Skeptic Tank Text Archive File

PART II The third Rains Retreat, my preceptor had me come stay in his new quarters to help fix up the place and assist him with his hobby: repairing clocks. My old duties I was able to pass on to Phra Chyam, which was something of a load off my mind. But looking at the state of my meditation, I could see that my practice had grown slack. I was becoming more and more interested in worldly matters. So I decided to put up a fight. One day it occurred to me, "If I stay on here in the city, I'll have to disrobe. If I stay a monk, I'll have to leave the city and go into the forest." These two thoughts became the theme of my meditation day and night. One day I went up to a hollow space at the top of the chedi and sat in meditation. The theme of my meditation was, "Should I stay or should I disrobe?" Something inside me said, "I'd rather disrobe." So I questioned myself, "This place where you're living now, prosperous in every way, with its beautiful homes and streets, with its crowds of people: What do they call it?" And I answered, "Phra Nakhorn -- the Great Metropolis, i.e., Heaven on Earth." "And where were you born?" "I was born in DoubleMarsh Village, Muang Saam Sib, Ubon Ratchathani. And now that I've come to the Great Metropolis I want to disrobe." "And in DoubleMarsh Village what did you eat? How did you live? How did people make their living? And what did you wear? And what were the roads and houses like?" Nothing at all like the Great Metropolis. "So this prosperity here: What business is it of yours?" This was when I answered, "The people in the Great Metropolis aren't gods or goddesses or anything. They're people and I'm a person, so why can't I make myself be like them?" I questioned myself back and forth like this for several days running until I finally decided to call a halt. If I was going to disrobe, I'd have to make preparations. Other people, before disrobing, got prepared by having clothes made and so forth, but I was going to do it differently. I was going to leave the monkhood in my mind first to see what it would be like. So late in the quiet of a moonlit night, I climbed up to sit inside the chedi and asked myself, "If I disrobe, what will I do?" I came up with the following story. If I disrobe, I'll have to apply for a job as a clerk in the Phen Phaag Snuff and Stomach Medicine Company. I had a friend who had disrobed and gotten a job there earning 20 baht a month, so it made sense for me to apply for a job there too. I'd set my mind on being honest and hard-working so that my employer would be satisfied with my work. I was determined that wherever I lived, I'd have to act in such a way that the people I lived with would think highly of me. As it turned out, the drug company finally hired me at 20 baht a month, the same salary as my friend. I made up my mind to budget my salary so as to have money left over at the end of each month, so I rented a room in the flats owned by Phraya Phakdi in the PratuuNam (Watergate) section of town. The rent was four baht a month. Water, electricity, clothing and food would add up to another eleven baht, leaving me with an extra five baht at the end of each month. My second year on the job my boss came to like and trust me so much that he raised my salary to 30 baht a month. Taking out my expenses, I was left with 15 baht a month. Finally he was so content with my work that he made me supervisor of all the workers, with a 40 baht salary, plus a cut of the profits, adding up altogether to 50 baht a month. At this point I was feeling very proud of myself, because I was making as much as the District Official back home. And as for my friends back home, I was in a position way above them all. So I decided it was time to get married so that I could take a beautiful young Bangkok bride back home for a visit, which would please my relatives no end. This was when my plans seemed to take on a little class. So now that I was going to get married, what sort of person would she be? I made up my mind that the woman I married would have to have the three attributes of a good wife: 1. She'd have to come from a good family. 2. She'd have to be in line for an inheritance. 3. She'd have to be good-looking and have a pleasing manner. Only if a woman had these three attributes would I be willing to marry her. So I asked myself, "Where are you going to find a woman like this, and how will you get to know her?" This is where things began to get complicated. I tried thinking up all sorts of schemes, but even if I actually did meet such a woman, she wouldn't be interested in me. The women who would be interested in me weren't the sort I'd want to marry. Thinking about this, I'd sometimes heave a heavy sigh, but I wasn't willing to give in. Finally it occurred to me, "Wealthy people send their daughters to the high-class schools, like the Back Palace School or Mrs. Cole's. Why don't I go have a look around these schools in the morning before classes and in the evening when school lets out?" So that's what I did, until I noticed an attractive girl, the daughter of a Phraya. The way she walked and the way she dressed really appealed to me. I arranged so that our paths crossed every day. In my hand I carried a little note that I threw down in front of her. The first time, she didn't pay me any attention. Day after day our paths crossed. Sometimes our eyes would meet, sometimes I'd stand in her way, sometimes she'd smile at me. When this happened, I made it a point to have her get my note. Finally we got to know each other. I made a date for her to skip school the next day so that I could show her around town. As time passed we came to know each other, to like each other, to love each other. We told each other our life stories -- the things that had made us happy and the things that had made us sad -- from the very beginning up to the present. I had a salaried job at no less than 50 baht a month. She had finished the sixth year