by Ajahn Brahm
In some of these remote villages, I was the first white man they had ever seen. It was a beautiful, old culture — very beautiful, but all gone now.
In my first or second year as a monk, I became ill with scrub typhus, which was spread by a little mite living in the forest floor. According to the health department in Bangkok, there was no scrub typhus in our part of Thailand. That was because all the locals had developed immunity against it. But when we Westerners came there, we got it straightaway.
My fever was very high, perhaps 104 degrees, with terrible aches and pains. I was sent to the hospital. This was 1975 in a remote backwater of what was then still very much a third-world country. It was the most rudimentary of hospitals, and I was in the most ill-equipped and understaffed part of it — the monk’s ward.
Six beds were lined up on either side of the room. A nurse was stationed next to the door. At six in the evening the nurse vanished and at seven no one had taken his place. I asked the monk in the next bed if we should we tell someone the night nurse hadn’t arrived.
“There is no night nurse,” he replied. “If something happens to you in the middle of the night, they figure it’s just your bad karma.”
There was a bed pan next to the bed that was soon filled up. No one emptied it. We had to do that ourselves. I was so weak that I could barely stand up, let alone carry a full bed pan to the toilet. And my fellow monks were in a similar or even worse condition, stricken with cholera, malaria, and hepatitis. There was no way we had the wherewithal to help each other.
I lost track of time. Twice a day I received a shot — a cocktail of antibiotics administered in my bum. This was a long time before the invention of single-use needles. These needles had been recycled again and again and again. First they had been used in Bangkok, where the wealthy people lived. Then they were shipped to the boonies where we were and used on ordinary people. Only then were they deemed fit for monks. We were supposed to be tough guys.
The needle they used on me was really, really dull. And the nurse who gave me those shots twice a day was not a pretty, petite nurse in a nice, clean uniform. This nurse was in late middle age and built like a water buffalo. She had to be that strong because the needle she used was so incredibly dull. She brought it up past her ear and stabbed straight down with force, whack, right into my bum. And even though I was supposed to be compassionate . . . well, not to that woman. My ass got really, really sore.
I guess the antibiotics kept me alive, barely, but I was not by any means improving. It was as if my life force were slowly leaching away.
That’s when Ajahn Chah came to see me. At the very sight of him all my aches and pains instantly vanished. My master! He had come to visit me in my moment of need. He had taken the time. He cared. I looked at him with love and devotion, preparing in my mind what I thought was a suitably stoic monk-like but realistic assessment of my condition for what I was sure would be his solicitous concern. Instead, the Dhamma he gave me was like a swift kick in the nuts.
“You’ll either die or recover,” he said. And then he was gone.
That was not what I wanted to hear.
As his robes disappeared through the door, the nurse appeared. Whack!
By this time, I could not lie on my back — it was too painful. My ass felt like someone had been using it as a pin cushion. I couldn’t see down there but I could feel ever so gingerly the welts and scabs from those filthy needles. I curled on my side in a whimpering miasma of misery and despair. You’ll either die or recover. I turned over Ajahn Chah’s prognosis in my head. Was that all he had for me? How heartless he had been! As I replayed his words, it slowly dawned on me that I had been wanting to get well. I had been fighting the sickness. When I realized that, I decided to stop fighting and let go. To put down the cup.
In a few minutes I couldn’t feel my body anymore. Not even my bum. I was having a wonderful time.
That’s when the fever stopped. To let the mind rest and be still — to stop the wind of wanting — gave my body a huge therapeutic boost. Finally, I felt at peace, and the shaking stopped. My mind was still and my body relaxed. I was happy.
Putting Kindness First
BODHINYANA MONASTERY came into being about half a year after Ajahn Chah had a stroke that left him mostly paralyzed. When Ajahn Chah had sent me to Australia to assist Ajahn Jagaro in founding a monastery for students in Perth, I had assumed it was for a year or two and that I would be recalled to Thailand or sent somewhere else. Ajahn Jagaro would stay behind to lead the group. It didn’t work out that way. Ajahn Chah was unable to talk or move. He couldn’t recall me! Which is why I’ve been stuck Down Under among the kangaroos and koalas for all these years.
