by E. RAYMOND ROCK
One evening, after a meeting, the abbot invited me to join him in his kuti. As I climbed the steps, I noticed the glossy handrails and the huge, gleaming floor of the veranda, both energetically polished with coconut husks until the coconut oil buffed the wood to a deep luster. This was a work of love by his monks, out of respect, and as a soon-to-be-ordained novice monk, I would become skilled at polishing the abbot’s veranda - on my hands and knees!
The interior of his kuti was much smaller than I had expected, with the standard two shuttered windows, now open, and bare walls. His outer robe hung on a rack. A water jug, cup, and alms bowl sat near the door, with a candle and some incense on a table toward the back. Except for a few incidentals - a razor, sandals, mosquito net, umbrella, some writing materials - this was the extent of the abbot’s worldly possessions.
We entered the tiny hut to the flurry of two geckos scurrying off the back wall, and as the abbot lit a candle and invited me to sit, the muffled sound of thunder in the distance reminded me that I was in the presence of a special being. He offered a cup of water, after which we sat in silence. I felt a profound peacefulness in this man’s presence, and already a deep admiration had formed, even though I had only known him for a short time. I could have silently sat with him in this little hut forever.
The locusts and cicadas were beginning their evening serenade, beckoning to the pair of geckos that circumspectly made their way to the door to embark on their nocturnal hunt. In the distance could be heard the “gecko, gecko!” of their kinsmen, as soft rain began pattering on nearby leaves - the vapors of the ocean falling upon the forest to begin the journey back to their Source.
The abbot continued sitting quietly without speaking, and I, out of respect, sat silently as well. This man’s quiet, sincere demeanor touched me deeply, and no words were needed in this atmosphere of complete confidence and ease. Silence is so powerful.
He presently asked how I was doing. I said fine. We talked a little about my practice, the visions I had been having, but then all too soon, I knew it was time to go. I stood up, put my hands together at my forehead and bowed, feeling an overwhelming respect and appreciation for this gentle being of few words who accepted me so unconditionally, and who had given up everything to dedicate his entire life to helping others find their way out of confusion.
The rain that had begun as barely a trickle was now a torrent. The vast heavens again opening their floodgates to unleash angry clouds and storms that drove across menacing, slate-gray skies, and with crashing thunder and blinding lightening as my solitary companions, I returned to my hut.
I felt such a profound gratefulness, an appreciation not only for this abbot, but for the entire group of monks and nuns who willingly gave up the security and comforts of home and family to risk their lives in pursuit of this elusive truth; this unfathomable mystery that held the secret to mankind’s only hope. If it wasn’t for them, and all the other monks and nuns before them that paved the way, how would Janet and I have ever stumbled across meditation?
Traveling to Southeast Asia answered many questions for us; one of them being whether journeying to a distant or magical place to acquire our answers was necessary at all. And we determined that it was . . . and yet, it wasn’t. The wisdom of eternity rested nowhere but here, within us; where else could it be? It has always been right here in our hearts, but we had always been too busy and full of ourselves to see it, and because this wisdom is within us, who could teach us but ourselves? We must truly be our own teachers, for no teacher can uncover this wisdom for us. But this place . . . I don’t know, it seemed . . . magical. Maybe the constant danger, knowing that one’s life could be snuffed out in a moment, helped us go deeper. We had always found deep concentration illusive whenever we were safe.
We inherently knew that there are those who might point us in the right direction, perhaps help us move out of our own shadows so that this wisdom of eternity has an opportunity to surface, but we also knew that we must eventually travel the path ourselves. And when that wisdom did surface, we knew it would forever change our destiny. We are the ones who must make the effort to change, and only through our own efforts can we accomplish this transformation.
We had never run across many people who genuinely thirsted for this cursed freedom that costs it’s seekers everything, and we were beginning to understand why only a handful of each generation attempts it, because it’s just too difficult. But once you’re cursed, you’re cursed, and there is no going back. Your “bridges of security” have all been burned.
The experiences we were having in Thailand already confirmed that we didn’t know anything of value, and a few days later, some things happened that we probably would have been satisfied never knowing.
http://www.amazines.com/article_detail.cfm/333803?articleid=333803
Showing posts with label meditation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label meditation. Show all posts
2007/11/06
Life in a Thai Monastery (Part 4 of 7)
These monks at Nanachat had a mystique about them . . . unmistakable, but difficult to explain. They were hardly noticed, so unassuming and restrained, childlike in many ways, and our hearts couldn’t help but go out to them. This was not Bangkok, where city monks took on the robes only to gain merit for relatives, or for reasons other than dedicating their lives to meditation and enlightenment. This was the real-deal at Wat Pah Nanachat, and I wondered if the stories of narrow escapes with death at these wats were exaggerated. I had a funny feeling we were about to find out.