of secondary school and was the daughter of a very wealthy Phraya. Her looks, her manner and her conduct were everything I had been hoping for. Finally we agreed to become married secretly. Since we loved each other, I got to sleep with her beforehand. She was a good person, so before we were to be officially married, she told her parents. Furious, they threw her out of the house. So she came to live with me as my wife. I wasn't too upset by what her parents had done, for I was determined to work my way into their affections. We went to rent a flat in a better district, the Sra Pathum Watergate area. The rent here was six baht a month. My wife got a job at the same company where I was working, starting out at 20 baht a month, but she soon got a raise to 30 a month. Together, then, we were making 80 a month, which pleased me. As time passed, my position advanced. My employer trusted me completely, and at times would have me take over his duties in his absence. Both my wife and I were determined to be honest and upright in our dealings with the company, and ultimately our earnings -- our salaries plus my percentage of the profits -- reached 100 a month. At this point I felt I could breathe easy, but my dreams still hadn't been fulfilled. So I began to buy presents -- good things to eat and other nice things -- to take to my parents-in-law to show my good intentions towards them. After a while they began to show some interest in me, and eventually had us move into their house. At this point I was really pleased: I was sure to be in line for part of the inheritance. But living together for a while revealed certain things about my behavior that rubbed my parents-in-law the wrong way, so in the end they drove us out of the house. We went back to live in a flat, as before. This was when my wife became pregnant. Not wanting her to do any hard work, I hired a servant woman to look after the house and help with the housework. Hired help in those days was very cheap -- only four baht a month. As my wife came closer to giving birth, she began to miss work more and more often. I had to keep at my job. One night I sat down to look over our budget. The 100 baht we had once earned was probably as much as we'd ever earn. I had no further hopes for a raise. Our expenses were mounting every day: one baht a month for electricity; 1.50 baht for water; charcoal and rice each at least six baht a month; the help, four baht a month; and on top of it all, the cost of our clothing. After my wife gave birth, our expenses mounted still higher. She wasn't able to work, so we lost her percentage of the profits. After a while she became ill and missed work for an extended period. My employer cut her salary back to 15 baht a month. Our medical bills rose. My wife's salary wasn't enough for her needs, so she had to cut into mine. My old salary of 50 baht was now completely gone by the end of each month. In the end, my wife's illness proved fatal. I had to borrow 50 baht from my employer which, along with my own savings of 50, went towards her funeral expenses, which totaled 80 baht. I was then left with 20 baht and a small child to raise. What was I to do now? Before, I had breathed easily. Now it seemed as if life was closing in on me. I went to see my parents-in-law, but they gave me the cold shoulder. So I hired a wet nurse for the child. The wet nurse was a low-class woman, but she took awfully good care of the child. This led me to feel love and affection towards her, and ultimately she became my second wife. My new wife had absolutely no education -- she couldn't even read or write. My income at this point was now only 50 baht -- enough just to get by. After a while my new wife became pregnant. I did my best to make sure that she didn't have to do any heavy work, and I did everything I could to be good to her, but I couldn't help feeling a little disappointed that life had turned out so differently from my original plans. After my new wife gave birth, we both helped to raise the children until both my first wife's child and my new wife's child were old enough to feed and take care of themselves. This was when my new wife started acting funny -- playing favorites, giving all her love and attention to her own child, and none to my first. My first child started coming to complain to me all the time that my new wife had been unfair in this way or that. Sometimes the two children would start fighting. At times I'd come home from work and my first child would run to me with one version of what had happened, my second child would have another version, and my wife still another. I didn't know whom to side with. It was as if I was standing in the middle, and my wife and children were pulling me off in three different directions. My new child wanted me to buy this or that -- eventually my wife and children started competing with one another to see who would get to eat the best food, wear the best clothes and squander the most money. It got so that I couldn't sit down and talk with any of them at all. My salary was being eaten up every month; my family life was like falling into a thorn patch. Finally I decided to call a halt. My wife wasn't what I had hoped for, my earnings weren't what I had hoped for, my children weren't what I had hoped for, so I left my wife, was reordained and returned to the contemplative life. When I came to the end of the story, my interest in worldly affairs vanished. The sense that life was closing in on me disappeared. I felt as free as if I were up floating in the sky. Something inside me sighed, "Ah!" with relief. I told myself that if this was the way things would be, I'd do better not to disrobe. My old desire to disrobe was reduced about 50 to 60 percent. Throughout this period a number of other events occurred that helped turn my thoughts in the right direction. Some nights I'd dream that my old meditation teachers had come to see me: Sometimes they'd be fierce with me, sometimes they'd