When we first arrived in Australia, Ajahn Jagaro and I stayed in the hectic city environment of Perth. We missed the peace and quiet of the forests of Northeast Thailand, the space and contemplative solitude of the life we had loved at Wat Pah Pong, Ajahn Chah’s monastery. We wanted to establish our own monastery in the Thai Forest tradition — and for that we needed a forest! Once or twice a week, we would drive into the countryside with members of our sangha, looking for pieces of land on which to build a monastery and retreat center that would be removed from the hustle and bustle of the city and would be a good place for meditation.
We looked and looked; nothing seemed quite right. We didn’t want to be too far from Perth, which would have made it difficult for our followers to come to see us. It would have been a problem for us as well. For instance, our monastic code prohibits us from cooking. I’m not sure how the Australians in what was then a very rural part of the country would have responded to Thai Forest monks in orange robes with shaved heads coming out of the bush and silently standing before them, begging bowls outstretched. And I wasn’t keen to find out. We didn’t want to starve, so we needed to be close to our sources of support while still far enough away to have the tranquil natural environment that has been part of our tradition and practice for millennia.
We finally found what we were looking for in the forested hills in Serpentine (named for the river that runs through it — not snakes). The hills rose several hundred feet off the coastal plain and continued inland for a number of miles before dropping down into the outback — the vast, mostly empty interior of the continent.
The spread we looked at was fairly large. The owner had been trying to run sheep and cows on it, but it was so hilly and full of rocky outcrops that he couldn’t find his sheep when he wanted them. That was perfect for us — not being found is precisely what we Forest monks like.
As usual, we were dirt poor. Was it even worth making an offer? The owner was asking $200,000 for about 130 acres. We had $90,000. We finally decided to bid it on the off chance . . . Lo and behold, the owner accepted! He must have been really fed up with his wayward sheep.
The purchase left us with no money and a rough, unimproved parcel. Ajahn Jagaro and I scavenged two old doors from the local landfill and put them on bricks. That’s what we slept on. Because Ajahn Jagaro was my senior, he got the smoother, less battered door. But my door had a secret advantage; it had a hole in the middle. I highly recommend this brilliant design feature. I didn’t need to get out of bed to go to the toilet at night!
We slept on our doors, camped in the forest, very much in the manner to which we were accustomed in Thailand.
In that first year, we had very little support. We found out later that the Buddhists in Perth were waiting to see if we were real monks and would stay the course. Once they saw we were in it for the long haul, they knew it was in their interest — and their children’s interest — to support us.
During this period Ajahn Chah’s condition remained stable. Even before the stroke immobilized him, it was clear he wasn’t well. He had dizzy spells and doctors diagnosed fluid on the brain. Even with his neurological problems, he didn’t seem old. He was always strong and bright. I had received such great teaching from him over the years. I was grateful, and he had taught us not to be att
ached. His imminent departure was no big deal.
We thought he would soon be gone. The monks in Thailand met and decided not to have any medical intervention. Just let him go. The king of Thailand had other ideas. He insisted we keep Ajahn Chah alive and paid for round-the-clock care and all the other support that was needed. Which is why Ajahn Chah lasted another nine years. He was unable to walk or speak, and he was mostly paralyzed.
There was always a medic on duty and two attending monks. At one point the medic was afraid Ajahn Chah had died. He had stopped breathing. The medic knew Ajahn Chah was going to die one day. He just didn’t want it to be on his shift. He wanted to try to resuscitate him, but the monks on duty said to leave him alone. They could see he was in deep meditation.
