|
An
anthology of teachings by
English-speaking disciples of Ajahn Chah
Hard to elude is the reach of Death;
Hard to pass beyond.
But they who accord with the Dhamma well taught,
they will pass beyond
Dhammapada,
v-86
This collection
of teachings is an offering of gratitude to The Venerable Ajahn Chah.
In 1977, when
this much-loved Thai Theravada meditation master visited the United
Kingdom, he brought with him two of his senior Western-born disciples.
Shortly afterwards, on invitation, two more joined them. These four
monks remained in London whilst their teacher returned to the East.
In 1981 two
other Westerners were invited to go from their mother monastery in
North-East Thailand to take up residence in Perth, Australia.
This book
represents the teachings of a now international community -- the first
generation of monks and nuns proceeding from this Theravada 'Forest
Tradition'.
The book begins
with an introduction and dedication to Ajahn Chah and follows on with
two sessions of instruction given to Western students. The remainder is
a collection of transcribed talks, letters, and essays by 20 teaching
monks of this tradition. Some have remained as abbots of monasteries in
Thailand; others are now living in England, Switzerland, Australia and
New Zealand.
In keeping with
the Buddha's own Teachings, these reflections on Dhamma -- the Truth of
the Way Things Are -- are not intended to be accepted too readily.
Neither are they to be rejected. Rather, they are offered for
consideration.
They are also
offered as an on-going expression of gratitude for what has been
received -- the living example of the Way of Truth itself. For these
monks it has been the opportunity to witness the life of a great Master,
who awakened the 'heart of true faith' in so many. It is sincerely
wished that these teachings bring to fruition true happiness, true
'Refuge', and true peace in the hearts of those who look into them.
CONTENTS
|
Each morning in Theravada Buddhist monasteries
around the world, the above stanza is chanted as part of 'The Homage
to the Triple Gem'. It could just as well be said of the teaching
example of Meditation Master, The Venerable Ajahn Chah.
Ajahn Chah, or Luang Por as his disciples called
him, possessed that uniquely beautiful quality of being: a quality
visible only to a heart seeking The Way of Truth.
'Beautiful in the beginning', in Ajahn Chah's
case, was his commitment to the life of a renunciant monk (dhutanga
bhikkhu). He cultivated impeccable discipline and displayed
consistent, daring effort to confront all situations, especially
those from which he was inclined to turn away. He gave himself
completely to the training and eventually the Way became clear.
'Beautiful in the middle' was the selfless
sharing of his realisation with all who came to be near him.
Regardless of personal discomfort, he ceaselessly offered his body,
speech and mind to assist his disciples, lay and ordained alike, to
enter the Way. He said of his own teaching method, that it is the
example that counts -- not just the words. Those who were able to
spend time with him know full well that this is so.
And 'beautiful in the end' remains. It is that
radiant confidence of heart in thousands of individuals who now walk
the Way; that verified faith which most profoundly expresses Dhammam
Saranam Gacchami -- 'I go for refuge to the Truth of the Way Things
Are.' Without having seen an example of the Way in another, such
awakening of confidence might not have taken place; hence it is said
'No gift excels the gift of Dhamma.' |
| This book is about a community of people
endeavouring to do justice to the gift they have received. More
precisely, it is a collection of transcribed talks, letters and
essays offered by disciples of Luang Por Chah, who are now living at
various monasteries around the world. These teachings have been
gathered specifically for this publication. It seemed appropriate
that a book published in the West to honour the Venerable Ajahn
Chah's life should reflect the results of his years of teaching.
These are some of the fruits of what he spent his life nurturing.
Although some editing was required so that the oral teachings might
be accessible in the written form, it is hoped that the spirit of
the original presentation has been preserved: that is, the spirit of
the living Truth. The Buddha said that nobody else can walk the
Way for us -- but they can point out the way we should go. The
directions given will be different for each of us, depending on how
far we must go and from where we are starting. There were occasions
when people questioned Ajahn Chah about apparent contradictions in
his advice. He replied that if he was standing at the end of a road
and saw someone coming towards him veering off to the left, he would
tell them to go right. If they were veering to the right he would
tell them to move left. The instructions were different, but the
ultimate direction was the same.
Style and emphasis also vary when the Teaching is presented by
different individuals. This will become obvious as the reader
progresses through this book. The reader may also come across
inconsistencies and contradictions. If this is so, it should be
remembered that such discrepancies are in appearance only. These
words are not presented as the Truth itself but as reflections
offered for consideration.
Many people have benefitted from Ajahn Chah's ability to point
out the Way; and many of these same people have participated in
offering this book in commemoration of their teacher. One of the
deepest forms of gratitude is that which springs forth from a true
appreciation for the beauty of the Way; it is with such gratitude
that this offering is made. It is the wish of all who have
contributed, that the readers may see, understand, and follow the
Way about which all these words have been written.
E V A
M
A
note on hierarchy and the order of presentation:
The Buddha instructed that repect should always be shown to those
monks who have been in the Order the longest. This holds true
regardless of other qualities any individual may possess. Hence, the
sequence of this presentation is determined solely with respect for
seniority in the bhikkhu-sangha. These talks are not offered as a
progressive teaching. Accordingly, it is recommended that readers
feel free to select and read, re-read or omit as they wish. |
A Short
Biography of
VENERABLE
AJAHN CHAH
VENERABLE AJAHN CHAH was born on June 17, 1918 in a
small village near the town of Ubon Rajathani, North East Thailand.
After finishing his basic schooling, he spent three
years as a novice before returning to lay life to help his parents on
the farm. At the age of twenty, however, he decided to resume monastic
life, and on April 26, 1939 he received upasampada (bhikkhu ordination).
Ajahn Chah's early monastic life followed a
traditional pattern, of studying Buddhist teachings and the Pali
scriptural language. In his fifth year his father fell seriously ill and
died, a blunt reminder of the frailty and precariousness of human life.
It caused him to think deeply about life's real purpose, for although he
had studied extensively and gained some proficiency in Pali, he seemed
no nearer to a personal understanding of the end of suffering. Feelings
of disenchantment set in, and finally (in 1946) he abandoned his studies
and set off on mendicant pilgrimage.
He walked some 400 km to Central Thailand, sleeping
in forests and gathering alms food in the villages on the way. He took
up residence in a monastery where the vinaya (monastic discipline) was
carefully studied and practised. While there he was told about Venerable
Ajahn Mun Buridatto, a most highly respected Meditation Master. Keen to
meet such an accomplished teacher, Ajahn Chah set off on foot for the
North East in search of him.
At this time Ajahn Chah was wrestling with a crucial
problem. He had studied the teachings on morality, meditation and
wisdom, which the texts presented in minute and refined detail, but he
could not see how they could actually be put into practice. Ajahn Mun
told him that although the teachings are indeed extensive, at their
heart they are very simple. With mindfulness established, if it is seen
that everything arises in the heart-mind . . . right there is the true
path of practice. This succinct and direct teaching was a revelation for
Ajahn Chah, and transformed his approach to practice. The Way was clear.
For the next seven years Ajahn Chah practised in the
style of the austere Forest Tradition, wandering through the countryside
in quest of quiet and secluded places for developing meditation. He
lived in tiger- and cobra-infested jungles, using reflections on death
to penetrate to the true meaning of life. On one occasion he practised
in a cremation ground, to challenge and eventually overcome his fear of
death. Then, as he sat cold and drenched in a rain storm, he faced the
utter desolation and loneliness of a homeless monk.
In 1954, after years of wandering, he was invited
back to his home village. He settled close by, in a fever-ridden,
haunted forest called 'Pah Pong'. Despite the hardships of malaria, poor
shelter and sparse food, disciples gathered around him in increasing
numbers. The monastery which is now known as Wat Pah Pong began there,
and eventually branch monasteries were also established elsewhere.
In 1967 an American monk came to stay at Wat Pah
Pong. The newly ordained Venerable Sumedho had just spent his fist vassa
('Rains' retreat) practising intensive meditation at a monastery near
the Laotian border. Although his efforts had borne some fruit, Venerable
Sumedho realised that he needed a teacher who could train him in all
aspects of monastic life. By chance, one of Ajahn Chah's monks -- one
who happened to speak a little English! -- visited the monastery where
Venerable Sumedho was staying. Upon hearing about Ajahn Chah, he asked
to take leave of his preceptor, and went back to Wat Pah Pong with the
monk.
Ajahn Chah willingly accepted the new disciple, but
insisted that he receive no special allowances for being a Westerner. He
would have to eat the same simple alms food and practise in the same way
as any other monk at Wat Pah Pong.
The training there was quite harsh and forbidding.
