The tiger occupies a conspicuous place in the monks’ accounts of their life in the forest. The monks regarded this animal with a mixture of fear and respect. Fear of tigers and the vivid imagining of oneself being devoured by tigers often drove the mind to one-pointed samâdhi (concentration).
Samâdhi, a thudong master explains, “is a gathering of the mind’s energies so that they have great strength, able to uproot attachments . . . and to cleanse the mind so that it is, for the moment, bright and clear.” Any of the forty meditation methods that the Buddha taught could, if practiced seriously, bring the mind to samâdhi. The chosen meditation practice varied according to the temperaments of teachers and disciples. The concentration method that Ajan Man taught his disciples was the recitation of the mantra “buddho.”
In the early stage of his training, a monk or novice stayed with his teacher; he participated in daily rituals, received instruction, and learned by observing. During this stage the disciples depended on the teacher for inner guidance. If a monk was afraid of tigers, Ajan Man sometimes put him deep into the forest, at some distance from the other monks. At night, when fear attacked his mind, a monk would force himself to do walking meditation in the open. Each monk slept on a platform built by villagers, high enough off the ground to discourage tigers from leaping on them. Thudong masters believed that this method of learning the dhamma was far more difficult than studying scriptures. In the wilds a student had to be ever cautious of lurking dangers, which forced him to be constantly alert. He was defenseless except for his mind, which could fix itself on a theme of meditation or a reci-tation of “buddho” until, as Ajan Man said, the mind became “absorbed in dhamma.” Man’s theory was that at such a critical moment, strong concentration would develop or deepen, and fur-ther wisdom or insight would occur. In the battle between fear and dhamma, as Man’s biographer observes, “If the fear is defeated the mind will be overwhelmed by courage and enjoy profound inner peace. If fear is the victor, it will multiply itself rapidly and prodigiously. The whole body will be enveloped by both a perspiring heat and a chilling cold, by the desire to pass urine and to defecate. The monk will be suffocated by fear and will look more like a dying than a living man.” In their second stage of training, a monk wandered with other monks or novices and practiced the meditation method learned from the master. Living in the forest, monks developed finely tuned senses and became experts in using their eyes, ears, and nose. Some of Fan’s and Cha’s experiences illustrate how the monks dealt with their fear when they heard, glimpsed, or en-countered tigers, and how each situation served as an exercise in mindfulness and concentration.
During his fourth year of wandering, Fan took his nephew (a novice) along with him. One day, as they were walking along a forest trail parallel to the Mekong River, Fan spotted tiger tracks and droppings, some of them recent. As dusk was falling, they heard the snarling and growling of tigers ahead of and behind them.10 To keep calm Fan and the novice meditated while walking, but they were disturbed and had difficulty concentrating.
They were afraid that the tiger would attack at any moment.
To boost his courage, Fan recited an old saying: “Should a tiger kill cattle, it’s no big news, but should it devour a villager or a thudong monk, the news spreads far and wide” (F, 22). The recitation made him feel brave; he was ready to face any kind of danger. He thought, “A monk who is afraid of wild animals is not an authentic thudong monk.” He reassured his nephew, “When we have mindfulness, the mind is at peace. It’s not afraid of danger. Even if we’re devoured by a tiger, we will not suffer” (F, 24). As it turned out, Fan and the novice saw no tigers on this trip.
Some monks deliberately put themselves into risky situations to learn about the mind. While wandering with a fellow monk and young boys on a forested mountain, Cha remembered an old saying, “When in a forest, do not sleep on a trail” (C3, 39). He thought about this and decided to test it out. That night he set up his klot on a forest track. The other monk set up his klot away from the trail, while the two young disciples agreed to stay half-way between them. They all sat in meditation for a while before they retired to their klots for the night. Cha, concerned that the boys might be scared, raised his mosquito net over the top of his klot so they could see him from where they lay. Then he lay down on the track with the mosquito net suspended above him. Off the path behind him was the wilderness, ahead of him was the village.
Such a dangerous situation provides the monk with an opportunity to contemplate whatever takes place in his own mind. While Cha was concentrating on his breath before falling asleep, he heard leaves rustling.