The medic had a hard time believing that. Ajahn Chah looked dead. So the medic argued with the monks. They agreed on a compromise. He would take blood samples every three minutes or so to ensure that enough oxygen was going to Ajahn Chah’s brain and other organs. He took the blood samples, and indeed for one hour and then two hours Ajahn Chah’s blood continued to be well oxygenated, although he did not appear to be breathing. The only way to do that is to get into what we call the fourth jhana, a very deep meditative state. Ajahn Chah couldn’t walk or speak. But he could still meditate.
It took three or four years to begin to think about erecting the meditation hall at Bodhinyana. By that time, I had some building experience from putting up simple structures around the property. My sangha had confidence in me because they saw what we had done already. They were also impressed that we were building simple rather than elaborate structures, and it would obviously save a huge amount of money for me to do the work on the building.
When it came to the hall’s design, I was still the number-two monk. Ajahn Jagaro was Bodhinyana’s abbot. I was his assistant. We spent ten days arguing over the building’s siting and proportions. The arguments grew increasingly heated. I was ashamed: we were acting like laypeople! Like husband and wife! It came to the point where we stopped talking to one another. We just left peevish notes. One point of contention was the direction the hall would face. Looking back, it seems crazy. But when you’re in the midst of an argument, your position can seem really, really important. I’m embarrassed to say that there was actually very little difference between his plan and mine.
I finally came to my senses. I told myself that as a monk my duty was to teach people to live in peace and harmony and practice compassion and nonattachment. Why was I seemingly incapable of acting that way myself?
I went to Ajahn Jagaro’s room. When you say you’re sorry in Thailand, it is a tradition to offer candles, incense, and flowers to the person you’re seeking forgiveness from.
I presented my tray of gifts to Ajahn Jagaro. “I’ve come here to apologize for my speech and actions these last days,” I said. “I am truly sorry. We should never argue.”
I could see all the tension drain from him. He was amazed and touched.
“But I’m going to ask for a bit of a favor,” I added.
The softness that had come into his face changed. He looked apprehensive and wary, as though I had tricked him!
“I agree to follow your plan. But please let me be the builder. I still think your way is the wrong way. But I want to do it your way because I think it will be a wonderful practice for me.”
He was clearly moved. He had been expecting me to say, “Go ahead and do it your way. But I don’t want to be involved.”
I spent the next year building our meditation hall at Bodhinyana, setting yellowish-pink brick in beige mortar. We chose the brick because it was not too expensive but still looked good. It had an earthiness about it. I laid a lot of brick.
Brick by brick — I wasn’t just talking about letting go. I was actually doing it! I was building something I thought was second rate. It didn’t matter. Brick by brick I learned that you don’t have to do it the way you think is best. You have to do it the way that is the kindest. I built that lesson inside me in the same way that I built the meditation hall.
Perhaps six months before his stroke, before he sent me to Perth, Ajahn Chah said: “I have built many monasteries. But I haven’t built many monks. What is most important is to build people. Not temples.” When he said this, his voice and his face were full of pathos.
I still think my way would have been the right way to build the meditation hall. But in everything we do we should always put people first, not our ideas about the right way or the wrong way. Candles, incense, and flowers. Kindness is always available to us.
There Is Nothing
WHEN I FIRST decided to become a monk in 1973, I was a schoolteacher, and I didn’t want to leave my students and colleagues in the lurch. So I resolved to wait for the end of the school year to leave for Thailand, where the plan was to shave my head and become ordained as quickly as possible. But, as they say, you can’t keep a good monk down (even an aspiring one). In the dreary English dawns before the school day began, I sped happily on my motorbike to a Thai temple in London to participate in the morning chanting. More often than not, I would wake the resident monks. I could hear them muttering under their breath as they rose groggily to my summons: Not this guy again. What is his problem?
Most of the people I knew were incredulous. A monk? In Thailand? No way! You’ll never be able to stick it out. Wait and see. You’ll be back. Unfortunately, most of those people are dead now, and I can’t say I told you so.
I was ordained as a novice in Bangkok. The first few nights after ordination I had a recurring nightmare: I dreamed that I was no longer a monk. The relief and joy I felt were indescribable when I woke to see my robes and realize that, yes, I was still a monk after all — it had only been a dream.
