Wholehearted Training

Conditions were pretty rough. The lay people didn't know much. They would bring us plah rah (fermented fish, a staple of the local diet), but it was made with raw fish, so we didn't eat it; I would stir it and take a good look at it to see what it was made from and just leave it sitting there.

Things were very hard then and we don't have those kinds of conditions these days - nobody knows about it. But there is some legacy remaining in the practice we have now, in the monks from those days who are still here. After the rains retreat, we could go tudong (wandering) right here within the monastery. We went and sat deep in the quiet of the forest. From time to time we would gather, I would give some teaching and then everyone returned into the forest to continue meditating, walking and sitting. We practiced like this in the dry season; we didn't need to go wandering in search of forests to practice in because we had the right conditions here. We maintained the tudong practices right here.

Now, after the rains everyone wants to take off somewhere. The result is usually that their practice gets interrupted. It's important to keep at it steadily and sincerely so that you come to know your defilements. This way of practice is something good and authentic. In the past it was much harder. It's like the saying that we practice to no longer be a person: the person should die in order to become a monk. We adhered to the Vinaya strictly and everyone had a real sense of shame about their actions. When doing chores, hauling water or sweeping the grounds, you didn't hear monks talking. During bowl washing, it was completely silent. Now, some days I have to send someone to tell them to stop talking and find out what all the commotion is about. I wonder if they're boxing out there; the noise is so loud I can't imagine what's going on. So again and again I have to forbid them to chat.

I don't know what they need to talk about. When they've eaten their fill they become heedless because of the pleasure they feel. I keep on saying, ''When you come back from almsround, don't talk!'' If someone asks why you don't want to talk, tell them, ''My hearing is bad.'' Otherwise it becomes like a pack of barking dogs. Chattering brings about emotions, and you can even end up in a fistfight, especially at that time of day when everyone is hungry - the dogs are hungry and defilements are active.

This is what I've noticed. People don't enter the practice wholeheartedly. I've seen it changing over the years. Those who trained in the past got some results and can take care of themselves, but now hearing about the difficulties would scare people away. It's too hard to conceive of. If you make things easy then everyone is interested, but what's the point? The reason we were able to realize some benefit in the past is that everyone trained together wholeheartedly.

The monks who lived here then really practiced endurance to the utmost. We saw things through together, from the beginning to the end. They have some understanding about the practice. After several years of practicing together, I thought it would be appropriate to send them out to their home villages to establish monasteries.

Those of you who came later can't really imagine what it was like for us then. I don't know who to talk to about it. The practice was extremely strict. Patience and endurance were the most important things we lived by. No one complained about the conditions. If we only had plain rice to eat, no one complained. We ate in complete silence, never discussing whether or not the food was tasty. Borapet was what we had for our hot drink.

One of the monks went to central Thailand and drank coffee there. Someone offered him some to bring back here. So we had coffee once. But there was no sugar to put in it. No one complained about that. Where would we get sugar? So we could say we really drank coffee, without any sugar to sweeten the taste. We depended on others to support us and we wanted to be people who were easy to support, so of course we didn't make requests of anyone. Like that, we were continually doing without things and enduring whatever conditions we found ourselves in.

One year the lay supporters Mr. Puang and Mrs. Daeng came to be ordained here. They were from the city and had never lived like this, doing without things, enduring hardship, eating as we do, practicing under the guidance of an Ajahn and performing the duties outlined in the rules of training. But they heard about their nephew living here so they decided to come and be ordained. As soon as they were ordained, a friend was bringing them coffee and sugar. They were living in the forest to practice meditation, but they had the habit of getting up early in the morning and making milk coffee to drink before doing anything else. So they stocked their kutis full of sugar and coffee. But here, we would have our morning chanting and meditation, then immediately the monks would prepare to go for alms, so they didn't have a chance to make coffee. After a while it started to sink in. Mr. Puang would pace back and forth, thinking what to do. He didn't have anywhere to make his coffee and no one was coming to make it and offer it to him, so he ended up bringing it all to the monastery kitchen and leaving it there.

Coming to stay here, actually seeing the conditions in the monastery and the way of life of meditation monks, really got him down. An elderly man, he was an important relative to me. That same year he disrobed; it was appropriate for him, since his affairs were not yet settled.

After that we first got ice here. We saw some sugar once in a while too. Mrs. Daeng had gone to Bangkok. When she talked about the way we lived, she would start crying. People who hadn't seen the life of meditation monks had no idea what it was like. Eating once a day, was that making progress or falling behind? I don't know what to call it.

On almsround, people would make little packages of chili sauce to put in our bowls in addition to the rice. Whatever we got we would bring it back, share it out and eat. Whether we had different items that people liked or whether the food was tasty or not was never something we discussed; we just ate to be full and that was it. It was really simple. There were no plates or bowls - everything went into the almsbowl.

Nobody came here to visit. At night everyone went to their kutis to practice. Even dogs couldn't bear to stay here. The kutis were far apart and far from the meeting place. After everything was done at the end of the day, we separated and entered the forest to go to our kutis. That made the dogs afraid they wouldn't have any safe place to stay. So they would follow the monks into the forest, but when they went up into their kutis, the dogs would be left alone and felt afraid, so they would try to follow another monk, but that monk would also disappear into his kuti.

So even dogs couldn't live here - this was our life of practicing meditation. I thought about this sometimes: even the dogs can't bear it, but still we live here! Pretty extreme. It made me a little melancholy too.

All kinds of obstacles we lived with fever, but we faced death and we all survived. Beyond facing death we had to live with difficult conditions such as poor food. But it was never a concern. When I look back to that time compared to the conditions we have now, they are so far apart.

Footnotes

... Sao¹

A highly respected monk of the forest tradition, considered to be an arahant and a teacher of Ajahn Mun.