by Ajahn Brahm
When we’re in the midst of hardship and difficulty, we can come back to these wonders. First and foremost, we can come back to the breath. We can focus our awareness on the way that the breath waits for no one. It just keeps coming and going, coming and going. It will not stop for you. Just like the river will not stop — it flows and flows, it doesn’t wait — so it is with our lives. They just keep going. They keep moving forward. Each moment is gone and will never return. And then another new moment will come. When we have this awareness, it inspires us to do everything wholeheartedly. We don’t get caught in worry or regret. We come back to the breath. To our moment-to-moment experience.
We can always embark on a grand tour of Chan’s seven wonders — first class and all inclusive! We don’t have to go anywhere to experience them! They are completely available. They are always with us. Right here, right now.
Many Dishes Make a Meal
I MADE A VOW to my ordination master, Songnian, that I would rebuild Mahabodhi monastery after his passing on. I have done that. It’s a beautiful building. Every detail reflects the Dharma, and our calendar is packed with programs organized by our sangha.
The way the monastery is structured represents the interwoven strands of my own practice. Upstairs on the third floor is a Chan hall for sitting meditation. The second floor has a tantra hall for rituals that have to do with the Mantrayana Buddhism that I have been studying in Taiwan. The main hall is designed after the Xian Shou school of Chinese Buddhism — another of the lineages in which I have received transmission — which is largely based on the Avatamsaka Sutra. This sutra is about the interdependence and inter-being of all things.
Chinese Buddhism is unique in this way; it has a tradition of combining and blending different Buddhist schools, and it embodies the cultural diversity of China. It is a lot like the way we eat in China. Lots of small plates, which everyone shares. A little bit from here, a little bit from there. A harmonious combination of different flavors. There is no “main course.”
In Chinese food we balance different tastes: sour, sweet, spicy, bitter, salty, and plain. We like our cooking to reflect life itself! Life is never easy — it has all these flavors. Most of us will have the full range of experiences.
Our experience is always relative. When you taste a spoonful of honey and then bite into an apple, what do you taste? Sour. When you suck on a lemon and then have a bite of the same apple, how does it taste? Sweet!
Sweet, sour, spicy, salty, bitter, plain. Many dishes make a meal. Missing any of these flavors — even the bitter or sour — diminishes life. Life that is always sweet is not real life. We want to taste all of life’s different flavors, no matter if sometimes they are difficult to swallow.
Just Let It Be
WHEN WE ARE truly in the present moment, we experience what in English is called equanimity. This English term is associated with a feeling of imperturbability. Whatever happens, happens, and we maintain a feeling of calm composure. There is a sense of detachment, of being peacefully uninvolved, of letting whatever comes come and whatever goes go. Equanimity is associated with being on an even keel, and it is certainly something most people value, but not in quite the same way as it is valued in Buddhism.
In Sanskrit, equanimity is upeksha; it is one of the brahmaviharas, or four immeasurables, along with loving-kindness, compassion, and appreciative joy. Why is equanimity such a big deal? It is because it brings us to a realization of our nondiscriminating mind, into a place of nonattachment and nonduality, where differences are resolved between this and that, here and there, right and wrong, inside and outside, you and me. Everything is equal.
In fact, there is no difference between thoughts. There is only one thought. The thought is the present moment, without past or future. There is no conflict, no opposition, no contradiction, and we have a deep sense of peace, serenity, and tranquility. Everything seems to be very still and very settled. Equanimity means to be totally relaxed, totally and absolutely. There is nothing to worry about. Everything feels easily and comfortably arranged. Each tree in the forest is placed just so. Each leaf on each tree is exactly where it should be. And so it is with the rocks, and the fields and the rivers. Everything is just right as it is. There is no need to add or subtract. Just sit, just stand, just walk, just drink, just eat, just sleep. The wind blows and the thunder roars and the rain falls. Just let it be.