scold me. But there were four events -- you'd have to call them strange, and they certainly were important in changing my thinking. I have to beg the reader's pardon for mentioning them, though, because there's nothing at all pleasant about them. But since they were good lessons, I feel they should go on record. //The first event//: During the period when I was spending my nights thinking about worldly matters, there was one day I started feeling constipated, so that afternoon I took a laxative, figuring that if the medicine acted as it had before, I'd have to go to the bathroom at about 9 p.m. For some reason, it didn't work. The next morning I went for my alms round down the lane to Sra Pathum Palace. Just as I was coming to a house where they had prepared food to give to the monks, all of a sudden I had to go to the bathroom so badly I could hardly stand it. I couldn't even walk to the house to accept their food. All I could do was hold myself in and walk in little pigeon steps until I came to an acacia grove by the side of the road. I plunked down my bowl and hurried through the fence into the grove. I wanted to sink my head down into the ground and die right there. When I had finished, I left the grove, picked up my alms bowl and finished my round. That day I didn't get enough to eat. Returning to the temple, I warned myself, "This is what it's going to be like if you disrobe. Nobody's going to fix food to put in your bowl." The whole event was really a good lesson. //The second event//: One day I went out early on my alms round. I crossed ElephantHead Bridge, passed Saam Yaek and turned down Phetburi Road. There was no one to place even a spoonful of rice in my bowl. It so happened that as I was passing a row of flats, I saw an old Chinese man and woman yelling and screaming at each other in front of their flat. The woman was about 50 and wore her hair in a bun. The old man wore his hair in a pigtail. As I came to their flat, I stopped to watch. Within about two seconds, the old woman grabbed a broom and hit the man over the head with the handle. The old man grabbed the woman by the hair and kicked her in the back. I asked myself, "If that were you, what would you do?" and then I smiled: "You'd probably end the marriage for good." I felt more pleased seeing this incident than if I had received a whole bowlful of food. That night I meditated on what I had seen. It seemed that my mind was regaining its strength and, bit by bit, becoming more and more disenchanted with worldly affairs. //The third event//: It was a holiday. I had started out on my alms round before dawn, going down to the Sra Pathum Watergate market, and then up the lane behind the temple. This was a dirt lane where horses were stabled. Rain was falling and the road surface was slippery. I was walking in a very composed manner past the house of a lay person I knew who frequented the temple. My bowl was full of food and I was thinking very absent-mindedly of worldly matters -- so absent-mindedly that I slipped and fell sideways into a mud hole by the side of the road. Both of my knees were sunk about a foot into the muck, my food was spilled all over the place, my body was covered with mud. I had to hurry back to the temple, and when I arrived I warned myself: "See what happens when you even just //think// of such things?" My heart was slowly becoming more and more disenchanted with worldly matters. My old opinions had reversed to the point where I now saw marriage as something for kids, not for grownups. //The fourth event//: The next morning, I went out for alms taking my usual route down Phetburi Road. I came to the palace of His Highness Prince Dhaninivat. This prince made a habit of donating food to monks in general every day. It so happened that someone had set up a bowl of rice across the street from the palace that day, so I decided to accept rice from the new donors first. After accepting their rice, I turned around to cross the street, when one of Nai Lert's white buses came whizzing past, less than a foot from my head. The passengers on the bus started yelling and screaming, and I myself was stunned: I had just missed being killed by a bus. When I finally went to accept rice from the prince, I had to exert a great deal of self-control because I was shaking all over. I then returned to the temple. All of these events I took to be warnings, because during that period my thoughts about worldly matters would start flaring up anywhere and at any time. Now we come to the end of the Rains Retreat, 1930. During that third rainy season I had told myself, "You're going to have to leave Bangkok. There's no two ways about it. If your preceptor stands in your way, there'll have to be a falling out." So I made a wish: "May the Triple Gem and all the sacred things in the cosmos help me find another way out." Another night, towards the end of the rains, I had been lying on my back, reading a book and meditating at the same time, when I fell asleep. I dreamed that Ajaan Mun came to scold me. "What are you doing in Bangkok?" he asked. "Go out into the forest!" "I can't," I answered. "My preceptor won't let me." Ajaan Mun answered with a single word: "Go!" So I dedicated a resolution to him: "At the end of the rains, may Ajaan Mun come and take me with him out of this predicament." It was just a few days later that Chao Khun Upali [*] broke his leg, and Ajaan Mun came down to pay his respects to him. A short while after that, Lady Noi, the mother of Chao Phraya Mukhamontri, passed away, and the funeral services were to be held at Wat Debsirin. Since Lady Noi had been one of Ajaan Mun's supporters when he was staying in Udon Thani, he made a point of attending her funeral. My preceptor and I were also invited, and I met Ajaan Mun up on the crematorium. I was overjoyed, but had no chance to have even a word with him. So I asked Chao Khun Phra Amarabhirakkhit where Ajaan Mun was staying, and he answered, "At Wat Boromnivasa." On