Slowly the animal stalked closer . . . and closer until I could hear its breathing. In that moment the citta [mind] told me, “A tiger is coming.” It couldn’t possibly be another animal. The way it walked and the breathing gave it away. Knowing that it was indeed a tiger . . . I couldn’t help thinking about death. In that instant the citta told me not to worry: even if the tiger doesn’t kill you, you’re going to die anyway. It’s more meaningful to die for the dhamma. I’m ready . . . to become a tiger’s meal. If we are bound to one another through kamma [khu wen khu kam], let it kill me. But if we aren’t kammically connected, it won’t harm me. With this in mind, I took refuge in the Triple Gem.
Having done so, the mind was free from worrying. As it turned out, the tiger stopped pacing. I heard only its breath . . . about six meters away. While lying there, I listened carefully. Who knows, it might be thinking, “Who is . . . sleeping on my track?” After a while it moved off. Its footfalls became fainter and fainter until the forest fell silent. This account reflects Cha’s firm belief in kamma, which kept him calm and possibly saved his life. From this incident Cha learned that once he let go of attachment to life, he was no longer afraid of death and was able to remain calm. He also learned that it sometimes makes sense to heed old sayings.
If a monk continued to lean on the teacher, on a friend, or on a group, he would never become wise. In his third stage of training, the monk wandered by himself, living alone on a mountain, in a cave, or under a tree in a forest. At times the thudong monk might end up being alone not by his own choice but by force of circum-stance. This is what happened to Fan.
In 1925 Fan traveled to Phrabat Buabok, the “Buddha’s footprint” at Buabok (a hill in Udon Thani), to meet two other thudong monks. But when he reached Phak Bung Village at the foot of the hill, the two had already left, so Fan spent the next five days meditating alone on the mountain. One day, while walking uphill, he was startled by an unusual noise. It sounded like a big animal digging in the ground. As the thought of a tiger entered his mind, he froze. Although the encounter was sudden, Fan’s quick reaction indicates his strong mindfulness:
Within seconds he concentrated his mind so it wouldn’t react to the situation. The animal raised its head out of the thick brush. “It’s a tiger all right,” he thought, “and judging from the size of its head it must be huge.”
Seeing the tiger he felt a chill run up his spine. Sweat broke out on his face. Intuitively he knew that if he turned his back and started running he would be killed. The tiger would certainly attack him. So he focused his mind to face the critical situation calmly, even though his breathing was not as relaxed as usual. The tiger took one glance at him, gave a loud growl, and leaped into the forest. (F, 39) In the early decades of this century, villagers who lived in or near the forests accepted the presence of tigers as natural and inevitable. Accounts left by Thet, Li, and Chaup illustrate the extent to which the tiger once dominated the hearts and minds of thudong monks as well as villagers.
In late 1936 Thet spent a meditation retreat by himself near a Lahu village on a mountain in northern Siam. He was about thirty-four years old then and had been wandering in the wilds for many years. Hearing a tiger’s growl was nothing new, but this time, alone in a hut outside the village, he was stricken with fear.
He could neither sleep nor focus his mind in meditation. He heard villagers fire a shot into the air, and he saw them throw firebrands at the tiger. But the animal was undeterred. It showed no fear of humans. After retreating for a while, it came back at the crack of dawn and sat on the trail used by the villagers. When the villagers spotted the tiger, they all fled. The tiger did not pursue them, however. Thet, who admitted that he had had a nervous disorder since childhood, remembers how frightened he was:
I sat down to meditate, but my mind wouldn’t focus. At the time I did not know that the mind was terrified of the tiger. My body sweated so much that perspiration streamed down. . . . Why all the sweating when it was so cold? Spread the robe and kept cov-ered but the body kept trembling. The mind was too exhausted to meditate. Thought of lying down for a while before trying to meditate again. When I was about to recline, the tiger roared again. I was shaking as if I had a jungle fever. Only then did I realize that the mind refused to focus out of sheer fright. Imme-diately I sat up and cajoled my mind to have courage to face death if it came. Then the mind became calm . . . no longer heard the sound of the tiger. At times when hearing the tiger again my mind simply ignored its roar. Like the wind making contact with an object, it’s just noise. (T2, 72)
Thet’s experience confirmed Ajan Man’s belief that living among tigers and hearing them roar nearby was the best thing that could happen to a thudong monk. Man meant that monks who were frightened of tigers or other wild animals had not yet realized the truth of the dhamma. Fright was the response of the ordinary, untrained mind, while the mind with knowledge and insight into the Four Noble Truths knows the tiger’s growl as simply sound.
