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In the winter of 1986-87, Venerable Sucitto was in Thailand; during
that time he went wandering (tudong) with Venerable Gavesako. Most of
the time was spent in the Isan -- the provinces of North East Thailand
-- but in the following piece, he reflects on another part of the trip,
in Siraja and Ko Sichang....
"Something
in me let go and listened
to the sounds of the world ... and the silence behind it all
seemed to encompass everything.
No sound could stain the silence of the listening mind."
SIRAJA IS NOT A PARTICULARLY BEAUTIFUL TOWN. It's part
of that urban overspill to the east of Bangkok that flows along the
coast through Samut Pakhan and down to Chonburi, oozing along in the
wake of the oil and shipping developments around the Gulf of Thailand.
Ajahn Gavesako and I had decided to go there as part of our tudong trip,
in order to get out to an island called Ko Sichang -- The Island of the
Noble Elephant. This would be around Christmas time, which like most
festive occasions in Thailand is very noisy, at least in the more Western-influenced
cities. Accordingly, we planned to stay a night or two at a small monastery
that Ajahn Gavesako knew, and then go out to the island for a few days
of living very simply, away from the hustle and bustle.
It seemed like a good idea: even before the festival began,
life in the city was noisy compared with the forests of the Isan. The
little monastery that we were staying in occupied a few acres squashed
up against a hillside on the outskirts of the city of Siraja; it wasn't
exactly in the heart of town, but it certainly wasn't outside of it.
There was a lot of noise from the streets and from Christmas music being
played very loudly; so after the initial pleasantries with the resident
monks, I for one was quite eager to get away. But of course one has
to wait until someone gets to know of one's wishes and offers to buy
a ticket -- which may take a few days.
So one evening we went down to the seafront and walked
out to a small island that was connected the mainland by a pier. On
this island there was one of those Chinese Buddhist temples, of which
there are very many in Thailand, which go in for the more ritualistic
side of Buddhism. In order to obtain good fortune one can make offerings
at shrines in such temples -- to the Buddha or to one of the bodhisattvas,
particularly to the Bodhisattva of Compassion, The One Who Listens to
The Sounds Of The World -- or Kwan Yin, as she is known in Chinese. I
must admit this supplication to divine agencies has never fitted in
with my ideas about Buddhism; my mind kept turning away from the painted
images and the decorative shrines to the sea, bathed in sunset gold.
The serene horizon hinted of sublime planes, and I found myself more
eager than ever to get out to a place where I could apply myself whole-heartedly
to meditation.
By the next afternoon, unseen wheels had turned and we
were able to get a ferry boat out to the island of Ko Sichang. We landed
at a little harbour and walked along the coast of the island until we
came to a more remote area. There we found a fantastic old ruined temple
that had been built in the reign of King Mongkut. It wasn't like the
Chinese temple. Its very decay gave it a certain air of sanctity: there
was a bodhi tree growing up through the roof, and the cracked walls
inside were bear except for a few photographs of tudong bhikkhus, like
Venerable Ajahn Mun. To be in the presence of such images of austerity
and dedication to Dhamma practice was very encouraging. This was the
right place, sure enough.
We walked on down to the rocky seashores, the beaches
and the sparkling water. We decided to make the best use of the situation
by separating and practising on our own most of each day. I had already
resolved to fast for the five days that we'd be out there, because whenever
I fast then I find that this gives a clarity to my mind, and a greater
refinement to my attention. The physical energies calm down and level
out and there is less need to sleep.
The weather was beautiful. December in Thailand is a lovely
time of year, hot but not stuffy and sticky; and then being on an island
there were pleasant breezes, so it was quite idyllic. At night it was
warm and balmy and I would sit underneath the measureless stars meditating
with the moon as my only companion. Time stretched itself out and went
to rest....
So after a few days of this I was getting pretty blissed
out. Then, I think it was on the third clear day, I came across a beautiful
old wooden palace structure that was half burnt down, set in grounds
with frangipani trees -- and that was quite amazing. It was near the
ruined temple, and exploring further I found a cave which opened into
the ground. You could walk down inside this great cleft in the ground,
which then opened out to reveal long galleries where you could do walking
meditation, and niches in the rock where you could sit and meditate.
Then you could go down even further until you couldn't see or hear anything;
so you could be completely enfolded in the earth's womb. A hermit's
dream!
I thought, 'This is amazing, this is really wonderful!'
And it was the day of the full moon. My mind immediately constructed
the evening confrontation with Mara: I was near the ruined temple, so
I could sit there with Ajahn Mun, or I could go down into the cave and
practise, or I could do walking meditation out under the frangipani
trees with the cool evening breezes blowing and the full moon beaming
down. 'This is it,' I thought, 'this is going to be the night when I
really get into some samadhi.'
I was feeling very light, almost skipping up the slope
with expectation, when I noticed some people coming along -- which was
kind of strange. They were all dressed in white; then I recognised that
it was one of the anagarikas from the monastery in Siraja we'd been
staying at, and he had some lay women with him who were also dressed
in white. I quickly realised that they must have come to see us; but
I didn't want to be bothered with polite conversation -- particularly
as I couldn't speak the language. However, they'd seen me: I couldn't
ignore that, so I decided to make the best of it, come over, be nice,
and hopefully it wouldn't last too long. We sat down by a big bodhi
tree outside the ruined temple and they had one of those refrigerated
boxes with some Coca Cola in it, so I accepted a bottle and drank some.