the way home from the funeral I got permission from my preceptor to stop at Wat Boromnivasa to pay my respects to Ajaan Mun. * [Chao Khun Upali Gunupamacariya (Jan Siricando), a childhood friend of Ajaan Mun's, was one of the highest ranking monks in Thailand in the early years of this century, although he was once temporarily stripped of his title and placed under "monastery arrest" for making public remarks critical of King Rama VI's request that monks encourage their followers to donate money for a battleship for the Royal Thai Navy. He was also the preceptor and teacher of the Somdet Mahawiarwong (Tisso Uan) mentioned later in this book.] In the four years since my reordination, this was my first encounter with Ajaan Mun. After I had paid my respects, he delivered a short sermon to me on the text, "//Khina jati, vusitam brahmacariyanti//," which he translated in short as, "The Noble Ones, having freed themselves from the mental effluents, find happiness. This is the supreme holy life." That's all I can remember of it, but I felt that sitting and listening to him speak for a few moments gave my heart more peace than it had felt all the years I had been practicing on my own. In the end he told me, "You'll have to come with me this time. As for your preceptor, I'll inform him myself." That was our entire conversation. I bowed down to him and returned to Wat Sra Pathum. When I told my preceptor about my meeting with Ajaan Mun, he simply sat very still. The next day, Ajaan Mun came to Wat Sra Pathum and spoke with my preceptor, saying that he wanted to have me go with him up north. My preceptor gave his assent. I began to get my necessary belongings together and to say goodbye to my friends and the temple boys. I asked one of the boys how much money I had left for my travel expenses, and he told me, "Thirty satang." That wasn't even enough to pay for the ride to HuaLamphong Station, which by that time had risen to 50 satang. So I went to inform Ajaan Mun, and he assured me that he would take care of everything. The day before Lady Noi's cremation [*], Ajaan Mun was invited to deliver a sermon at the home of Chao Phraya Mukhamontri, and afterwards received the following donations: a set of robes, a container of kerosene and 80 baht. Later, Ajaan Mun told me that the set of robes he gave to a monk at Wat Boromnivasa, the kerosene he gave to Phra MahaSombuun, and the money he gave to people who needed it, leaving just enough for two people's traveling expenses: his and mine. * [Funeral services in Thailand may last for many days -- even months or years -- before the actual cremation takes place.] After a while, when Chao Khun Upali finally let Ajaan Mun return north, we took the train to Uttaradit, where we stayed at Wat Salyaphong, a temple founded by Chao Khun Upali himself. Before getting on the express train at Hua Lamphong Station, we ran into Mae Ngaw Nedjamnong, who had come down to Bangkok -- whether it was to attend Lady Noi's funeral or what, I don't know. Mae Ngaw was one of Ajaan Mun's old students, and she agreed to help look after our needs during the entire trip. This was the period when Ajaan Tan was abbot of Wat Salyaphong. We stayed there a number of days, and then went to stay in the groves behind the temple, quite a ways from the monks" quarters. This was a quiet, secluded place, both by day and by night. One day I got into a disagreement with Ajaan Mun and he drove me away. Although I felt riled, I decided not to let my feelings show, so I stayed on with him, attending to his needs as I always had. The next morning -- this was in early January, towards the end of the second lunar month -- two monks came looking for Ajaan Mun with the news that one of his followers was seriously ill in Chieng Mai. The two monks then continued on down to Bangkok, after which Ajaan Mun and I left Uttaradit for Chieng Mai. When we arrived we went to stay at Wat Chedi Luang (GreatChedi Temple). The ill follower turned out to be a lay man -- Nai Biew of San Kampheng district -- who had become mentally deranged. His older brother and sister-in-law brought him to Wat Chedi Luang, and Ajaan Mun cured him with meditation. That year I spent the Rains Retreat at Wat Chedi Luang. When we had first arrived, there were quite a number of our fellow meditation monks staying at the temple, but as the rains approached, they left one by one to stay in the hills. At first, Ajaan Mun was going to have me leave for the hills too, but I refused to go. I told him I had my heart set on staying with him and attending to his needs throughout the rainy season. In the end he gave his consent. That was 1931, the year Chao Khun Upali died. I spent the rains very close to Ajaan Mun, attending both to his needs and to my own meditation. He in turn gave me a thorough breaking-in in every way. Each evening he had me climb up and sit in meditation on the north side of the Great Chedi. There was a large Buddha image there -- it's still there today -- and Ajaan Mun told me that it was a very auspicious spot, that relics of the Buddha had been known to come there often. I did as I was told in every way. Some nights I'd sit all night, without any sleep. We stayed in a small hut in a banana grove. Lady Thip and Luang Yong, the Chief of Police, had had the hut built and presented to Ajaan Mun. Nai Thip, clerk in the Provincial Treasury, and his wife, Nang Taa, made sure that Ajaan Mun had plenty to eat every day. I made a regular practice of going with Ajaan Mun when we went out for alms. As we would walk along, he'd constantly be giving me lessons in meditation all along the way. If we happened to pass a pretty girl, he'd say, "Look over there. Do you think she's pretty? Look closely. Look down into her insides." No matter what we passed -- houses or roads -- he'd always make it an object lesson. At the time I was only 26. It was my fifth Rains Retreat and I was still feeling young, so he was always giving me lessons and