The next morning I ran across a villager and a monk, chatting and busily working on a carcass. It was lying on a bamboo table in the shade of some banana trees near the sala, and appeared to be an animal, or something. They seemed to be skinning it. Mmmm. I didn’t think monks did that? So I moved closer, and discovered what it was that they were working on - a human skeleton! “Whoa,” I thought, recalling my cherished autopsy picture, “maybe I should round up Janet and head back to good ol’ Colorado right now!” This was really ghoulish - they were actually scraping dried flesh off the dead, gray bones.
Later that day, overcome with curiosity and a sense of the macabre, I asked around about the skeleton. What I pieced together was that it apparently had been curing in a sealed box under one of the kuties for two years, a necessary process so that the flesh could be more easily removed without damaging the bones. The two years had now expired, and it was time to scrape off the flesh before shipping the clean bones to Bangkok for pinning and bleaching.
During the years that the body was being stored, many monks inhabited the kuti in order to overcome their fear of ghosts, and, as could be expected, had unusual meditation experiences. The skeleton’s ghost was believed to roam about the monastery grounds every night looking for its children.
The remains were that of a young woman from the local village. She and her husband (the villager who was scraping the bones) would visit the monastery regularly to offer food and listen to dhamma talks, or sermons. The couple had a beautiful, healthy little boy and another child on the way. They were very much in love, and looked forward to an uncomplicated life in the village, raising their children and growing old together.
It was obvious that this couple wasn’t asking for much . . . were they? They were happy with the simplest of things; farming, raising kids, and then dying in the same village where they were born. This was 1981, just before Thailand became westernized to the extent it is now, and the humbleness and humility of these people overwhelmed us time and again.
The story of the skeleton continued: After their daughter was born, the woman began experiencing pain that steadily worsened. It became so intense and unrelenting that she could only lay curled up in bed all day. With no money available for treatments in Bangkok, village remedies and aspirin were her only option, and the pain finally became unbearable. One night she asked her husband to bring their children into the room and just hold her. She was saying goodbye.
Her soft crying was not so much from the pain now, but from what she was about to ask her husband to do. She wanted to die, the pain was too much, and yet how she could abandon her young children? What would become of them, and her husband? Her dreams were shattered. She asked her husband to leave his gun on the table.
He refused! How could he do this? He felt ashamed and unworthy, that he could not make her well. He would take his gun and rob somebody, and get money to take her to Bangkok, but there was nobody to rob; the monks had no money, and neither did the poor villagers.
The woman he loved was in pain, and he was helpless to do anything about it - except help her to kill herself. How could he live with such a thing; he would have to kill her himself and spare her the horror of pulling the trigger. Then he would kill himself . . . but what about the children?
He couldn’t do it; all he could do was place the revolver on her table and quietly walk out of the room, unable to look into her eyes. A few moments later, a gunshot rang out.
It was a sad story, and I couldn’t help wonder who really pulled the trigger. If she did, was it wrong for her to take her own life? Yes, according to the monks, it was, but I reserved judgment myself. How could I know what she was going through unless I stood in her shoes?
I would watch the monk and villager chatting and working on the skeleton from a vantage point across the courtyard, and occasionally I would notice the small, gentle villager with stooped shoulders put his knife down and become silent, looking off into the forest. His lined face and weak smile revealed the pain of a poor villager’s life that had come undone, and now he was doing the only thing left to do, fulfill a promise to the woman he loved for almost his entire life.
Her dying wish was that her skeleton be displayed in the main hall for all the monks to contemplate every day, reminding them that death can come at any time, and that death was always painful, and therefore they must not tarry in their efforts to find freedom in their hearts and hopefully not experience death too many more lifetimes.
The poignant story and the actual experience of seeing this skeleton with a bullet hole in its skull affected me deeply, much deeper than any lecture about us being merely “bubbles in a stream which could burst at any moment.” I was actually living the Buddha’s words now.
http://www.amazines.com/article_detail.cfm/331614?articleid=331614
The next morning I ran across a villager and a monk, chatting and busily working on a carcass. It was lying on a bamboo table in the shade of some banana trees near the sala, and appeared to be an animal, or something. They seemed to be skinning it. Mmmm. I didn’t think monks did that? So I moved closer, and discovered what it was that they were working on - a human skeleton! “Whoa,” I thought, recalling my cherished autopsy picture, “maybe I should round up Janet and head back to good ol’ Colorado right now!” This was really ghoulish - they were actually scraping dried flesh off the dead, gray bones.