Ajahn Chah often pushed his monks to their limits, to test their powers
of endurance so that they would develop patience and resolution. He
sometimes initiated long and seemingly pointless work projects, in order
to frustrate their attachment to tranquillity. The emphasis was always
on surrender to the way things are, and great stress was placed upon
strict observance of the vinaya.
In the course of events, other Westerners came
through Wat Pah Pong. By the time Venerable Sumedho was a bhikkhu of
five vassas, and Ajahn Chah considered him competent enough to teach,
some of these new monks had also decided to stay and train there.
In the hot season of 1975, Venerable Sumedho and a
handful of Western bhikkhus spent some time living in a forest not far
from Wat Pah Pong. The local villagers there asked them to stay on, and
Ajahn Chah consented. Thus Wat Pah Nanachat ('International Forest
Monastery') came into being, and Venerable Sumedho became the abbot of
the first monastery in Thailand to be run by and for English-speaking
monks.
In 1977, Ajahn Chah was invited to visit Britain by
the English Sangha Trust, a charity with the aim of establishing a
locally-resident Buddhist Sangha. He took Venerable Sumedho and
Venerable Khemadhammo along, and seeing the serious interest there, left
them in London at the Hampstead Vihara (with two of his other Western
disciples who were then visiting Europe).
He returned to Britain in 1979, at which time the
monks were leaving London to begin Chithurst Buddhist Monastery in
Sussex. He then went on to America and Canada to visit and teach.
After this trip, and again in 1981, Ajahn Chah spent
the 'Rains' away from Wat Pah Pong, since his health was failing due to
the debilitating effects of diabetes. As his illness worsened, he would
use his body as a teaching, a living example of the impermanence of all
things. He constantly reminded people to endeavour to find a true refuge
within themselves, since he would not be able to teach for very much
longer.
Before the end of the 'Rains' of 1981, he was taken
to Bangkok for an operation; it, however, did little to improve his
condition. Within a few months he stopped talking, and gradually he lost
control of his limbs until he was virtually paralysed and bed-ridden.
From then on, he was diligently and lovingly nursed and attended by
devoted disciples, grateful for the occasion to offer service to the
teacher who so patiently and compassionately showed the Way to so many.
A
MESSAGE
FROM THAILAND
The
following message by Venerable Ajahn Chah was sent to his disciples in
England whilst he was resident at a branch monastery called 'The Cave of
Diamond Light', just prior to the serious decline in his health during
the Rainy-Season Retreat (Vassa) of 1981. A photograph taken at the time
of recording this message on tape, appears on the back cover. 'Wat Pah
Pong', referred to near the end of the text, is the name of Ajahn Chah's
main monastery.
I HAVE COME UP TO WAT TUM SAENG PET for the 'Rains' Retreat this year --
mostly for a change of air as my health has not been so good. With me
are a few Western monks: Santa, Pabhakaro, Pamutto, Michael and Samanen
Guy; also some Thai monks and a small number of lay people who are keen
to practice. This is a pleasant and fortunate time for us. At the moment
my sickness has subsided, so I feel well enough to record this message
for you all.
Because of this ill-health I cannot visit England, so
hearing news of you, from some of your supporters who are staying here,
has made me very happy and relieved. The thing that pleases me most is
that Sumedho is now able to ordain monks; this shows that your efforts
to establish Buddhism in England have been quite successful.
It is also pleasing to see the names of the monks and
nuns whom I know, who are living with Sumedho at Chithurst: Anando,
Viradhammo, Sucitto, Uppanno, Kittisaro, and Amaro. Also Mae Chees
Rocana and Candasiri. I hope you are all in good health and living
harmoniously together, co-operating and proceeding well in Dhamma
practice.
There are supporters, both in England and here in
Thailand, who help keep me up to date with your developments. I gather
from them that the building work at Chithurst is complete, and that it
is now a much more comfortable place to live. I often enquire about
this, as I remember my stay of seven days there was quite difficult!
(laughter) I hear that the shrine-room and the other main areas are now
all finished. With less building work to be carried out, the community
will be able to apply itself more fully to formal practice.
I understand also that some of the senior monks have
been moved off to start branch monasteries. This is normal practice, but
it can lead to a predominance of junior monks at the main monastery;
this has been the case in the past at Wat Pah Pong. This can bring
difficulties in the teaching and training of monks, so it is very
important in these situations that we help one another.
I trust that Sumedho is not allowing these sort of
things to burden him! These are small matters, quite normal, they are
not a problem at all. Certainly there are responsibilities -- but it can
also be seen that there are none.
To be the abbot of a monastery can be compared to
being a rubbish bin: those who are disturbed by the presence of rubbish
make a bin, in the hope that people will put their rubbish in there. In
actual fact what happens is that the person who makes the bin ends up
being the rubbish collector as well. This is how things are -- it's the
same at Wat Pah Pong, it was the same at the time of the Buddha. No-one
else puts the rubbish into it so we have to do it ourselves, and
everything gets chucked into the abbot's bin!
One in such a position must therefore be far-sighted,
have depth, and remain unshaken in the midst of all things; they must be
consistent -- able to persevere. Of all the qualities we develop in our
lives, patient endurance is the most important.
It is true that the establishment of a suitable
dwelling place at Chithurst has been completed -- the construction of a
building is not difficult, a couple of years and it is done. What has
not been completed, though, is the work of upkeep and maintenance -- the
sweeping, washing and so forth have to go on forever. It is not
difficult to build a monastery, but it is difficult to maintain it;
likewise, it is not difficult to ordain someone, but to train them fully
in the monastic life is hard. This should not be taken as a problem,
though, for to do that which is hard is very beneficial -- doing only
that which is easy does not have much use. Therefore, in order to
nurture and maintain the seed of Buddhism which has been planted at
Chithurst, you must now all be prepared to put forth your energies and
help.
I hope that what I have said today has conveyed
feelings of warmth and support to you. Whenever I meet Thai people who
have connections in England, I ask if they have been to visit Chithurst.
It seems, from them, that there is a great deal of interest in a branch
monastery being there. Also, foreigners who come here will frequently
have visited Wat Nanachat and have news of you in England as well. It
makes me very happy to see that there is such a close and co-operative
relationship between Wat Pah Pong, Wat Nanachat and Wat Chithurst.
That is all I have to say, except that my feelings of
loving-kindness are with you all. May you be well and happy, abiding in
harmony, co-operation and togetherness. May the blessings of the Buddha,
the Dhamma and the Sangha always be firmly established in your hearts --
may you be well.
WHAT
IS
CONTEMPLATION
The
following teaching is taken from a session of Questions and Answers that
took place at Wat Gor Nork monastery during the Vassa of 1979, between
Venerable Ajahn Chah and a group of English-speaking disciples. Some
rearrangement of the sequence of conversation has been made for ease of
understanding.
"The knowing that arises is above and beyond the
process of thinking.
It leads to not being fooled
by thinking any more."
Q: When you teach about the value of contemplation,
are you speaking of sitting and thinking over particular themes, the
thirty-two parts of the body, for instance?
A: That is not necessary when the mind is truly
still. When tranquillity is properly established the right object of
investigation becomes obvious. When contemplation is 'True', there is no
discrimination into 'right' and 'wrong', 'good' and 'bad'; there is
nothing even like that. You don't sit there thinking, 'Oh, this is like
that and that is like this,' etc. That is a coarse form of
contemplation. Meditative contemplation is not merely a matter of
thinking -- rather it's what we call 'contemplation in silence'. Whilst
going about our daily routine we mindfully consider the real nature of
existence through comparisons. This is a coarse kind of investigation
but it leads to the real thing.
Q: When you talk about contemplating the body and
mind, though, do we actually use thinking? Can thinking produce true
Insight? Is this vipassana?
A: In the beginning we need to work using thinking,
even though later on we go beyond it. When we are doing true
contemplation all dualistic thinking has ceased; although we need to
consider dualistically to get started. Eventually all thinking and
pondering comes to an end.
Q: You say that there must be sufficient tranquillity
(samadhi) to contemplate. Just how tranquil do you mean?
A: Tranquil enough for there to be presence of mind.
Q: Do you mean staying with the here-and-now, not
thinking about the past and future?
A: Thinking about the past and future is all right if
you understand what these things really are, but you must not get caught
up in them. Treat them the same as you would anything else -- don't get
caught up. When you see thinking as just thinking, then that's wisdom.
Don't believe in any of it! Recognise that all of it is just something
that has arisen and will cease. Simply see everything just as it is --
it is what it is -- the mind is the mind -- it's not anything or anybody
in itself. Happiness is just happiness, suffering is just suffering --
it is just what it is. When you see this you will be beyond doubt.