warnings. He seemed very concerned for my progress. But there was one thing that had me puzzled, having to do with robes and other necessities that people would donate. He seemed reluctant to let me have anything nice to use. Sometimes he'd ask for whatever nice things I did have and then go give them to someone else. I had no idea what he meant by all this. Whenever I'd get anything new or nice, he'd order me to wash and dye it to spoil the original color. Say I'd get a nice new white handkerchief or towel: He'd order me to dye it brown with dye from the heartwood of a jackfruit tree. Sometimes he'd have to order me several times, and when I still wouldn't obey, he'd go ahead and dye the things himself. He liked to find old, worn-out robes, patch them himself, and then give them to me to wear. One morning I went together with him on our alms round, down past the Police Station. We happened to pass a woman carrying goods to the market, but my mind was in good shape: It didn't stray away from the path we were following. I was keeping complete control over myself. Another time when I was walking a little distance behind him -- he walked fast, but I walked slowly -- I saw him come to an old, worn-out pair of policeman's trousers thrown away by the side of the road. He began to kick the trousers along, back and forth -- I was thinking all along that I had to keep my thoughts on the path I was following. Finally, when he reached the fence around the Police Station, he stooped down, picked up the trousers and fastened them under his robes. I was puzzled. What did he want with old trash like that? When we got back to the hut, he placed the trousers over the clothes railing. I swept up and then set out the sitting mats. After we had finished our meal, I went into his room to arrange his bedding. Some days he'd be cross with me, saying I was messy, that I never put anything in the right place -- but he'd never tell me what the right places were. Even though I tried my best to please him at all times, he was still severe with me the entire rainy season. Several days later the old pair of trousers had become a shoulder bag and a belt: I saw them hanging together on the wall. And a few days afterwards, he gave them to me to use. I took them and looked at them. They were nothing but stitches and patches. With all the good things available, why did he give me this sort of stuff to use? Attending to Ajaan Mun was very good for me, but also very hard. I had to be willing to learn everything anew. To be able to stay with him for any length of time, you had to be very observant and very circumspect. You couldn't make a sound when you walked on the floor, you couldn't leave footprints on the floor, you couldn't make noise when you swallowed water or opened the windows or doors. There had to be a science to everything you did -- hanging out robes, taking them in, folding them up, setting out sitting mats, arranging bedding, everything. Otherwise he'd drive you out, even in the middle of the Rains Retreat. Even then, you'd just have to take it and try to use your powers of observation. Every day, after our meal, I'd go to straighten up his room, putting away his bowl and robes, setting out his bedding, his sitting cloth, his spittoon, his tea kettle, pillow, etc. I had to have everything in order before he entered the room. When I had finished, I'd take note of where I had placed things, hurry out of the room and go to my own room, which was separated from his by a wall of banana leaves. I had made a small hole in the wall so that I could peek through and see both Ajaan Mun and his belongings. When he came into the room, he'd look up and down, inspecting his things. Some of them he'd pick up and move; others he'd leave where they were. I had to watch carefully and take note of where things were put. The next morning I'd do it all over again, trying to place things where I had seen him put them himself. Finally one morning, when I had finished putting things in order and returned to my own room to peek through the hole, he entered his room, sat still for a minute, looked right and left, up and down, all around -- and didn't touch a thing. He didn't even turn over his sleeping cloth. He simply said his chants and then took a nap. Seeing this, I felt really pleased that I had attended to my teacher to his satisfaction. In other matters -- such as sitting and walking meditation -- Ajaan Mun trained me in every way, to my complete satisfaction. But I was able to keep up with him at best only about 60 percent of the time. * * * At the end of the Rains Retreat, Wat Boromnivasa arranged Chao Khun Upali's funeral, and nearly all the senior monks in Wat Chedi Luang went down to Bangkok to help. The abbot had Ajaan Mun watch over the temple in his absence. After the funeral was over, a letter came to Ajaan Mun, giving him permission to become a preceptor. When Ajaan Mun opened the letter, he found there was more: The letter asked him, in addition to becoming preceptor, to accept the position of abbot at Wat Chedi Luang. Chao Kaew Nawarat (Prince NineJewels), the Prince of Chieng Mai, was to make all the necessary arrangements. Would Ajaan Mun please take over the duties of the previous abbot? That, in short, was the gist of the letter. When Ajaan Mun finished reading it, he sent for me. "I have to leave Wat Chedi Luang," he said. Two days after the end of the Rains Retreat he had sent me out on my own to a mountain in Lamphun province, a spot where he himself had once stayed. I camped a little more than ten days at the foot of the mountain, until one day at about three in the afternoon, while I was sitting in meditation, there was an incident. It was as if someone had come with a message. I heard a voice say, "Tomorrow you have to go stay up on top of the mountain." The next day, before climbing to the top, I went to stay in an old abandoned temple, said to be very sacred. 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. I stayed for two nights. 