Later that day, overcome with curiosity and a sense of the macabre, I asked around about the skeleton. What I pieced together was that it apparently had been curing in a sealed box under one of the kuties for two years, a necessary process so that the flesh could be more easily removed without damaging the bones. The two years had now expired, and it was time to scrape off the flesh before shipping the clean bones to Bangkok for pinning and bleaching.
During the years that the body was being stored, many monks inhabited the kuti in order to overcome their fear of ghosts, and, as could be expected, had unusual meditation experiences. The skeleton’s ghost was believed to roam about the monastery grounds every night looking for its children.
The remains were that of a young woman from the local village. She and her husband (the villager who was scraping the bones) would visit the monastery regularly to offer food and listen to dhamma talks, or sermons. The couple had a beautiful, healthy little boy and another child on the way. They were very much in love, and looked forward to an uncomplicated life in the village, raising their children and growing old together.
It was obvious that this couple wasn’t asking for much . . . were they? They were happy with the simplest of things; farming, raising kids, and then dying in the same village where they were born. This was 1981, just before Thailand became westernized to the extent it is now, and the humbleness and humility of these people overwhelmed us time and again.
The story of the skeleton continued: After their daughter was born, the woman began experiencing pain that steadily worsened. It became so intense and unrelenting that she could only lay curled up in bed all day. With no money available for treatments in Bangkok, village remedies and aspirin were her only option, and the pain finally became unbearable. One night she asked her husband to bring their children into the room and just hold her. She was saying goodbye.
Her soft crying was not so much from the pain now, but from what she was about to ask her husband to do. She wanted to die, the pain was too much, and yet how she could abandon her young children? What would become of them, and her husband? Her dreams were shattered. She asked her husband to leave his gun on the table.
He refused! How could he do this? He felt ashamed and unworthy, that he could not make her well. He would take his gun and rob somebody, and get money to take her to Bangkok, but there was nobody to rob; the monks had no money, and neither did the poor villagers.
The woman he loved was in pain, and he was helpless to do anything about it - except help her to kill herself. How could he live with such a thing; he would have to kill her himself and spare her the horror of pulling the trigger. Then he would kill himself . . . but what about the children?
He couldn’t do it; all he could do was place the revolver on her table and quietly walk out of the room, unable to look into her eyes. A few moments later, a gunshot rang out.
It was a sad story, and I couldn’t help wonder who really pulled the trigger. If she did, was it wrong for her to take her own life? Yes, according to the monks, it was, but I reserved judgment myself. How could I know what she was going through unless I stood in her shoes?
I would watch the monk and villager chatting and working on the skeleton from a vantage point across the courtyard, and occasionally I would notice the small, gentle villager with stooped shoulders put his knife down and become silent, looking off into the forest. His lined face and weak smile revealed the pain of a poor villager’s life that had come undone, and now he was doing the only thing left to do, fulfill a promise to the woman he loved for almost his entire life.
Her dying wish was that her skeleton be displayed in the main hall for all the monks to contemplate every day, reminding them that death can come at any time, and that death was always painful, and therefore they must not tarry in their efforts to find freedom in their hearts and hopefully not experience death too many more lifetimes.
The poignant story and the actual experience of seeing this skeleton with a bullet hole in its skull affected me deeply, much deeper than any lecture about us being merely “bubbles in a stream which could burst at any moment.” I was actually living the Buddha’s words now.
http://www.amazines.com/article_detail.cfm/331614?articleid=331614
Life in a Thai Monastery (Part 3 of 7)
by E. RAYMOND ROCK
What a friendly, carefree monk! We felt at home already, but he wasted no time in getting down to business. He asked me to remain in the courtyard for a moment while he and the other monk escorted Janet to the nun’s section. Before they left with her, the British monk asked if I wanted to say goodbye. . . . Hmm. Why should I say good-bye? Janet and I were staying at the same monastery, weren’t we? But I did as he suggested and said good bye. (You should never second-guess a British monk).
As I watched her disappear into the trees, which, by the way, happened to be my last personal contact with her for months, I thought back to the train ride, and how apprehensive she was when she noticed the small, thrown together shelters in the rice fields that farmers used as protection from the monsoons. She was certain that we would end up living in one of these flimsy huts that afforded zero protection from snakes and creepy things, and I was right, she was scared to death.