Q: I still don't understand. Is true contemplating
the same as thinking?
A: We use thinking as a tool, but the knowing that
arises because of its use is above and beyond the process of thinking;
it leads to our not being fooled by our thinking any more. You recognise
that all thinking is merely the movement of the mind, and also that the
knowing is not born and doesn't die. What do you think all this movement
called 'mind' comes out of? What we talk about as the mind -- all the
activity -- is just the conventional mind. It's not the real mind at
all. What is real, just IS, it's not arising and it's not passing away.
Trying to understand these things just by talking about them, though,
won't work. We need to really consider impermanence, unsatisfactoriness
and impersonality (anicca, dukkha, anatta); that is, we need to use
thinking to contemplate the nature of conventional reality. What comes
out of this work is wisdom; and if it's real wisdom everything's
completed, finished -- we recognise emptiness. Even though there may
still be thinking, it's empty -- you are not affected by it.
Q: How can we arrive at this stage of the real mind?
A: You work with the mind you already have, of
course! See that all that arises is uncertain, that there is nothing
stable or substantial. See it clearly and see that there is really
nowhere to take a hold of anything -- it's all empty. When you see the
things that arise in the mind for what they are, you won't have to work
with thinking any more. You will have no doubt whatsoever in these
matters. To talk about the 'real mind' and so on, may have a relative
use in helping us understand. We invent names for the sake of study, but
actually nature just is how it is. For example, sitting here downstairs
on the stone floor. The floor is the base -- it's not moving or going
anywhere. Upstairs, above us is what has arisen out of this. Upstairs is
like everything that we see in our minds: form, feeling, memory,
thinking. Really, they don't exist in the way we presume they do. They
are merely the conventional mind. As soon as they arise, they pass away
again; they don't really exist in themselves.
There is a story in the scriptures about Venerable Sariputta examining a
bhikkhu before allowing him to go off wandering (dhutanga vatta). He
asked him how he would reply if he was questioned, 'What happens to the
Buddha after he dies?' The bhikkhu replied, 'When form, feeling,
perception, thinking and consciousness arise, they pass away.' Venerable
Sariputta passed him on that. Practice is not just a matter of talking
about arising and passing away, though. You must see it for yourself.
When you are sitting, simply see what is actually happening. Don't
follow anything. Contemplation doesn't mean being caught up in thinking.
The contemplative thinking of one on the Way is not the same as the
thinking of the world. Unless you understand properly what is meant by
contemplation, the more you think the more confused you will become.
The reason we make such a point of the cultivation of mindfulness is
because we need to see clearly what is going on. We must understand the
processes of our hearts. When such mindfulness and understanding are
present, then everything is taken care of. Why do you think one who
knows the Way never acts out of anger or delusion? The causes for these
things to arise are simply not there. Where would they come from?
Mindfulness has got everything covered.
Q: Is this mind you are talking about called the
'Original Mind'?
A: What do you mean?
Q: It seems as if you are saying there is something
else outside of the conventional body-mind (five khanda). Is there
something else? What do you call it?
A: There isn't anything and we don't call it anything
-- that's all there is to it! Be finished with all of it. Even the
knowing doesn't belong to anybody, so be finished with that, too!
Consciousness is not an individual, not a being, not a self, not an
other, so finish with that -- finish with everything! There is nothing
worth wanting! It's all just a load of trouble. When you see clearly
like this then everything is finished.
Q: Could we not call it the 'Original Mind'?
A: You can call it that if you insist. You can call
it whatever you like, for the sake of conventional reality. But you must
understand this point properly. This is very important. If we didn't
make use of conventional reality we wouldn't have any words or concepts
with which to consider actual reality -- Dhamma. This is very important
to understand.
Q: What degree of tranquillity are you talking about
at this stage? And what quality of mindfulness is needed?
A: You don't need to go thinking like that. If you
didn't have the right amount of tranquillity you wouldn't be able to
deal with these Qs at all. You need enough stability and concentration
to know what is going on -- enough for clarity and understanding to
arise. Asking questions like this shows that you are still doubting. You
need enough tranquillity of mind to no longer get caught in doubting
what you are doing. If you had done the practice you would understand
these things. The more you carry on with this sort of questioning, the
more confusing you make it. It's all right to talk if the talking helps
contemplation, but it won't show you the way things actually are. This
Dhamma is not understood because somebody else tells you about it, you
must see it for yourself -- paccattam.
If you have the quality of understanding that we have been talking
about, then we say that your duty to do anything is over; which means
that you don't do anything. If there is still something to do, then it's
your duty to do it. Simply keep putting everything down, and know that
that is what you are doing. You don't need to be always checking up on
yourself, worrying about things like 'How much samadhi' -- it will
always be the right amount. Whatever arises in your practice, let it go;
know it all as uncertain, impermanent. Remember that! It's all
uncertain. Be finished with all of it. This is the Way that will take
you to the source -- to your Original Mind.
|
THE
WAY
IT IS
Ajahn
Sumedho
Ajahn Sumedho
(Robert Jackman) was born in Seattle, Washington in 1934. On
graduating from university, he joined the U.S. Navy as a medical
officer and served in the Korean War. Returning to academic life, he
took an M.A. in South Asian Studies from the University of
California (Berkeley) in 1963. After a short spell working for the
Red Cross, he went out to the Far East and spent two years teaching
English with the Peace Corps in Borneo.
His growing interest in Buddhism took him (in 1966) to Thailand,
where he sought to enter monastic life. He became a novice in Nong
Khai and a bhikkhu one year later in 1967, with Chao Khun
Rajapreechayamuni as preceptor. Soon after his ordination, he was
taken to meet Ajahn Chah, with whom he stayed and trained for ten
years. Following a -- tudong -- pilgrimage in India in 1974, he
helped establish Wat Pah Nanachat and became its abbot.
In 1977 Ajahn Chah was invited by the English Sangha Trust to visit
Britain. He brought Ajahn Sumedho with him, and seeing the interest
there, left him in London (at the Hampstead Vihara) in charge of a
small group of bhikkhus. In 1979 the monks were able to move to
Sussex, which marked the beginning of Chithurst Buddhist Monastery.
Interest flourished, and under Ajahn Sumedho's guidance Amaravati
Buddhist Centre near London was established in 1984, in addition to
branch monasteries in the north and south-west of England, and also
in Switzerland and New Zealand.
In 1981 Ajahn Sumedho was appointed an -- Upajjhaya -- (preceptor).
He was also president (1983--87) of the London-based Buddhist
Society. |
|
The following teaching is taken from the first two talks given by
Venerable Ajahn Sumedho to the monastic community of Amaravati
during the winter retreat of 1988.
"The mind of an enlightened human being is
flexible;
the mind of an ignorant person is fixed."
TODAY IS THE FULL MOON OF JANUARY and the beginning
of our winter retreat. We can have an all-night meditation sitting
tonight to commemorate the auspiciousness of the occasion. It's very
fortunate to have an opportunity such as this to devote ourselves
for two months to one-pointed reflection on Dhamma.
The teaching of the Buddha is the understanding of
The Way Things Are -- being able to look, to be awake. It means
developing attentiveness, brightness, and wisdom -- developing the
Eightfold Path, which we call bhavana.
Now when we're reflecting on things as they are,
we're 'seeing', rather than interpreting through a veil of
self-view. The big obstacle all of us have to face is this insidious
belief in the 'I am' -- attachment to self-view. It's so ingrained
in us that we're like fish in the water: water is so much a part of
the fish's life that it doesn't notice it. The sensory world we've
been swimming in since our birth is like that for us. If we don't
take time to observe it for what it really is then we'll die without
getting any the wiser.
But this opportunity as a human being has the great
advantage for us of our being able to reflect -- we can reflect on
the water we're swimming in. We can observe the sensory realm for
what it is. We're not trying to get rid of it. We're not
complicating it by trying to add to it -- we're just being aware of
it as it is. We're no longer deluding ourselves by appearances, by
fears, desires and all the things we create in our mind about it.
This is what we mean when we use such terms like:
'It is as it is.' If you ask someone who is swimming in water, 'What
is water like?', then they simply bring attention to it and say,
'Well, it feels like this. It's this way.' Then you ask, 'How is it
exactly? Is it wet or cold or warm or hot...?' All of these words
can describe it. Water can be cold, warm, hot, pleasant,
unpleasant... But it's just like this. The sensory realm we're
swimming in for a lifetime is this way! It feels like this! You feel
it! Sometimes it's pleasant. Sometimes it's unpleasant. Most of the
time it's neither pleasant nor unpleasant. But always it's just this
way. Things come and go and change, and there's nothing that you can
depend on as being totally stable. The sensory realm is all energy
and change and movement; all flux and flow. Sensory consciousness is
this way.