As Cha explains, “The sound arises and we simply note it. This is called truly knowing the arising of sense objects. If we develop ‘buddho,’ clearly realising the sound as sound, then it does not [frighten] us. . . . It’s just sound. The mind lets go” (C2, 70). For the thudong monks, the clear and penetrative knowing of buddho indicated an awakened knowledge.
Ajan Man often sent young disciples out alone so they could “realize buddho.” In 1932, at the age of twenty-six, Li was sent to meditate alone on Thumb Mountain (Doi Khau Mau), in Lam-phun Province. Local people believed that a fierce spirit inhabited the summit. Though afraid, Li forced himself to climb the mountain. On his way to the top, he stopped at an abandoned temple and stayed there for two nights. Like Thet, Li recalls how fear could drive the mind into deep samâdhi:
People had told me that whenever the lunar sabbath came around a bright light would often appear there. It was deep in the forest, though—and the forest was full of elephants and tigers. I walked in alone, feeling both brave and scared, but confident in the power of the Dhamma and of my teacher.
. . . The first night, nothing happened. The second night, at about one or two in the morning, a tiger came—which meant that I didn’t get any sleep the whole night. I sat in meditation, scared stiff, while the tiger walked around and around my klot.
My body felt all frozen and numb. I started chanting, and the words came out like running water. All the old chants I had forgotten now came back to me, thanks both to my fear and to my ability to keep my mind under control. I sat like this from 2 until 5 a.m., when the tiger finally left.
In the morning Li went for alms in a settlement consisting of two houses. A man working in his garden told him that a tiger had killed one of his oxen the night before.
Having lived in the wilds for so long, Thet also knew that a tiger could attack massive animals like a gaur or a large deer. In 1937, when he was spending a meditation retreat near a Lahu village, his strong mindfulness enabled him to see how unyielding a tiger could be: “One night a tiger came to attack a buffalo near my kuti. I banged a piece of wood and shouted loudly to chase the tiger away. But the tiger wouldn’t let go, and it managed to drag the buffalo away. This time I wasn’t frightened, but I dared not step out to rescue the buffalo for fear of being eaten too.” Sometimes a wandering monk deliberately put himself in a risky position by traveling at night. One such monk was Chaup, considered by his fellow monks to be most adventurous. Walking alone through a forest forced him to be constantly alert and aware. He often ran into nocturnal tigers on the prowl. Once while wandering in northern Siam, Chaup set out in the direction of Lom Sak in Phetchabun Province. Approaching the Great Forest (Dong Yai) one afternoon, he met some villagers who invited him to spend the night in their village and continue his journey the following morning. Concerned for his safety, they warned him that the forest was large and that ferocious tigers inhabited it. If he entered it that afternoon, night would catch him there. Tigers had killed travelers who had spent the night in the forest, they said. But despite their advice and concern, Chaup insisted on going. Like Cha, Chaup believed that if he became a tiger’s meal, then that was his kamma. And he told the village folk so.
Traveling alone, Chaup was able to take acute notice of his environment. He had not gone far when he came across tiger tracks and saw both fresh and old droppings everywhere. Noticing the spoor, he fixed his mind on his recitation while walking.
At nightfall, when he was still in the middle of the forest, he heard two tigers growl. As they moved nearer their roars became deafening. Suddenly a tiger emerged on the trail walking toward him.
Chaup stopped, turned, and saw another tiger approaching from behind. Each moved to within two meters of him. They were the biggest tigers he had ever seen. Each of them looked as big as a horse, its head about forty centimeters wide. Seeing no way out, Chaup stood motionless, his feet frozen, thinking this was to be the end of him.
At that critical moment, mindfulness came to his rescue. Determined not to abandon sati even though he might be killed by the tigers, his mind withdrew from the tigers, dwelt within, and became one-pointed. Intuitively Chaup knew then that the tigers could never kill him. In an instant he was oblivious to the tigers, to his body, to his standing position, and to everything around him. His mind withdrew completely into a deep concentration and remained there for several hours. When he came out of his concentration, he found himself standing at the same spot, with the klot on one shoulder and the alms-bowl in its sling across another shoulder, the lantern still in one hand but the candle long since out. He lit another candle, but no tigers were to be seen. The forest was quiet. After emerging from his samâdhi, Chaup was surprised that he was still in one piece, untouched by the tigers. His mind was filled with courage and compassion. “He felt that he would be able to face hundreds of tigers, now that he knew the power of the mind.
