnographic insights, the notion of procedural sentiency emerges as a compelling analytical tool. It offers a means to conceptualise the dynamic relationships between plants and the sentient beings they interact with, both in secular and spiritual contexts. Plants thus actively participate in more-than-human networks of existence and meaning-making. In particular, the term plant-hood highlights a vivid, complex picture of shared existence, where plants, humans, and spiritual entities co-create ecological and cosmological commons. Rather than asserting a judgment on whether individual plant entities possess life, this perspective encourages a reconsideration of ethical and relational boundaries, inviting scholars to reimagine the place of plants within the intertwined worlds of sentient and insentient beings in Himalayan imagery.