Now we're not judging it; we're not saying it's good
or it's bad, or you should like it, or you shouldn't; we're just
bringing attention to it -- like the water. The sensory realm is a
realm of feeling. We are born into it and we feel it. From the time
the umbilical cord is severed we're physically independent beings;
we're no longer physically tied to anybody else. We feel hunger; we
feel pleasure; we feel pain, heat, and cold. As we grow, we feel all
kinds of things. We feel with the eyes, the ears, the nose, the
tongue, the body; and with the mind itself. There is the ability to
think and remember, to perceive and conceive. All this is feeling.
It can be lots of fun and wonderful, but it can also be depressing,
mean and miserable; or it can be neutral -- neither pleasant nor
painful. So all sensory impingement is The Way It Is. Pleasure is
this way; pain is this way. The feeling of neither pleasure nor pain
is this way.
To be able to truly reflect on these things, you
have to be alert and attentive. Some people think that it is up to
me to tell them how it is: 'Ajahn Sumedho, how should I be feeling
right now?' But we're not telling anybody how it is; we're being
open and receptive to how it is. There's no need to tell someone how
it is when they can find out for themselves. So this two months of
finding out how it is, is a valuable opportunity. Many human beings
it seems, are not even aware that such a development of wisdom is
possible.
What do we mean when we use this word wisdom? From
birth to death, this is the way it is. There's always going to be a
certain amount of pain, and discomfort, unpleasantness and ugliness.
And if we're not aware of it as it really is -- see it as Dhamma --
then we tend to create a problem out of it. The span between birth
and death becomes all very personal; it becomes fraught with all
kinds of fears and desires and complications.
We suffer a lot in our society from loneliness. So
much of our life is an attempt to not be lonely: 'Let's talk to each
other; let's do things together so we won't be lonely.' And yet
inevitably, we are really alone in these human forms. We can
pretend; we can entertain each other; but that's about the best we
can do. When it comes to the actual experience of life, we're very
much alone; and to expect anyone else to take away our loneliness is
asking too much.
When there's physical birth, notice how it makes us
seem separate. We're not physically joined to each other, are we?
With attachment to this body we feel separate and vulnerable; we
dread being left alone and we create a world of our own that we can
live in. We have all kinds of interesting companions: imaginary
friends, physical friends, enemies, but the whole lot of it comes
and goes, begins and ends. Everything is born and dies in our own
minds. So we reflect that birth conditions death. Birth and death;
beginning and ending.
During this retreat, this kind of reflection is
highly encouraged: contemplate what birth is. Right now we can say:
'This is the result of being born; this body. It's like this: it's
conscious and it feels, there's intelligence, there's memory,
there's emotion.' All these can be contemplated because they are
mind objects; they are dhammas. If we attach to the body as a
subject, or to opinions and views and feelings as 'me' and 'mine',
then we feel loneliness and despair; there's always going to be the
threat of separation and ending. Attachment to mortality brings fear
and desire into our lives. We can feel anxious and worried even when
life is quite all right. So long as there's ignorance -- avijja --
regarding the true nature of things, fear is always going to
dominate consciousness.
But anxiety is not ultimately true. It's something
we create. Worry is just that much. Love and joy and all the best in
life, if we are attached to them, are going to bring the opposite
along also. That's why in meditation we practise accepting the
feeling of these things. When we accept things for what they are,
we're no longer attached to them. They just are what they are; they
arise and cease, they're not a self.
Now from the perspective of our cultural background,
how does it appear? Our society tends to reinforce the view that
everything is 'me' and 'mine'. 'This body is me; I look like this; I
am a man; I am an American; I am 54 years old; I am an abbot.' But
these are just conventions, aren't they? We're not saying I'm not
these things; rather we're observing how we tend to complicate them
by believing in the 'I am'. If we attach to them, life becomes so
much more than it actually is; it becomes like a sticky web. It gets
so complicated; whatever we touch sticks to us. And the longer we
live the more complicated we make it. So much fear and desire comes
from that commitment to 'I am' -- to being somebody. Eventually they
take us to anxiety and despair; life seems much more difficult and
painful than it really is.
But when we just observe life for what it is, then
it's all right: the delights, the beauty, the pleasures, are just
that. The pain, the discomfort, the sickness, are what they are. We
can always cope with the way life moves and changes. The mind of an
enlightened human being is flexible and adaptable. The mind of the
ignorant person is conditioned and fixed.
Whatever we fix on is going to be miserable. Being a
man, or being a woman, as a permanent belief, is always going to
make life difficult. Any class we identify with -- middle class,
working class, American, British, Buddhist, Theravadin Buddhist --
grasping to any of these will produce some kind of complication,
frustration and despair.
Yet conventionally, one can be all these things -- a
man, an American, a Buddhist, a Theravadin; these are merely
perceptions of mind. They are adequate for communication; but
they're nothing more than that. They're what is called
sammuttidhamma -- 'conventional reality'. When I say, 'I'm Ajahn
Sumedho,' that's not a self, not a person; it's a convention. Being
a Buddhist monk is not a person -- it's a convention; being a man is
not a person, it's a convention. Conventions are as they are. When
we attach to them out of ignorance, we become bound and limited.
That's the sticky web! We're blinded; being deluded by the
convention.
When we let go of the conventions, we don't throw
them away. I don't have to kill myself or disrobe; the conventions
are all right. There's no suffering involved in any of these if
there is the awakened mind seeing them for what they are; they just
are as they are. They're merely a convenience; expedient to time and
place.
With the realisation of 'ultimate reality' (paramatthadhamma),
there is the freedom of Nibbana. We are free from the delusions of
desire and fear; this freedom from conventions is the Deathless. But
to realise this we have to really look at what attachment is. What
is it all about? What is suffering, and attachment to the 'I am'
process? What is it? We're not asking anybody to deny themselves;
attachment to the view of being nobody is still somebody. It's not a
matter of affirmation or negation but of realisation; of seeing. To
do this we use mindfulness.
With mindfulness we can open to the totality. In the
beginning of this retreat, we open to the whole two months. On the
first day, we've already accepted in full awareness all
possibilities: sickness and health, success and failure, happiness
and suffering, enlightenment or total despair. We're not thinking,
'I'm only going to get..., I only want to have..., I want to have
only the nice things happen to me. And I've got to protect myself so
that I'll have an idyllic retreat; be perfectly safe and
tranquillised for two months.' That in itself is a miserable state,
isn't it? Instead, we take all the possibilities, from the best to
the worst. And we're doing this consciously. That means: everything
that happens during these two months is part of the retreat -- it's
a part of our practice. The Way Things Are is Dhamma for us:
happiness and suffering, enlightenment or total despair --
everything!
If we practise this way, then despair and anguish
take us to calm and peace. When I was in Thailand I had a lot of
these negative states -- loneliness, boredom, anxiety, doubt, worry
and despair. But accepted as they are, they cease. And what's left
when there's no more despair?
The Dhamma that we're looking at now, is subtle. Not
subtle in the sense that it's high up -- it's so ordinary, so very
much here and now that we don't notice it. Just like the water for
the fish. Water is so much a part of its life the fish doesn't
notice it; even though it's swimming in it. Sensory consciousness is
here, now. It's this way. It's not distant. It's not really
difficult. It's just a matter of paying attention to it. The way out
of suffering is the way of mindfulness: mindful-awareness or wisdom.
So we keep bringing our attention to the way things
are. If you have nasty thoughts, or feel resentful, bitter or
irritated, then notice what it feels like in your heart. If we're
frustrated and angry during this time, it's all right because we've
already allowed for that to happen. It's a part of the practice;
it's the way things are. Remember, we're not trying to become angels
and saints -- we're not trying to get rid of all our impurities and
coarseness and just be happy. The human realm is like this! It can
be very coarse and it can be pure. Pure and impure are a pair. To
know purity and impurity is mindfulness-wisdom. To know that
impurity is impermanent and not-self is wisdom. But the minute we
make it personal -- 'Oh, I shouldn't have impure thoughts!' -- we're
stuck again in the realm of despair. The more we try to have only
pure thoughts, the more the impure thoughts keep coming. That way we
make sure we're going to be miserable for the whole two months;
guarantee it. Out of ignorance we create a realm for ourselves that
can only be miserable.