But not to fear; her first kuti (hut), although older, was substantial, made of timbers with a tin roof and perched on stilts for protection against her anticipated despicable critters. Her fear however was not entirely without foundation; an active family of seven geckos claimed the hut as well, causing her to lay awake the entire first night curled up in a rigid, fetal position being careful not to touch the mosquito net that hung from the ceiling and which she tucked firmly under her little bamboo mat . . . while imagining things crawling all over her.
Eventually, the nuns gave her a nicer kuti with only two geckos, and then finally a new and beautiful one with only a single lizard . . . but it was a big one.
Although Janet and I would see each other at a distance while attending community meetings, meals and so forth, we weren’t permitted to speak with each other without a monk present. Those were the rules; established so that no misunderstandings would arise with villagers who supported these monks, a support that relied upon mutual trust. The villagers would take care of the monks and nuns necessities, and the monks and nuns would devote their lives to nothing other than conquering their kileses (greed, hatred and delusion), and finding enlightenment. The monks and nuns were the villagers’ ideals.
The British monk returned after getting Janet settled in and handed me the traditional small, rolled-up bamboo mat that would serve as my sleeping and meditation rug, along with an old, dinged aluminum teapot that was my water kettle. After a brief stop to fill the kettle at the water barrels, he began escorting me to the far side of the monastery.
As we were walking along, a mangy dog with a missing ear and absent clumps of fur ran into the forest not far ahead. The monk pointed and issued a stern warning to stay away from stray dogs that might wander about the monastery looking for food, adding casually that a monk and nun were both presently taking anti-rabies shots after being attacked on the porch of the sala! Well . . . I was relieved to hear that rabies shots were available, but not too thrilled about rabid dogs running loose all over the place.
We continued about a hundred yards on a narrow trail through a green cave of dense foliage with tropical flowers spilling out of bamboo thickets; which seemed to be welcoming me, and then, suddenly, there it was - my personal little kuti! I had been picturing it in my mind for months, and it looked simply wonderful; quiet, peaceful, just the thing for an itinerate loner like me.
By Western standards, it was tiny, only six feet by seven feet, but more than enough room to stretch out. It was made of sturdy timbers and perched on stilts seven feet high to keep out snakes and ants, with ten steps leading to a small porch. Inside were a few pictures tacked to the wall, apparently from a previous occupant - an autopsy photo of some poor chap cut from top to bottom, (a monk's aid for contemplating the body), a picture of a Buddha image, and a picture of a lotus blossom. There was also a small, cut-in-half tin can that I later used to heat a few tablespoons of water over a candle to shave with every morning. Probably what the prior tenant used it for. I mentally thanked him.
My kuti came complete with two shuttered windows, to keep out the rain, a mosquito net tied to a ceiling beam, and some candles, matches and incense sitting on an exposed two by four. Small pans of kerosene were fashioned around the bottoms of the exterior stilts to discourage ants, scorpions and termites, and the roof was covered with tin, a beautiful tin, the sound of rain upon which will remain with me the rest of my life. My little kuti was perfect!
Living at a monastery in Thailand costs nothing, as long as you follow the rules - one meal a day, etc., and of course you must be on your best behavior. Besides the rules, we had to quickly learn a wealth of cultural things, for example; exposing the sole of one’s foot is akin to exhibiting one’s middle finger, so I soon learned to sit puppy-up, or flat on the concrete floor of the sala with my feet curled demurely underneath - no furniture or pillows to sit on at Wat Pah Nanachat! Just wood, concrete, and the jungle floor.
The regional police station would subsequently hold our passports, which we cheerfully surrendered upon arrival. We couldn’t have cared less; our intention was to stay forever in this paradise that offered such a rare opportunity to meditate with little disruption.
The smiling British monk wished me luck, then turned and disappeared down the trail. I waved, while at the same time glancing nervously in all directions for signs of snakes, scorpions, or mad dogs, and then made myself at home in my little kuti, that to me was more beautiful than a mansion with gold-plated faucets.
http://www.amazines.com/article_detail.cfm/330948?articleid=330948
What a friendly, carefree monk! We felt at home already, but he wasted no time in getting down to business. He asked me to remain in the courtyard for a moment while he and the other monk escorted Janet to the nun’s section. Before they left with her, the British monk asked if I wanted to say goodbye. . . . Hmm. Why should I say good-bye? Janet and I were staying at the same monastery, weren’t we? But I did as he suggested and said good bye. (You should never second-guess a British monk).