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 umbrella tent. 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 two until five a.m., when the tiger finally left. The next morning, I went for alms in a small village of only two households. One of the owners was out working in his garden, and when he saw me he told me that a tiger had come and eaten one of his oxen the night before. This made me even more scared, so finally, after my meal, I climbed to the top of the mountain. From the top, looking out, you could see the chedi of Wat Phra Dhatu Haribhunjai in the town of Lamphun. The mountain was named Doi Khaw Maw -- Thumb Mountain. At its summit was a deep spring -- so deep that no one has ever been able to fathom it. The water was crystal clear and surrounded by heads of old Buddha images. Climbing down about two meters from ground level, you reached the surface of the water. They say that a person who falls into the spring won't sink, and that you can't go diving down under the water. Women are absolutely forbidden to go into the spring, for if a woman does happen to enter the water she'll go into convulsions. People in the area consider the whole mountain to be sacred. Ajaan Mun had told me that there was an important spirit dwelling in the mountain, but that it wouldn't harm or disturb me because it was acquainted with the Dhamma and Sangha. The first day after reaching the top I didn't have anything to eat. That night I felt faint -- the whole mountain seemed to be swaying like a boat in the middle of a choppy sea -- but my mind was in good shape, and not the least bit afraid. The next day I did sitting and walking meditation in the area around an old abandoned sanctuary. From where I was staying, the nearest village I could have gone to for alms was more than three kilometers away, so I made a vow: "I won't eat unless someone brings food here." That night I had a stomachache and felt dizzy, but not as bad as the night before. At about five the next morning, just before dawn, I heard huffing and panting sounds outside the sanctuary. At first I thought it was a tiger, but as I listened carefully, it sounded more like a human being. That side of the mountain, though, was very steep -- not too steep to climb up, but I can guarantee that it was too steep to go down. So who would be coming up here? I was curious, but didn't dare leave the sanctuary or my umbrella tent until it was light outside. When dawn finally came, I went outside and there, by the side of the sanctuary, was an old woman -- about 70 -- sitting with her hands raised in respect. She had some rice wrapped in a banana leaf that she wanted to put in my bowl. She also gave me two kinds of medicine: some roots and pieces of bark. "Take this medicine," she said, "grind it down and eat it, while making a wish for your health, and your stomachache will go away." At the time I was observing the monks" discipline very strictly and so, since she was a woman, didn't dare say more than a few words to her. After I had finished eating -- one lump of red glutinous rice and the roots and bark -- I chanted some blessings for her and she left, disappearing down the west side of the mountain. At about five in the afternoon a person came to the top of the mountain with a letter for me from Ajaan Mun. The letter said, "Come back right away. I have to leave Wat Chedi Luang tomorrow morning, because tomorrow evening the express train from Bangkok will arrive." I hurried down from the mountain, but night fell as I reached Paa Heo (GlenForest) Village, so I spent the night in the cemetery there. When I arrived at Wat Chedi Luang the next day, Ajaan Mun had already left. I asked around, but no one seemed to know where he had gone -- leaving me with no idea of where or how to find him. I had an inkling that he had headed north for Keng Tung, which meant I would have to leave for Keng Tung right away, but I couldn't yet, because there were two things Ajaan Mun had said to me during the rainy season: 1. "I want you to help me in the steps of the practice, because I can't see anyone else who can." At the time I had no idea of what he meant, and didn't pay it much attention. 2. "The Chieng Mai area has been home to a great number of sages ever since the distant past. So before you leave the area, I want you to go stay on top of Doi Khaw Maw, in Buab Thawng Cave and in Chieng Dao Cave." After staying a few days at Wat Chedi Luang, I left for Doi Saket district, where I stayed in Tham Myyd (Dark Cave) near Myang Awm village. This was a strange and remarkable cave. On top of the mountain was a Buddha image -- from what period, I couldn't say. In the middle of the mountain the ground opened down into a deep chasm. Going down into the chasm, I came to a piece of teakwood placed as a bridge across a crevice. Edging my way across to the other side, I found myself on a wide rockshelf. As I walked on a ways, it became pitch dark, so I lit a lantern and continued on. I came to another bridge -- this time a whole log of teak -- reaching to another rock. This is where the air began to feel chilly. Crossing this second bridge, I reached an enormous cavern. I'd say it could have held at least 3,000 people. The floor of the cavern was flat with little waves, like ripples on water. Shooting straight up from the middle of the floor was a spectacular stalagmite, as white as a cumulus cloud, eight meters tall and so wide it would have taken two people to put their arms around it. Around the stalagmite was a circle of small round bumps -- like the bumps in the middle of gongs -- each about half a meter tall. Inside the circle was a deep flat basin. The whole area was dazzling white and very beautiful. The air, though, was close, and daylight didn't penetrate. Ajaan Mun had told me that //nagas// came here to worship: The stalagmite was their chedi. I had wanted to spend the night, but the air was so close I could hardly