So in mindfulness, or full mindedness, all misery
and all happiness are of equal value: no preferences. Happiness is
this way. Misery is this way. They arise and they cease. Happiness
is still happiness; it's not misery. And misery is still misery;
it's not happiness. But it is what it is. And it's nobody's and it's
only that much. And we don't suffer from it. We accept it, we know
it and we understand it. All that arises ceases. All dhamma is not
self.
So I offer this for your reflection. |
LOVE
AND
ATTACHMENT
Venerable Santacitto
|
Venerable Santacitto (Stephen Saslav) was born of
Jewish parents in Brooklyn, New York City in 1947. He excelled at
mathematics in high school and went on to study at university.
In 1967, just after the Six Day War, he went to Israel to work on a
kibbutz. Continuing but not completing his university studies in
Jerusalem, he left and went hitch-hiking through Africa, where he
was drawn to climb Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania. Travelling on
through the Seychelles, India and Nepal, he ended up working as an
English teacher in Bangkok, where he took a meditation course with
Sister Sudhamma. Through her he met an American disciple of Ajahn
Chah, Dr. Douglas Burns, whose clever persuasion induced him to
visit Wat Pah Pong. Although he was unable to speak Thai, he was
deeply affected by meeting Ajahn Chah and Ajahn Sumedho, recognising
in them the self-actualisation that had profoundly inspired him in
Abraham Maslow's book, Toward a Psychology of Being.
The existence of a path to self-actualisation motivated him to
become a samanera for a short experimental period. Finding himself
unable to leave, however, he went on to receive upasampada in 1971
at Wat Benjamabopitr under Chao Khun Buddhivongsamuni. His twelve
years in Thailand were punctuated by seven months back in Brooklyn,
and nine months in France. In 1985, at Ajahn Sumedho's invitation,
he moved to Amaravati in England, where he established the
multi-faith Christmas Humphreys Memorial Library, and was
instrumental in setting up an exhibition on lay people's practice in
1988.
He is now senior incumbent of the Devon Vihara. |
The following teaching has been adapted from a session of
questions and answers which took place during a retreat led
by Venerable Santacitto at Amaravati, September 1988.
"Probably the easiest way to outgrow
ourselves is
through the response of compassionate action."
QUESTION: Could you speak on the differences and
similarities of love and compassion?
ANSWER: Compassion is a sensitivity to the
experience of suffering, or dukkha: a sensitivity of heart to the
suffering of others. It's a 'non-separation' from our own heart's
response on sensing suffering in another. And because it is a kind
of suffering in itself, it impels action. However, since it's not a
suffering arising out of selfishness -- that is, from our own sense
of separateness -- it doesn't impel blind action. In taking one
beyond oneself, the experience of compassion is a very powerful
opportunity for the arising and development of wisdom. Probably the
easiest way to outgrow ourselves is through the response of
compassionate action.
Love is a more directly positive quality. With a positive response
of heart we thoroughly accept another's reality, with an acceptance
that encompasses any resistance we might feel. Again there is the
sense of 'non-separation', but this time it is in relationship to
happiness.
With love, because it often involves highly positive feelings, one
can easily become lost in it. Hence we have the expression, 'Love
blinds.' Compassion, being more in touch with suffering, tends to
keep us grounded better than the sometimes eruptive energies
involved in love. One can see how, without care and attention, love
can easily drift from being a selfless sensitivity, to becoming an
attachment. It slowly becomes 'self-interested'.
The best example of selfless love -- and we are all familiar with it
-- is the self-sacrificing love of a mother for her child. But it is
also a good example of how attachment creeps in. In its original
purity of complete acceptance, love is an extremely pleasant
experience. But unless we are very clear about feelings of 'getting
something out of it', attachment does slowly creep in. And where
attachment arises, love is blocked. By limiting our acceptance, the
completeness of love disappears.
Though compassion mightn't be as conducive to attachment as love,
'self' can still get involved if we are not careful. That which
might have been compassion to begin with can turn into pity --
'feeling sorry for someone' -- which doesn't bridge the sense of
separateness. Looking down on others doesn't help us grow beyond
ourselves.
If we make the effort to intentionally cultivate love, we find it's
a quality that can be directed towards all people, including those
who we don't necessarily even consider friends. In such cases,
rather than feeling euphoric ecstasy, we experience a simple
kindness, a sort of grandheartedness -- a willingness to coexist.
We must remember, however, that talking about 'pure love' and 'pure
compassion' is not with the idea of creating absolutes, but to help
guide us in our practice. By recollecting in this way, we can come
to appreciate how, the less we allow personal gain to become mixed
in, the more all beings benefit.
Q: Is devotion another kind of love? Can it be a
form of cultivating love?
A: Yes; I would say the experiences of devotion
and love are very similar. We could say, devotion is a love directed
towards someone for whom we feel respect. It includes a sense of
gratitude also for the benefits that we have received.
Q: Would you say that it's possible to experience
a devotional heart quality without a human being as the object --
maybe towards a tree?
A: Yes; and there also you are feeling gratitude
for what the tree gives you by its existence.
Q: When I see nature, I am so full of gratitude,
but that seems to be a kind of attachment. I try to see the
attachment, but it's difficult. Someone once told me: 'If you go on
like this, you will never be free.' [Laughter] I just love trees and
birds and nature . . . and I find I'm having to change . . . I don't
know how to deal with it.
A: It's true that some of these positive
qualities of heart may come under the classification of
'attachments', but they can be pretty darned healthy attachments. I
sometimes like to look at the practice path as being similar to
climbing a ladder; so long as what we're holding on to doesn't
obstruct our ability to pull ourselves further upwards, then a
so-called attachment might be serving a useful function. However, if
we're holding on to a higher rung of the ladder but won't let go of
a lower one, then we're stuck. We've got a problem. So holding on to
something that is keeping us from going on, even if it's
pleasurable, is blocking progress.
Q: Yes, but I'm not sure that I want
enlightenment to be like that. [Laughter]
A: Eventually, we have to let go of everything --
but in the right time. We shouldn't try to force ourselves to let go
of things! It's just that from time to time life happens to present
us with opportunities where we can either let go or not let go.
Q: Is 'letting go' a necessary part of
meditation?
A: It's entirely up to the individual. There is
no need to feel that you have to let go of your devotion towards
nature. But later on, you may begin to sense something more valuable
in your life, the development of which could be aided by a more
balanced relationship with nature. For example, you may begin to
feel a greater need for the power of equanimity, finding that always
gushing outwards towards nature is something that is preventing you
from further blossoming. So you may realise that equanimity need not
be a negation or rejection. It's more a matter of allowing the
appreciation of nature to settle to a deeper level. It's starting to
recognise the nature within ourselves as well as the nature 'out
there'.
Generally though, as far as trees are concerned, I would say they
are a rung of the ladder which pulls us up; especially in our modern
materialistic society. To a large extent we have lost touch with our
ability to really be with nature. We've forgotten how it functions
to help us tune in to our inner nature. Remembering that, simply
being with nature can be a very beautiful stepping-up point.
Appreciating trees and birds and external nature, definitely doesn't
have to be an obstacle to get rid of. We can learn to use such
appreciation as a point of balance in our lives -- not only for
ourselves, but to share with others also. This is something we need
a lot of.
Q: It's so sad to hear people always complaining
about everything. If only they would just walk outside . . .
A: Yes, we tend to get lost into our personal
space and limit the mind. Just walking outside and opening up can be
a way of letting things free.
Q: Do you think that there is symbolic meaning to
the Buddha's getting enlightened under a tree? Maybe it means that
we can learn from nature. Trees can teach us how to refine
ourselves. We can come to understand how important it is to give
back to nature what has been taken away.
A: That is a very good point; the Buddha was born
under a tree, enlightened under a tree, and died under a tree. And
he said that sitting under trees was a good thing to do. His
recommendation to his bhikkhus was: 'There are these trees, go,
sit.'
Our particular monastic tradition here comes from what is known as
the 'forest tradition' of Thailand. There's an emphasis in this
tradition which says that if one really wishes to practise under
ideal conditions, then the forests provide these conditions. In
their simplicity we can discover an invaluable reflection of our
inner nature.
To a large extent, Ajahn Chah's teachings were influenced by his
vast experience of living in forests. Many of the similes that he
used came out of this. His own practice was simply a matter of being
a totally open and aware human being in natural surroundings,
watching both inwardly and outwardly to see what was happening. Out
of such practice came a very deep understanding of himself. But he
wasn't trapped by nature. When he needed to go to the city, he could
do that quite comfortably without yearning for the forests. He could
make the most out of the forest, without becoming dependent upon it.