In the Lotus Sutra, we see the verse “All phenomena abide in their position.” In Chinese we render this phrase Fa zu fa wei, se cien xia chang zu. It means everything is nicely set. The right thing appears in the right place at the right time. It’s a little bit Daoist — everything in harmony, a balance in nature of which the human world is also part. Let nature take its course. Everything will fall into place by itself. There is no need to grasp, reject, or repulse, and we have a feeling of liberation. A load of bricks has been lifted from our shoulders that we didn’t even know we were carrying.
The world is perfect as it is. Down to the smallest, most insignificant detail. The ant crawling across the floor. The spider hanging on the tree. The birds flying. Just let it be. Relax. Relax totally and completely. There is no need to do anything. Whatever we have been searching for, whatever we have been striving for — all unnecessary! Equanimity means that we discover something immeasurable that we have never actually lost.
Bonsai: Provoking Growth
WHEN I CAME to live at Mahabodhi it was a modest dwelling, a two-story bungalow that had been converted into a monastery from a private residence. The huge Daoist temple that now sits next to it was originally a small hut. The apartment complex across the way, fifteen-story buildings that house thousands, was just a grassy hill.
Songnian liked the fresh air and being close to nature in this sleepy, rural part of Singapore. He was worlds away from the refined milieu in which he had grown up.
He was sick in childhood. I imagine him living in a big house with courtyards and gardens. I think he may have been lonely. He spent his days learning calligraphy, painting, and poetry, and reading the Chinese classics. I don’t think he was close to his parents. It’s not clear why he became a monk — maybe it was because he was sickly? The traditional Chinese understanding is that when one is sick and can’t do much, perhaps it is better to go into a monastery, to cloister oneself away from the stresses and strains and aspirations and ambitions of the world.
Like thousands of other Chinese Buddhist monks, he had fled the mainland in 1949 when the Maoists seized power. He took refuge in Hong Kong’s Deer Garden Temple, and he thought about what to do next. The Chinese diaspora is strong throughout Asia, and wherever the Chinese have gone they have carried their own particular forms of Mahayana Buddhism with them, even in countries in Southeast Asia with strong Theravada traditions. For over a decade, Songnian roamed through a network of temples, monasteries, and Buddhist institutes that taught Dharma not only in Hong Kong and Taiwan but also Malaysia. He studied Buddhism in the Cameron Highlands and spent three years on retreat in San Bao Cave. His health was not good, he didn’t like the cold, and that may be one of the reasons he came to Singapore in 1960. He assumed the abbotship of Mahabodhi in 1963 and spent the last thirty-four years of his life there.
Songnian taught calligraphy and drawing and religious ritual and instruction to Singapore’s monastic community. His standards were very high, and he eventually gave up religious instruction. He decried the lack of culture and art in the Singapore of his day. His health was often bad and that stopped him from being too active, which was his main regret. He often said that he would have liked to have led retreats to spread Buddhadharma.
Songnian spent much of his time in the contemplative pursuits of a cultured Chinese gentleman. One of these was bonsai. Dozens upon dozens of these dwarf-like trees sat on metal shelves in the courtyard behind the gate to either side of Mahabodhi’s entrance. This was Songnian’s miniature forest. The bonsai required careful, constant care.
He never allowed me to do anything
that had to do with the actual shaping of the tree. “You’re much too clumsy and stupid for the bonsai,” he would say. Everything with the bonsai had to be exact. If a leaf turned yellow or fell he would scold me: “Seeds for Hell, see what you’ve done!”
Seeds for Hell was his nickname for me, and I often wondered at its meaning. Why Seeds for Hell? Seeds of Hell would have made more sense. Regardless, what was clear was that he was insulting me, although even at my young age with my limited understanding I knew that his constant barrage of derision and criticism was part of my training. We lived together and I served him and that was the way he taught me. There were no Dharma talks or heart-to-hearts with my master. His teachings were as constant and unrelenting as his attainment. Perhaps I romanticize. Perhaps what was really going on was that he was simply a grumpy old man in ill health who was fed up with life and frustrated by being surrounded by mediocrity. I suppose there is truth in that view. But like so much of life, it was both this and that. Songnian’s lessons could be harsh, but now I see they prepared me for the challenges I would one day face. Seeds for Hell was prescient. It anticipated a dark flowering.