breathe, so I didn't dare stay. I walked back out of the cave. This mountain was about three kilometers from the nearest village. The people in the area said that at the beginning of the Rains Retreat the mountain would give out a roar. Any year the roar was especially loud there would be good rain and abundant harvests. That day I went back to stay in a village on the border of Doi Saket district. After resting there a few days, I walked on to Baan Pong, where I met a monk named Khien who had once stayed with Ajaan Mun. I asked if he knew where Ajaan Mun had gone, but his answer was no. So I talked him into returning with me to explore Doi Saket district. We went to spend a night in a cave in the middle of the jungle, far away from any habitation. The cave was called Buab Thawng -- GoldenGourd -- Cave. This was because down in the cave was a place where fool's gold had seeped through a crack into the bottom of a pool of water. To reach the cave you had to go through ten kilometers of virgin forest. The people of the area claimed that there was a fierce spirit living in the cave. Whoever tried to spend the night there, they said, would be kept awake all night by the feeling that someone was stepping on his legs, his stomach, his back, etc. -- which had everyone afraid of the place. When I heard this, I wanted to test the truth of the rumor myself. Ajaan Mun himself had told me that Bhikkhu Chai once came to this cave to spend the night, but couldn't get any sleep because he kept hearing the sound of someone walking in and out of the cave all night long. It was a very deep cave but, still, Ajaan Mun had told me to come here and spend the night. The outcome of my stay was that there was nothing out of the ordinary. We didn't encounter anything unusual at all. After leaving the cave, we went down to stay at a spot where we met another monk named Choei. After talking a while, we seemed to hit it off well, so I invited him to come with me and wander some more around the Doi Saket area. As for Phra Khien, he left us and returned to Baan Pong. One day, as I was wandering with Phra Choei, some villagers built a little place for us to stay in the middle of a large cemetery. The cemetery was full of graves and dotted with the remains of old cremation fires. White, weathered bones were all over the place. Phra Choei and I stayed there for quite a long time. After a while some villagers came and invited Phra Choei to go stay in another spot, which meant that I had to stay on in the cemetery alone. There were the remains of an old cremation fire about six meters from where I was staying. A few days later, well before dawn, a villager came with a little cone of flowers and incense, saying that he was going to bring someone to stay with me as my disciple. I thought to myself, "At least now I'll be a little less lonely." I had been feeling scared for quite a few days running, to the point that every time I sat in meditation I'd start feeling numb all over. Later that morning, after my meal, a large group of villagers came, bringing a corpse with them. The corpse hadn't been placed in a coffin, but was simply wrapped in a cloth. As soon as I saw it, I told myself, "You're in for it now." If I were to leave, I'd lose face with the villagers, but the idea of staying on didn't appeal to me either. Then the realization hit me: The corpse was probably my "disciple." The villagers started the cremation that afternoon at about four, not too far from where I was staying, giving me a very good view of the corpse. When it caught fire, its arms and legs started sticking up into the air, as yellow as if they had been smeared with turmeric. By evening the body had fallen apart at the waist -- it was still black in the flames. Just before nightfall, the villagers returned home, leaving me all by myself. I hurried back to my banana-leaf hut and sat in meditation, ordering my mind not to leave the hut -- to the point where my ears went blank. I didn't hear any sound at all. My mind still had a certain amount of self-awareness, but no perception of where I was, of courage, of fear, or of anything at all. I stayed this way until daybreak, when Phra Choei happened back. Now that I had a companion I felt a little bit more secure. Phra Choei had a habit of sitting in the hut with me and having Dhamma talks -- he'd do the talking, I'd do the listening -- but I could tell from the tone of his voice that he wasn't all he made himself out to be. Once a villager came and asked him, "Are you afraid of the dead?" Phra Choei didn't say yes or no. All he said was, "What's there to be afraid of? When a person dies, there isn't anything left at all. Why, you yourself can eat dead chickens, dead ducks, dead cows and dead water buffaloes without a second thought." That was the sort of thing he'd always be saying. I thought to myself, "What a show-off. He doesn't want other people to know he's afraid. Well, tomorrow we'll have to see just how brave he really is." It so happened that a villager had come to invite one of us to accept donations at his home. Phra Choei and I agreed that I would accept the invitation while he stayed to watch over the hut. I left with the villager, but when I returned the next day, Phra Choei was gone. I learned that late the night before, after I had left, one of the villagers had brought the body of a dead girl to bury in the cemetery. Phra Choei, seeing this, immediately gathered his umbrella tent, his bowl and robes and ran away in the middle of the night. From that moment on, I parted ways with Phra Choei. I headed back to Baan Pong, where I spent a few nights with Phra Khien, and then went on to a township called Huei Awm Kaew -- the Encircling Crystal Stream. There, I was told, were the ruins of an old temple, with lots of old Buddha images. Hearing this, I wanted to go have a look. By this point I had gotten really fed up with lay people and monks. I no longer wanted to live with the human race. The