If we become attached to being in the forests -- as monks sometimes
do -- then that's a sign that there's still something to learn from
nature. |
|
ON
HUMILITY
Venerable Pabhakaro
Venerable Pabhakaro (Gordon Kappel) was born in
Seattle, Washington in 1948. he joined the U.S. Army in 1967 and was
sent to Vietnam in 1969, where as a captain in the 1st Cavalry
Division (Air Mobile) he piloted helicopters. He came into contact
with Buddhism while on rest-and-relaxation (R&R) in Bangkok, where
he visited several monasteries and met some of the Western monks
living there.
In 1970 he was sent back to the U.S., to Alabama, where he began
seriously studying Buddhism, lived by the eight precepts and began
experimenting with teaching himself meditation. Having decided he
wanted to become a bhikkhu, he applied for and was granted an
honourable discharge from the service on conscientious grounds. On
returning to Thailand he became a novice a Wat Bovornives, and in
due course received bhikkhu ordination at Wat Pah Pong in 1972.
When Ajahn Sumedho left for England in 1977, Venerable Pabhakaro
took over as senior monk at Wat Pah Nanachat until he himself went
with Ajahn Chah to Europe and the U.S. on a visit in 1979. On
returning to Thailand he spent an 18-month period walking on tudong
and living in solitude, before going back to live with Ajahn Chah,
whose health was deteriorating. As one of Ajahn Chah's principle
nursing attendants, he took responsibility for setting up a
purpose-built clinic at Wat Pah Pong.
Venerable Pabhakaro went to England in 1984 and assisted with the
establishment of Amaravati Buddhist Centre. He is currently the
senior incumbent at Harnham Vihara, and was featured recently in the
TVS television programme 'Almsbowls to Newcastle'. |
The following teaching is adapted from a talk given by
Venerable Pabhakaro during a retreat in Scotland in August
1988.
"Ultimately, what we are bowing to is
the highest
human potentials -- peace, love and understanding."
WHEN WE STOP TO INVESTIGATE THE TEACHINGS, we can
see the importance of personal responsibility: of taking
responsibility for what we do, what we say, and eventually for what
we think. We see the possibility of developing something -- of
cultivating our body, speech and mind. I personally felt very
attracted to this way particularly because there was room to doubt
and question. I was very inspired by the thought of not having to
take anything on board just because it was written down; one was
being encouraged to explore through meditation and self-enquiry.
Now I'm in the position where I have the
opportunity to share my experience; to teach. The way I was taught
and trained was to open in the present moment, to the best of one's
ability, and speak from the heart -- to speak from one's own
experience. My intention is to make an offering. Sometimes this
feels comfortable and one is very confident. At other times I have
to question and reconsider: maybe that's not what people need or
what they can relate to. In such questioning I always try to come
back to this intention and to look with an attitude of openness and
honesty, asking myself: 'Where am I coming from?'
Honesty to me seems to be one of the most
beneficial things that we as human beings can develop. It is one of
the Buddhist Perfections -- sacca parami -- truthfulness or honesty.
Whether we consider ourselves spiritual or religious or not, if we
aren't honest with ourselves then there is a deception that we pass
on to others. It may be very subtle, but if we deceive ourselves,
how can we not deceive others?
When I try to be honest I feel humble. There is a
feeling of meekness and sinking down with humility. Now, reflecting
on these words, in popular culture we sometimes say that humiliation
is one of the most degrading experiences we can have -- 'That was
one of the most humiliating experiences of my life' -- which is very
negative. In one sense it is the lowest of the low to be put down
physically or verbally; especially verbally, as something someone
says can make us feel degraded and belittled. Usually the feeling
that comes up when this happens is revenge: 'I've been made a fool
of, I'll get them!' What is really happening in that situation is
that ego is being threatened. All our defence mechanisms are
triggered into a kind of red alert to defend ourselves.
In the religious life, however, we talk about
'developing' a quality of humility, because, by taking a positive
attitude towards it, we can turn situations around and grow from
them. Maybe you question this, thinking: 'Wouldn't this make us weak
and servile?' But it's not to say that we have to let everybody walk
all over us: that we lie prone on the street and let people trample
on us so we can be humiliated and therefore become humble. Rather we
see how we can refrain from reacting or over-reacting in situations
by learning to lay down our pride and opinions.
Consider what happens if we don't react when
someone verbally attacks us. What they're usually looking for is
some sort of reaction that they can feed on. It's like practising
tennis and hitting a ball against a wall; you can do it because
there's a reaction. If someone throws verbal abuse at us and we
don't react with aversion, aggression, or anything, but just absorb
it, then it deflates and fizzles out. When this happens in our
daily-life situations, try to see how we can move towards
not-reacting by just being able to absorb.
I try to practise this when I travel, although
it's not usually verbal abuse that I receive -- even though people
can sometimes yell something once you've passed by. It's a more
subtle physical reaction that one feels, an aggressive energy that
you sense when people walk by. When this happens, my instinctive
reaction is to meet it with aggression, but what I try to practise
is simply absorbing that aggressiveness. It's incredible what this
different attitude does to one's physical and mental state. It
changes from a tightening of the abdomen with clenched fists ready
for defence, to a softening and absorbing reception. So this is a
way of learning to use these situations and energies skilfully. It
results in a feeling of humility.
Most of my life I've been amongst the biggest and
the strongest, having to live up to an image of being six foot three
and weighing 200 pounds, so there's never been the problem like the
wee lads had of always trying to prove themselves. Softening that
image felt very foreign, especially when everything inside me was
saying: "Puff out your chest, bulge out your arms and be a man." But
whether we're large, middling or small, practising like this is
difficult.
This is why I find the religious form a very
beautiful thing to have. It gives one a skilful means to work with.
We have devotional practices like bowing and chanting. Of these, one
of the most difficult is bowing. No matter what we bow towards, it
doesn't come naturally for us; there's a great deal of resistance to
doing it. A lot of it comes from our conditioning about bowing to
idols. But really, what is it that doesn't want to bow?
In my own practice I recognised quite early on
this resistance to bowing. I was fortunate in meeting Venerable
Ajahn Chah, a man whom I considered to be a genuine Master. It was
quite easy to humble myself and bow at his feet. Not because he
said: 'Bow at my feet,' but because that was the form and I wanted
to do it. It was so nice to take this large frame and prostrate it
on the ground instead of standing tall, thinking: 'Hey! look at me;
ain't I tough. Big Mean ME.' I felt a softening take place, and
putting it on the ground brought a great joy into my heart.
Those not familiar with our way may find it
difficult to understand. In Western culture we tend to form strong
opinions, often judging immediately by the appearance of things.
Visitors come to the monastery and see those who have been around
for a number of years bowing and acting in a humble way, and may
think that we systematically brain-wash people and are out to boost
our egos. It might look like we have whipped and beaten them into
doing these things and they appear to be servile. To be honest, when
people actually bow to me -- as is the Thai custom -- it brings up a
feeling of wanting to lower myself in a similar way, so I bow in
return with my heart. It's like the hand gesture of anjali (bringing
one's palms together) which comes from the Indian tradition and
means Namaste: 'I revere the Highest or Divinity within you.' Here
in the West, especially America, you hold out your hand and give the
other guy's paw a big squeeze: 'How are ya! Glad to meet ya!' Now I
find anjali a nicer gesture.
A number of years ago we had an English Tibetan
nun staying with us at Ajahn Chah's home monastery in Thailand. One
evening Ajahn Chah went over to the nuns' community to offer a
teaching. He asked me to come along in order to do the translating
for her benefit. After he had finished talking and I had translated,
we stayed on for a while answering questions.
Earlier in the day, Ajahn Chah had observed the
nun as she was circumambulating the main Uposatha Hall doing
full-length Tibetan-style prostrations. He now asked her if she
would demonstrate it for us and the other nuns. After agreeing, she
stood up, requesting plenty of room, and explained each action as
she went along. She showed how the hand gesture meant an offering of
first one's body, then speech, and finally one's mind. Continuing,
she moved her arms out to the side and over the head in a wide
sweeping motion, symbolising the inclusion of all sentient beings in
the act. Once she was completely prone on the floor, the arms and
hands did a sweeping motion one more time, with the hands finishing
over the back of the head directed skywards in anjali. As she lay
prone for the second time and her hands came over the head in the
final gesture, Ajahn Chah pointed and exclaimed: 'That is
surrender!' I'll never forget that. He was emphasising the beauty in
the physical gesture of 'I give up. I surrender.' If seen with
proper understanding, it's the most humble bodily expression of
human devotion. Even the most proud and ego-centred person cannot
deny that.
So in the monastery I can be a stickler for
training the new monks in proper bowing, and have been known on
occasions to give people a hard time for not doing it correctly. We
train in it because it's a way of stopping: taking time to collect
and compose ourselves, learning to put our hearts into it.