How can I have been so completely sure about this path? What impelled me, a trained scientist from a secular background? My family had absolutely no association with Buddhism.
Most of us in the West have a hard time accepting the reality of reincarnation and the causality of karma. But I am certain that my overwhelming attraction to Buddhism came from my association with Buddhism in my past lives. Karma compelled me to shave my head and cherish those robes.
Six to eight weeks after being ordained as a novice in Bangkok, I saw an absolutely filthy-looking group of monks who were in the city taking care of their visas. These were jungle monks, I soon learned. Being from a proper English household where we were scrubbed behind the ears and wore starched clothes, I was naturally enchanted. Among this group of jungle monks was Ajahn Sumedho, an American monk about twenty years my senior. I introduced myself to him and asked how he had come to be so deliciously grubby. He invited me to come with them to Wat Pah Pong to meet his teacher, Ajahn Chah.
We traveled six hundred kilometers by overnight train from Bangkok into the backwater of the Northeast, finally arriving at the monastery’s gates. My first impression of Ajahn Chah was negative; I was utterly unimpressed. He was making a papier-mâché mountain as part of the commemoration ceremony for his mother’s recent death. I still don’t understand the rationale behind this odd creation. A papier-mâché mountain? Why? But that wasn’t what put me off. As part of the commemoration, we were set to work weaving grass baskets. Ajahn Chah came over and complimented me on my efforts. I looked around. My basket left much to be desired, especially compared to the competition. I had the strong sense that Ajahn Chah was trying to be ingratiating and endear himself to me through flattery. This guy’s a phony! Or so I thought.
What changed my mind was interesting. Through an interpreter, another novice monk, Gary from Los Angeles, was asking Ajahn Chah questions. I was in earshot and I eavesdropped on the conversation. Something strange began to happen. Ajahn Chah kept giving answers that had nothing to do with the questions that Gary had asked. But his answers perfectly corresponded to the questions that I was internally, silently asking Ajahn Chah in my mind!
At first I thought this seemingly telepathic call and response was completely
coincidental, yet as it continued it became increasingly difficult for my scientifically trained mind to dismiss it as chance. I kept thinking of questions and Ajahn Chah kept answering them. It was uncanny — spooky and wonderful at once — and it went on for a full ten minutes. Gary, who thought Ajahn Chah was being completely unresponsive, was obviously nonplussed.
It was an intriguing, convincing performance. I asked if I could stay at Wat Pah Pong, and Ajahn Chah said yes.
So began my long period of training with my teacher. I moved into my little hut with my robes, alms bowl, and mosquito net, and joined the monastery’s timeless routine. I walked the paths of warm, powdery sand through the monastery’s jungly quadrants. I rose hours before dawn each morning to chant and meditate in the big, candlelit hall. I tried my best to meditate all night once a week, although I rarely managed that and nodded off, my head slumping into my chest.
The emphasis in this austere and simple life was on meditation. That was exactly what I wanted. The bliss I had experienced with my early meditation experiences had hooked me. It was so much stronger than even the great sex that my girlfriend and I had in Gloucester before I took my monastic vows! Meditation was so much more pleasurable and longer lasting. One taste of it, and I was addicted. I became a meditation junkie, and I still am.
Meditation is more powerful than the greatest art. Beethoven may move and transform us. Our minds may soar. But never as much as in meditation. If you’re a Catholic and you have union with God, they make you a saint. If you’re a monk, they say, “Perfectly normal. Carry on.”
We were only supposed to sleep four hours in any twenty-four-hour period. I never was quite able to do that (I got it down to four and half hours at one point). It was a grueling, exhausting regimen. But it didn’t feel that way. My underlying mood was buoyant. I was incredibly happy. There in the obscure backwater jungles of Thailand, about as far from England both physically and psychically as it was possible to get, my life was magical: a steady stream of insight, peace, and bliss.