The bonsai had to be watered two or three times each day. I must say I was surprised when Songnian told me to do this. He let me water in the Chinese way: terrible equipment, high degree of skill. I had to turn on the tap to a basic garden hose at just the right pressure and precisely position my fingers over the spout to create the perfect mist.
Songnian would inspect the plants and the stone patio underneath them when I was done. He could gauge how much water I had used and whether or not I had been able to achieve the proper density and duration of the spray. There was never any verbal instruction. I had to watch him and carefully observe. He didn’t say what was right, only what was wrong. I learned that too much water would make the soil run away and too little would mean the tree could not absorb enough moisture.
Sometimes we repotted the plants. It was a delicate operation, requiring great care not to damage the roots. I stood at Songnian’s side, handing him his tools, which were like regular tools for horticulture except much smaller. He worked with special wires to bend the branches of his trees, shaping each one to something growing in his mind. He was very quiet, totally absorbed. His movements were delicate and refined. A feeling of peace and gentle concentration guided our work. The bonsai were living sculptures molded by his hands.
The area outside the monastery where Songnian cultivated his bonsai was very neat and tidy. There was not a speck of soil on the ground. No sloppiness. The bonsai were a mindfulness practice for him. He nurtured the bonsai in the same way he cultivated the Dharma.
The green colored wires we used to shape the bonsai had to be attached with extreme finesse in order not to scar or wound the fragile bark. The duration that the wires were affixed was also exacting. If left too long, the bark would grow around the wire, which meant the wire couldn’t be removed without damaging the bark. If attached for too short a period, the limb would not bend sufficiently to the vision in Songnian’s mind.
As a young monk, I felt the artistry in the bonsai. They were so refined. So detailed. Songnian cultivated them in a way that made me feel they were ancient. Gnarled roots breached the soil, pointing to the depth and breadth of the tree’s foundation. You could feel the bonsai’s stability, its grounding. They evoked ancient giants scaled way down.
As we moved among the miniature trees, Songnian would occasionally talk about the Huangshan mountain range in southern Anhui province. Huangshan was a favorite landscape for traditional Chinese painting: soaring cliffs, deep ravines, and cloud-shrouded escarpments. The painting might have a small hut and a human figure somewhere in the scene. The human presence was typically tiny, insignificant, overshadowed by the majesty of nature. The traditional paintings were vertically composed. Mountains ascended into the clouds, piercing tian, heaven, the celestial realm.
In my impressionable mind, Songnian’s words conjured another dimension where the immortals, like fairies, flitted through the clouds. He would talk about how lovely that landscape was, and how the bonsai evoked those forests for him. He walked slowly, almost majestically, through the shelves of trees, breathing them in one by one, over ground that I had swept spotless. He wandered through his ancient groves, consorting with immortals.
Songnian said to me more than once: “Plants are better than humans. If you take care of the plant, it will flourish. Its leaves shine. Not human beings. Take care of them and what do you see in return? Nothing.” And then he would turn his eyes toward me, the long bristles of his lashes curving downward, fixing me with his hawk-like gaze. “You are worse than the bonsai,” he said. I was completely baffled. What in the world did he mean?
Sometimes he would make me pluck all the leaves from the water jasmine bonsai. He called this “shaving the head” of the trees. I always felt this was an almost violent act — the trees looked denuded, fragile, close to death. Yet after we plucked the leaves the tiny trees would bloom with a profusion of delicate white flowers. These star-like blooms emitted a sweet-spicy jasmine fragrance that perfumed the air. Songnian would be pleased. I knew that he was teaching me. This stripping down, the merciless plucking, was what caused the bonsai to bloom. When we are completely shaken, totally shattered, it can provoke new growth. A blossoming that is fragrant and beautiful.