Ultimately what we are bowing to is not a golden image but that
which it symbolises -- the highest human potentials of peace, love
and understanding.
Each night before I bed down I bow six times and
again first thing on arising. It doesn't matter where I am, I still
do it. When I stay in people's houses I still bow, which is always
an interesting reflection if the room they offer me has posters on
the walls of celebrities like Boy George. Whether there is an image
of the Buddha or not makes little difference if we are humbling
ourselves to the Highest Quality within. This is something that each
of us can work on.
Whether we wish to use these forms and traditions
or not is our own choice. They are here for our benefit to be used
skilfully. When I notice people not bowing I don't get upset, I just
feel a bit of sadness. When I see you doing it this brings a good
feeling to my heart. I know how difficult it is, but because you are
willing to work with it, it's very uplifting. This is what makes the
struggle of cultivating humility worth our effort. |
Venerable Khemadhammo
|
Venerable Khemadhammo (Alan Adams) was born in
Portsmouth, England in 1944, and trained at drama school to become
an actor. In his seven-year acting career he travelled worldwide
(including a 14,000-mile tour of the U.S.) and spent three years
with the National Theatre Company. Becoming interested in Buddhism,
he eventually decided to go to Thailand to become a bhikkhu.
In 1971 he became a samanera at Wat Mahathat with Tan Chao Khun Demp
Siddhumani. One year later he went to Wat Pah Pong, and received --
upasampada -- (1972). He accompanied Ajahn Chah and Ajahn Sumedho to
England in 1977, taking up residence at the Hampstead Vihara. During
this time he developed an interest in working with prisoners, which
Ajahn Chah encouraged. This work has developed steadily over the
years, and in 1984 Venerable Khemadhammo formed a Buddhist prison
chaplaincy organization, 'Angulimala'. Officially recognized by the
Home Office, its patrons include Venerable Dr. Saddhatissa,
Venerable Sangharakshita, Ajahn Sumedho and Lord Avebury.
Venerable Khemadhammo spent five years at a vihara which he founded
on the Isle of Wight, during which time he featured in the BBC
television documentary 'In More Ways Than One'. In 1985 he moved to
his current residence, the Forest Hermitage, in Warwickshire. A
stupa was built there in 1988, known as the 'English Shwe Dagon'.
Presently he lives with several other bhikkhus, continuing to visit
prisons, teach meditation, and lecture regularly on Buddhism for
Warwick University's Open University Programme. |
|
This article was prepared by Venerable Khemadhammo at the request of
'Caduceus' magazine and appeared
in their December 1987 issue.
"Insight practice uses everything;
it turns everything to an advantage."
PAIN AND SUFFERING ARE ONLY TOO WELL KNOWN to
require much of an introduction. Suffering describes the experience
of varying degrees of discomfort, and pain is the alarm which forces
us to attend to that discomfort. Neither the experience nor the
alarm are pleasant and, naturally, we would all prefer a world in
which neither existed. The search for perfect health, or for a
system whereby perfect health might be attained, is a response to
this wish for a more satisfactory state of affairs.
Let us think of a house in which many important
and valuable objects are kept and which is equipped with the very
latest electronic alarm system. While all is left undisturbed the
system remains quiet. There may be the minor irritation of having to
check and maintain it and it may occasionally raise a false alarm,
but essentially it is silent and of no trouble to the owner. Then
suddenly, quite unexpectedly, after months or years of inactivity,
one is wrenched from one's slumber by the searing pain of bells,
sirens and flashing lights and one knows that something is wrong --
one's treasure is being plundered. How do you respond to that? Some
people turn over and go back to sleep; some reach for the bottle,
and drug themselves into oblivion; some panic; and some quietly set
about dealing with the intrusion. The last is the proper response to
pain.
Now there are two basic approaches: you can fight
to get your valuables back, the intruder captured and removed, the
status quo restored and the alarm reset; or you can try to accept
and understand what has happened. If you only do the former, the
best you can achieve is simply to get back to where you started, but
with less security. Despite your efforts, your attachments have been
threatened and it could happen again -- you've not only gained
nothing, but you're losing ground. Conversely, if you choose the
latter response, you're bound to benefit. You may not restore your
possessions, but you will be encouraging a healthy attitude which,
if fully developed, will mean that never again can alarm bells spoil
your repose. Tempting, isn't it?
My Buddhist monastic training, which has included
detailed contemplation of the body, has led me to have little
sympathy with health regimes, special diets and the like, and in the
past I've occasionally enjoyed tweaking a few attachments with
dietary advice based on plenty of jam doughnuts. The Buddha has
pointed out that it is sheer foolishness to claim that one's body is
healthy even for a moment -- in this ever-changing phenomenon, there
is always something not quite right. Nevertheless, you will find
that the Buddha is referred to as the 'peerless physician', whose
concern is the cure of all greed, hatred, and delusion -- the ending
of real suffering.
That analogy is frequently played on and
extended. At the opening ceremony of The Forest Hermitage, one of
our most senior monks took it up again and compared this place to a
small hospital, with myself as the house surgeon. What I am saying,
then, is that there is health and Health: the former has its place,
but in the long run is futile; while the latter must surely become
the purpose of living.
Of course, by all means take care of your body,
but reflect that whatever you do it may still be easily broken and
one day it is sure to die. Of the two, a healthy mind is of much
more use than a healthy body. If you're in wondrous physical shape,
but your mind is disordered, you're in bad trouble. But if your body
is wasted, eaten up with disease or otherwise beyond repair, and
your mind is bright with wisdom, you'll be all right.
Let's go back to the analogy of the house: to sit
in your house, jealously guarding its contents, polishing and
improving the alarm system, equates with the ordinary health of the
special diets and fitness regimes; to understand, to develop a
healthy attitude, is real Health. Real Health is worthy of us. It
comes through facing up to life, including pain and suffering,
observing it, investigating it and comprehending its nature and its
source. I think it's often obvious that those who've suffered have
grown; but we must be careful, as it's not necessarily the case.
It's not pain alone that generates the growth, it's how you view and
use your experience. You must have the proper response -- then and
only then, will wisdom emerge out of suffering.
I remember being told once by an experienced
burglar that he enjoyed the challenge of an elaborate alarm system;
and I suspect he might also have said that where there was an alarm,
he knew there was something worth having -- and the more complex the
alarm, the more valuable and desirable were the things to steal.
Think about it: if you haven't got anything or if you have no
attachment to things surrounding you, you don't need any protection.
If they're there, fine; if they're not there, fine! And you sit
undisturbed, content with things as they are. A healthy attitude,
then, is found in a mind that has matured and grown out of desire
and attachment -- the mind is cool and there are no more alarms to
ring. In other words, there is no more pain and suffering.
The Buddha referred to twelve kinds of suffering,
which may be reduced to three, and ultimately to one. The twelve
are: birth, decay, death, sorrow, lamentation, pain, grief, despair,
association with the unpleasant, separation from the beloved, not to
get what one desires, and the Five Aggregates. Reduced to three,
there are: the ordinary suffering of aches and pains, the suffering
dependent on impermanence, and the discomfort of attachment to the
Five Aggregates. Reduced to one, it is conditioned existence or just
the Five Aggregates that is suffering.
Most of this is quite obvious, but perhaps I'd
better enlarge on these mysterious Five Aggregates, which is how
Buddhism analyses a person. They are: Form, Feeling, Perception,
Habitual Tendencies, and Consciousness, none of which are stable,
lasting or possessed of any inherent self-hood. We sometimes refer
to them as a psycho-physical process. Form obviously corresponds to
the body: it is just matter, numerous particles vibrating together,
in the process of becoming and breaking up, but without any ability
to know an object. The remaining four -- feeling, perception,
habitual tendencies and consciousness -- correspond to mind, and are
capable of knowing an object. These Five Aggregates are all
dependent on other things, and exist in interdependence with each
other; as a human being, you don't have one without the others.
Together they create a formation -- a formation, which, like that of
geese or aircraft in the sky, is continually in a state of forming
as the components interact and respond to conditions.
Thus mind affects body and body affects mind.
This formation arise dependent on conditions, it grows or develops
according to conditions and persists where the conditions persist.
For example, sight-consciousness or seeing and the pleasure or pain,
perception and other mental factors that accompany a consciousness,
depend on there being an object to be seen, eyes and a contact
between the two. You don't see without eyes, you don't see what's
behind you and you can't see anything if there's nothing to be seen.
If you develop awareness and the meditation that produces insight,
you will see that your world, the entire range of your experience,
is just the Five Aggregates; and that suffering depends on your
attachment to them -- an unhealthy attitude.