As I watched her disappear into the trees, which, by the way, happened to be my last personal contact with her for months, I thought back to the train ride, and how apprehensive she was when she noticed the small, thrown together shelters in the rice fields that farmers used as protection from the monsoons. She was certain that we would end up living in one of these flimsy huts that afforded zero protection from snakes and creepy things, and I was right, she was scared to death.
But not to fear; her first kuti (hut), although older, was substantial, made of timbers with a tin roof and perched on stilts for protection against her anticipated despicable critters. Her fear however was not entirely without foundation; an active family of seven geckos claimed the hut as well, causing her to lay awake the entire first night curled up in a rigid, fetal position being careful not to touch the mosquito net that hung from the ceiling and which she tucked firmly under her little bamboo mat . . . while imagining things crawling all over her.
Eventually, the nuns gave her a nicer kuti with only two geckos, and then finally a new and beautiful one with only a single lizard . . . but it was a big one.
Although Janet and I would see each other at a distance while attending community meetings, meals and so forth, we weren’t permitted to speak with each other without a monk present. Those were the rules; established so that no misunderstandings would arise with villagers who supported these monks, a support that relied upon mutual trust. The villagers would take care of the monks and nuns necessities, and the monks and nuns would devote their lives to nothing other than conquering their kileses (greed, hatred and delusion), and finding enlightenment. The monks and nuns were the villagers’ ideals.
The British monk returned after getting Janet settled in and handed me the traditional small, rolled-up bamboo mat that would serve as my sleeping and meditation rug, along with an old, dinged aluminum teapot that was my water kettle. After a brief stop to fill the kettle at the water barrels, he began escorting me to the far side of the monastery.
As we were walking along, a mangy dog with a missing ear and absent clumps of fur ran into the forest not far ahead. The monk pointed and issued a stern warning to stay away from stray dogs that might wander about the monastery looking for food, adding casually that a monk and nun were both presently taking anti-rabies shots after being attacked on the porch of the sala! Well . . . I was relieved to hear that rabies shots were available, but not too thrilled about rabid dogs running loose all over the place.
We continued about a hundred yards on a narrow trail through a green cave of dense foliage with tropical flowers spilling out of bamboo thickets; which seemed to be welcoming me, and then, suddenly, there it was - my personal little kuti! I had been picturing it in my mind for months, and it looked simply wonderful; quiet, peaceful, just the thing for an itinerate loner like me.
By Western standards, it was tiny, only six feet by seven feet, but more than enough room to stretch out. It was made of sturdy timbers and perched on stilts seven feet high to keep out snakes and ants, with ten steps leading to a small porch. Inside were a few pictures tacked to the wall, apparently from a previous occupant - an autopsy photo of some poor chap cut from top to bottom, (a monk's aid for contemplating the body), a picture of a Buddha image, and a picture of a lotus blossom. There was also a small, cut-in-half tin can that I later used to heat a few tablespoons of water over a candle to shave with every morning. Probably what the prior tenant used it for. I mentally thanked him.
My kuti came complete with two shuttered windows, to keep out the rain, a mosquito net tied to a ceiling beam, and some candles, matches and incense sitting on an exposed two by four. Small pans of kerosene were fashioned around the bottoms of the exterior stilts to discourage ants, scorpions and termites, and the roof was covered with tin, a beautiful tin, the sound of rain upon which will remain with me the rest of my life. My little kuti was perfect!
Living at a monastery in Thailand costs nothing, as long as you follow the rules - one meal a day, etc., and of course you must be on your best behavior. Besides the rules, we had to quickly learn a wealth of cultural things, for example; exposing the sole of one’s foot is akin to exhibiting one’s middle finger, so I soon learned to sit puppy-up, or flat on the concrete floor of the sala with my feet curled demurely underneath - no furniture or pillows to sit on at Wat Pah Nanachat! Just wood, concrete, and the jungle floor.
The regional police station would subsequently hold our passports, which we cheerfully surrendered upon arrival. We couldn’t have cared less; our intention was to stay forever in this paradise that offered such a rare opportunity to meditate with little disruption.
The smiling British monk wished me luck, then turned and disappeared down the trail. I waved, while at the same time glancing nervously in all directions for signs of snakes, scorpions, or mad dogs, and then made myself at home in my little kuti, that to me was more beautiful than a mansion with gold-plated faucets.
http://www.amazines.com/article_detail.cfm/330948?articleid=330948
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