Just Is Just Just
WHEN WE TRULY RELAX, we are preparing ourselves or training ourselves to resonate with a state of what we call justness. And what is just? Just is just just. Just this. Not too much. Not too little.
In Chinese Buddhist sutras, the verses open with the words ru shi, or thus. Ru has many meanings. It can mean “if” or “or.” But it is also the yin character for woman, the feminine, for feminine ways of feeling and creating. The second character, shi, means “is” or “real.” It is composed of two parts: on top is the character for the sun, and below is the character for a man walking. When you’re walking under the sun, everything is clear.
Ru shi is followed by Wo wen. The sutras repeat this opening phrase over and over. Ru shi wo wen. Wo is “I.” Wen is composed of the character of an ear inside a door.
We can translate this opening phrase as “thus I have heard” or “as it is.” In other words, these are the original words as heard from the Buddha. The relationship between the person reading or reciting and the writer is one of accord and repetition.
There is no sense of judgment in ru shi wo wen. We should not translate it as “I have listened,” because listened implies more than simply hearing. It implies judgment or understanding. Our ego, that sense of “I,” is involved.
Justness. As it is. Thus I have heard. These expressions point to an acceptance of what is. It has always been thus. It has always been as it is. It is just this. No more, no less. Why didn’t we realize it earlier?
Our true nature is never about right or wrong. It is about being at peace with what is. It is about loving all of it. When we want things to be better than they are, we’re not staying in the present moment. As Ajahn Brahm says, we’re asking something of life that it can’t give us. What is right here right now is already the best. This is why Chan can be thought of as a kind of ultimate realism. Our response to life should never be one of disappointment. What we need to do is make the most out of each moment and live our lives to the fullest. That is really what Chan teaches us.
Just is just just. Suchness is such — no more or less. Thus! These words point to a meaning beyond meaning. They are almost nonverbal. They are a shout or cry, an eruption of pure being. They are nonrhetorical and precognitive. They point to nonthinking. They are emphatically as they are. As it is.
Seeds for Hell: Seeing Under the Surface of Things
SIX MONTHS AFTER I came to Mahabodhi and Songnian shaved my head, he became ill.
It began as a slight pain after breakfast. He thought it was indigestion and berated the nuns who cooked for him: “Look what you’ve done to my stomach! What po
ison did you feed me?”
The pain rapidly worsened. By midmorning it was acute. The family doctor arrived, examined Songnian, diagnosed appendicitis, and said that we needed to get him to the hospital. Songnian was barely able to speak through clenched teeth, but he made it quite clear that he did not want to be hospitalized.
“If the appendix ruptures, he could die,” said the doctor.
I don’t know where I found the strength, but I picked Songnian up and draped him over my back. He cursed me: “Seeds for Hell, you want me dead,” he hissed. “You are trying to murder me.”
I trotted out Mahabodhi’s front door, carrying Songnian piggyback as fast as I could to the doctor’s car. I pushed him into his seat as he repeatedly cursed me and called me a murderer. As we drove to the ER, he was in too much pain to do anything but gasp, hiss, and cry out. At the ER he was immediately wheeled into surgery. They opened him up to remove his appendix, which, as it turned out, was just fine. He had been misdiagnosed! It turned out that the problem was gallstones. A second incision was made and eighteen stones removed.
To say Songnian was displeased that he had two painful incisions rather than one is putting it mildly. During the first days of his convalescence he was furious and refused to talk to me. When he finally did begin talking, he again accused me of trying to kill him.
“Seeds for Hell, you want me to die because I’ve been too tough on you,” he said. “You resent your training. You hate me, and you want to take revenge and do away with me. Your plan is to kill the old monk and become abbot!”
This line of attack was completely unexpected and stunned me. “Shifu, it wasn’t me that wanted you to come to the hospital. It was the doctor. He said you must come in. It was an emergency. We wanted to save you so that you will have a long life.”