Our experiential world is a complex play of these
aggregates: consciousness, resting on its physical base, arise where
there is an object, and is always accompanied by feeling (liking,
disliking or indifference), and perception (recognising and marking
the object), as well as a variety of other habitual tendencies that
colour the experience. This all happens so quickly that an illusion,
analogous to that produced when still pictures or sound vibrations
are run at a certain speed, results. This is the illusion of self.
To be aware, you will need to slow down and watch
yourself carefully; then as you go on you will perceive that the
phenomena that flow unceasingly before you have no intrinsic
substance, are constantly on the move, and that to try to attach,
grasp or reject them is bound to be frustrating. Watching the
procession of thoughts, feelings and other experiences, self begins
to drop out of the picture and attachment to self is correspondingly
reduced. There is a shift in attitude and a disengagement. You are
beginning to see things in their true nature. This insight
accumulates and this is how wisdom is established. Understanding the
way things are, there is contentment; you neither want them to be
otherwise nor are you attached -- thus, a healthy attitude.
In his first sermon, the Buddha spoke of Four
Noble Truths which he had to understand fully, work with and realize
before his attainment of enlightenment was complete. They are:
suffering; craving, the origin of suffering; the end of suffering;
and the way to realise the end of suffering. Buddhist therapy is
essentially a response to suffering and the complete method includes
morality, mental training and wisdom.
For us, meditation is the principal exercise in
mental training, and means the process of calming and clarifying the
mind. If you can imagine a precious jewel at the bottom of a lake:
when the waters are turbulent, whipped up by the violence of the
storm and the confusing patterns of the wind, there's no chance of
your being able to look over the side of your boat and admire the
brilliance of that jewel. The water's stained with mud and sand,
frothing and tipping your boat this way and that, and the jewel is
totally obscured. But when the storm is over and the waters have
become calm, and the mud and sand has settled, then without
difficulty you may pull across the lake and looking over the side,
be dazzled by the luminous intensity that now shines forth
unobstructed.
In the same way, the confused and turbulent mind
obscures one's inherent wisdom. Of course, working with the mind is
not quite as simple as the analogy of the jewel in the lake. After
all, the absence of wisdom encourages the turbulent mind and we
cannot afford to sit back and wait for nature to take its course and
the mind to quieten of itself. But, nevertheless, the training is
composed of concentration and insight, or calm and clear, which
working together support each other. At the Forest Hermitage the
general advice that I give is to calm the mind by concentrating on
loving-kindness; followed by the practice of vipassana, or insight
meditation, which is developed through the cultivation of
mindfulness.
When sitting in meditation, you will experience
pain. It may be pins and needles or aching knees, or it may be an
unpleasant thought or memory. The way you use it depends on whether
it is concentration or insight that you are emphasising in your
practice. In both cases the pain is recognised, but when simply
trying to concentrate and calm your mind your duty is to avoid
dwelling on that pain, by returning to your meditation subject with
greater and more intense concentration.
Using the loving-kindness practice, it may be
helpful to view the pain with loving-kindness; this softens your
attitude to the pain and brings you back to your meditation subject.
Your use of the pain in the concentration practice is simply as a
resistance. You will appreciate that working against resistances
brings energy and sharpens your attitude to whatever you are doing.
Please be quite clear that this is not a case of repression -- you
do not try to deny your pain nor even get rid of it -- you simply
concentrate with greater intensity on your meditation subject,
spurred on by the resistance that your pain has set up.
When developing insight, however, you use your
pain by being mindful of it and watching it. The insight practice is
essentially one in which a concentrated awareness is developed, with
each and every experience being subject to a bare knowing. There are
various techniques which help this process and it is best to
familiarise yourself with such a practice, if it interests you,
under proper guidance. As soon as pain is seen in this way it loses
its power. Sometimes it disappears altogether, but if not, as soon
as you start relating to it as just feeling, only sensations, you
relax and the discomfort reduces. You then start to examine it and
you will find out that it's not PAIN, not a static thing, but rather
a shifting, ever-moving succession of experiences that flow into and
out of each other. You are now on the way to realising insight. As
you work with pain in this way, so you cope with it better and you
learn from it. Your pain can teach you a great deal: you will see
that it is never still for an instant, that you contribute to it
through your fear and dislike of it, that you even attach to it, and
that lurking behind it is that ignorant mind that always wants
things to be other than they are -- the unhealthy attitude. Suddenly
such awfulness is being turned to your advantage and you're winning.
This is the wonderful thing about insight
practice; it uses everything, brings everything alive and turns
everything to advantage. Whatever arises, it is your duty to observe
it with bare attention. Not doing anything with it, not giving in to
the mind of desire and wishing it were otherwise, but content with
things as they are, mindful and watchful. In daily life too, be
mindful, watchful and content. Things are as they are, they can't be
otherwise. They might have been, but they're not. They are as they
are. In the future it might all be different, but right now it's as
it is and it's wonderful. The present is all we really have and here
we will find wisdom. So give up that gaining mind, rest content, be
mindful, and understanding the true nature of things, be possessed
of a healthy attitude. Let go and be happy. |
Venerable Jagaro
|
Venerable Jagaro (John Cianciosi) was born in
Southern Italy in 1948. When he was 10 years old his family
emigrated to Australia. He studied chemistry at the Melbourne
Institute of Technology, but later, while working as a research
chemist, he felt the need to broaden his horizons. So, like many
young Australians, he set off travelling -- through Bali, Indonesia
and Malaysia, and ending up in Thailand, where he encountered
Buddhism. He decided to become a monk and received bhikkhu
ordination, aged 24, under Venerable Phra Khru Nanasirivatana, at
Wat Pleng Vipassana, in 1972.
In 1973 he moved to Wat Pah Pong to train under Ajahn Chah. In due
course, he succeeded Venerable Pabhakaro as senior incumbent of Wat
Pah Nanachat. At the invitation of the Buddhist Society of Western
Australia, he went to Perth in 1982 with Venerable Puriso to start a
monastery there. Initially, the monks lived in a house in the
suburbs of Perth while a more rural setting was sought, and
eventually a 97-acre site south of the city was purchased.
Venerable Jagaro, assisted by Venerable Brahmavamso, has since
guided the development of the Bodhinyana Forest Monastery, the monks
doing much of the construction of the buildings themselves. The
monastic community has since grown to ten. A wide range of teaching
activities are conducted at the new monastery and at the thriving
Dhammaloka Buddhist Centre in Perth. Venerable Jagaro continues to
visit Thailand frequently, where he is well known and respected as a
teacher of Dhamma. |
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The following teaching by Venerable Jagaro is adapted from a Friday
night Dhamma talk
at the Perth Vihara, 7th June 1985, in response to the question,
'What is happiness?'
"Through enlightenment, you gain nothing at
all:
the big difference is that
there is real and lasting happiness. "
HAPPINESS IS SOMETHING CLOSE TO THE HEART of
everybody. We all want to be happy. Happiness in the normal sense
means that you always get what you want, when and how you want it.
This is very difficult, because so many things are beyond our
control: the weather, one's appearance, health, relationships, one's
meditation so many things we cannot control. One's striving for
worldly happiness seems constantly hindered. Where is this
happiness? How can we possibly be happy when everything is in this
state of uncertainty and constant change? We may spend all our lives
seeking it and finding disappointment. If you are a fortunate person
with good conditioning and positive states of mind, you may be happy
most of the time. However , there is always the opposite when things
are not as you want them to be, when the mind doesn't do what you
want it to do, when people are not as you want them to be and
naturally the opposite emotions and feelings which we call
unhappiness will arise. Unhappiness has to be there so long as there
is happiness.
It is like Nasrudin, the wise man who acted like
a fool; or maybe he was a fool who acted like a wise man. He was
sitting with this big bag of little red chillies very hot! Tears
were streaming down his face and he was panting and crying and
eating chillies. An old friend came by and asked, 'Nasrudin, what
are you doing there eating all those really hot chillies?' Nasrudin,
between gasps for air and wiping away his tears and blowing his
nose, managed to say, 'I'm looking for the sweet one.'
And so we continually look for the sweet one,
continually seek happiness in the conditioned, and we haven't found
a sweet one yet. Even when you are getting what you want maybe you
can be 90% happy, but still there is that at the back of the mind
that is a little bit concerned, a little bit afraid, a little bit
possessive. Underneath you know it can't last! That nagging fear
leads us to a spiritual path, to seek an alternative source of
happiness.
In Buddhism we are striving for a different sort
of happiness. Do you think there can be happiness and joy in the
mind which is self-contained, independent of all conditions and
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