He felt great love for those two tigers, who were really friends in disguise, for having ‘lifted’ him to the dhamma and for helping him to realize its wonders” (M1, 296). Chaup’s life may have been saved by his ability to concentrate deeply, which allowed him to stand still for several hours. Chaup continued on his journey. Overjoyed by his discovery, he continued to meditate while walking. At about 9 a.m. he reached the edge of the forest. Approaching a small village, he put on his outer robe, set down his thudong gear, and began his almsround.
The sight of a thudong monk coming out of the forest in the morning surprised the villagers. They knew that he must have spent the night there. Many came outside to offer him food and to inquire how he had managed to come through the Great Forest unharmed. The biographer concludes that it was the power of the dhamma that enabled Chaup not only to survive his encounter with the tigers but also to find his way through the forest.
The following recollection illustrates how thudong monks accepted tigers as a natural and inescapable part of their lives.
Juan, his fellow monks Khaw, Saun, Bunthan, and some lay practitioners stayed in the vicinity of tigers when they were practicing in Golden Pot Forest. They lived in stark simplicity. Juan and Saun built huts on rock outcrops, shelves of stone about five meters wide, over twenty meters long, and fifteen meters high.
Below their platforms, which stood parallel to each other like two stone walls, was a pond where wild animals came to find food and water. From his thatched hut on the rock platform, Juan could see wild boars, elephants, tigers, barking deer, and bears.
One afternoon he saw at least ten wild elephants by the pond and heard the rest of the herd breaking bamboo and yang trees in the grove. It was not unusual to hear tigers howling or see them prowling about the huts.
One night the monks got together in a kuti to recite the patimok. Heard tigers play-fighting with each other by the rock near the hut. Judging from the noise there must have been several of them. From the time the monks began to recite the patimok until they finished, the tigers remained at the same spot and the growling did not let up. Ven. Grandfather Khaw was so annoyed that he told them to shut up, though in an affectionate way: “Hey, you guys, stop being so loud. The monks are listening to the dhamma. This is not a place to play. Listen to me, or you’ll all go to hell.” They quieted down a bit but still growled for a while longer. This incident confirms Man’s teaching that “If you are terrified of tigers, be where the tigers are, and make friends with them. It appears that Khaw had succeeded in putting this advice into practice.
The younger thudong monks, however, were still learning from their experiences. In the forest, no hut was completely safe from animals. The monks had to live according to the laws of nature, and nature is unpredictable. They learned that the rule of survival was to always be mindful and alert for any surprise visit. Juan remembers an occasion when “Bunthan, a fellow monk, was about to step out of his kuti [and] saw a big tiger sitting on the steps. He had to wait for quite a while until the tiger went away before he could get out of his hut.” He also recalls the time when “the monk Saun and a novice had diarrhea. They ran to the latrine, but the novice got there first. The monk couldn’t restrain his urge so he went in the bush. As he was squatting a tiger leaped over his head—which set every nerve in his body tingling. The tiger ran toward the latrine. Hearing the sound, the novice quickly fled. Luckily, the tiger ran off into the forest, and the boy didn’t have to face it.”
Forest Recollections Wandering Monks in Twentieth-Century Thailand Kamala
Next—what is great courage? This means bringing all your energy to one point. It is like a cat hunting a mouse*. The mouse has retreated into its hole, but the cat waits outside the hole for hours on end without the slightest movement. It is totally concentrated on the mouse-hole. This is Zen mind—cutting off all thinking and directing all your energy to one point.
Zen Master Seung Sahn
Objection that hunting cannot be a good example of samadhi fails to understand that while obviously the cat has no right view, living aside his intentions one who is able to concentrate the mind for the sake of Dhamma as a cat for the sake of mouse, is on the right path to the right view. Mind has to understand itself, what cannot be done without withdrawing from sensory experience.
No comments:
Post a Comment