They started asking questions and talking and I couldn't get very much
of what they were saying. I just smiled and said I didn't understand
and thought that sooner or later Ajahn Gavesako would happen along.
Then he could talk to them, and I could go off and sit somewhere and
get into some samadhi.
But somewhere in the back of my mind was an anxious voice:
'Why have they come? I wonder what it is?'
Then Ajahn Gavesako came along. I sat with him for a while,
but he seemed quite at ease listening and talking to them, so I thought:
'Well I'll just move off.' I started to slip away; but as I was slipping
away he turned around and said: 'Oh, Tuhn Sucitto, pack your bag, will
you? We're going back.'
My mind stopped: 'Back, what?' He said, 'We're going back
to Siraja.' And I said, 'What for? What are we going back for?' Suddenly
my evening of samadhi dropped away. 'Oh, they've invited us.' I looked
at him questioningly, and he added, 'I don't know what for. It doesn't
matter. They've invited us so we'd better go. It wouldn't be polite
to refuse.'
At that point something in me stopped. I turned round
and walked off and went to where my bowl bag was and packed my alms
bowl with my mind going: 'What do they want? What are we doing? I suppose
we're going back to chant something or another, do some ritual. Why
can't we stay here? We came here for a few days. We were going to go
back in a couple of days anyway. We came here for a few days to practise
and now we've got to go back to the town. What for? What do they want?'
But I knew enough to recognise that resistance in the mind and not to
follow it. So I packed my bag. We walked back from that haven to a road
where they'd got a motorbike taxi to give us a ride out to the little
harbour village. We waited there. I stared glumly at the sea, and then
when the ferry came we all packed into it. The boat lingered for a few
minutes, then turned and carried us away from the Noble Elephant back
to the reeking harbour of Siraja.
We returned to the temple in the city not knowing what
for. I went to my kuti, unpacked my bag and sat there waiting for something
to happen. And I sat and waited; and nothing happened except the sounds
of the city swelled as the duskfall turned into night. Sounds of the
traffic, sounds of the world -- and I had to listen to it as night turned
into day. And it being Christmas Eve and Thai people, Christians as
well as Buddhists, enjoying loud music, there were lots of loud Christmas
songs -- in English. Perhaps it was because they were in English that
it didn't seem to matter what they were about, because they weren't
even Christmas carols that you could be inspired by. What came rolling
into my kuti was Christmas Muzak, like 'White Christmas' and 'Rudolph
the Red-Nosed Reindeer' -- again and again. I sat there in the night
and I sat there in the morning; listening, waiting and listening to
'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer', remembering the full moon, the ruined
temple, Ajahn Mun, and samadhi.
But I did listen; and something in me got the point. Something
in me stopped resisting and became at one with the way things are. 'Rudolph
the Red-Nosed Reindeer' is quite a reasonable song actually, when you
listen to it a few times; it's got a moral to it. And when something
in me let go and listened to the sounds of the world, it seemed there
was a vibrant silence behind it all. And the silence behind the sound
of the world seemed to encompass and listen to everything. Profound
or petty or inane, no sound could stain the silence of the listening
mind; and in that acceptance was timeless compassion.
Nobody came for us; nor did anyone come to take us anywhere.
They didn't want me to give a talk, do any chanting, bless anything,
go anywhere, say anything. Maybe they were worried that we were getting
lonely. Perhaps they thought we were not getting enough to eat; I expect
the whole event arose out of compassion. But in the end I was grateful.
Whatever the Law or compassionate Bodhisattva that arranges these events
-- I have a lot to thank them for. They've always managed to catch me
out; always turned me away from my attachments, and ideas of practice
to make me listen to the way things are. Their emissaries are everywhere.
They never let up.
And perhaps I learnt something about the Noble Elephant,
the symbol of Dhamma practice. The Buddha himself is likened to the
elephant: it's the symbol of the unstoppable aspiration to Nibbana that
keeps going through anything. It is with such an aspiration that a tudong
monk establishes his practice -- he inclines to be enduring, to be resilient,
and to be tested by wild and lonely places. In fact for me it's always
been a great pleasure to go to remote places, where I could be alone
and independent. Yet I've also noticed that when I interpret the aspiration
too literally, a mahout climbs on the back of the Noble Elephant. This
mahout is always saying things like: 'I'm going to get into jhana tonight.
This is the real place for practice, if I could stay in this place forever,
I'd really develop.' And he's always asking the practice to come up
with something fancy; like a mahout that wants his elephant to dance
and prance and perform tricks. He's always been a burden, this mahout;
and as long as he's driving the elephant I've never felt that satisfied,
even in blissful circumstances. Instead my attitudes get caught up in
trying to prove or attain or hold on to something -- a rather self-conscious
striving that finally does not lead to coolness, detachment or liberation.
Of course, when one lives as a bhikkhu there are chances
to undertake austerities and live alone sometimes, but the basic standard
always entails a relationship with the society. The life is one of dependence;
it's an interface. Yet if the Buddha established the bhikkhu life for
liberation then we should trust the opportunity for selflessness that
it presents. It's a bumpy ride at times, but I've learned to appreciate
the tests of Sangha life, and the enigmatic compassion of The Way It
Is: they always create predicaments where I have to let go.
When I came down from my kuti on Christmas Eve morning,
Ajahn Gavesako was reading a newspaper. 'It says here there are four
babies born in the world every second!' 'Better get used to group practice,'
I commented.
Sometimes we need austerities, sometimes we need isolation,
and sometimes it takes a Red-Nosed Reindeer to awaken us from ourselves.
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