one thought in my mind was to go off and live alone on a mountaintop. So when I reached Huei Awm Kaew, I stopped eating food, and began eating only leaves so that I wouldn't need to be bothered with human beings any more. This turned out to be a fine spot, secluded and quiet, with a shallow stream meandering all around. One night while I was sitting in meditation with my eyes closed in a little dark hut, it seemed to me that a brilliant ball of light, about a meter and a half in diameter, came shooting out of the mountaintop and settled down next to the hut where I was staying -- so I sat there meditating until dawn. I felt as if my breath had stopped. I was absolutely still, feeling free and at ease, and not the least bit sleepy. A few days later I moved down to an island formed by the course of the stream. A villager nearby, on his own initiative, had built me a little hut there. The floor was just off the ground, and the walls were made of banana leaves. When I moved into the hut I resolved to make an all-out effort in my meditation. I went without sleep, and ate very little -- only four handfuls of leaves a day. The first day I felt fine and there were no incidents. The second day, at about 9 p.m., after I had said my chants and finished my walking meditation, I lay back for a little rest, letting my thoughts wander -- and fell asleep. I dreamed that a woman came to me. She was plump, fair and good-looking, and was wearing a blouse and an old-fashioned skirt. Her name was Sida, she said, she was still single and she wanted to come live with me. I had the feeling that she wanted a husband, so I asked her, "Where do you live?" "On top of a tall mountain," she answered. "It's a large place, with lots of houses. Life is easy there. Please be my husband." I refused. She started pleading with me in all sorts of ways, but I stood my ground. So she suggested that we simply become lovers. Still, I wouldn't yield. In the end, when she could see that she wasn't going to get her way with me, we agreed to respect each other as good friends. And when we had reached an understanding, she said goodbye and vanished. The next day, at about two in the afternoon, I bathed in the stream at a spot where a log had fallen across the water. One of the villagers had told me that this was a very important stream, that there was a small chedi at its source. The strange thing about the chedi was that sometimes it was visible, sometimes it wasn't. Listening to the story, though, I hadn't paid any attention to it. Before taking my bath, I took some rocks and dammed up the stream so that it would flow over the log and I would have an easier time bathing. After my bath, I went and left the rocks where they were. That evening, after I had finished my chants and my walking meditation -- a little after 9 p.m. -- I lay down for a short rest, meditating all the while, and another incident occurred. I felt as if someone were rubbing my legs with his hands, making me feel numb first up to my waist, and then all the way to my head. I had almost no sense of feeling at all, and thought I was going to lose consciousness. So I sat right up and entered concentration -- my mind absolutely still, clear and bright. I decided that if this was death, I'd be willing to go. The one other thought that occurred to me was that I was going to pass out because I had been living on nothing but leaves. As soon as my awareness was in place, it started expanding itself out through my body, and the feeling of numbness gradually began to dissipate -- like clouds when they float past the light of the sun -- until there was no trace of numbness left at all. My mind returned to normal, and then a light went shooting out from it, focusing on the log where I had bathed in the stream, telling me to get the rocks out of the way because the stream was a path the spirits took. So when I awoke next morning I went to the stream and removed the rocks, letting the water flow as before. That night it seemed as if there were going to be another incident. Something struck the wall of my hut and shook it, but then that was all. I lay down to meditate, because I was feeling weak, and as I began to doze off I had a dream: Herds of strange-looking animals, about the size of pigs, were coming down from the waterfall at the source of the stream. Each had the bushy tail of a squirrel and the head of a goat. Huge swarms of them were coming down the stream, passing the spot where I was sleeping. After a few moments I saw a woman, about 30, wearing an indigo blouse and indigo skirt reaching just a little below her knees. She was carrying something -- I don't know what you'd call it -- in her hand, and she said that she was the spirit residing in the waterfall, that she had to go down to the sea like this constantly. Her name was Nang Jan. For the next few nights I was very earnest in my meditation, but there were no more incidents. After a while I returned to Baan Pong to a spot where Ajaan Mun had once stayed, and there ran into Phra Khien again. We decided that we would have to go together and search for Ajaan Mun until we found him. So, after saying good-bye to the villagers there, we set out for Chieng Dao (StarCity) Cave. Before reaching Chieng Dao mountain, we climbed up to stay in a small cave where Ajaan Mun had once stayed, and then went on, reaching Chieng Dao Cave the twelfth day of the waxing moon, the third lunar month (February 6). We made an all-out effort to meditate both day and night. On the night of the full moon -- Magha Puja -- I decided to sit in meditation as an offering to the Buddha. A little after 9 p.m. my mind became absolutely still. It seemed as if breath and light were radiating from my body in all directions. At the moment, I was focusing on my breath, which was so subtle that I scarcely seemed to be breathing at all. My heart was quiet, my mind still. The breath in my body didn't seem to be moving at all. It was simply quiet and still. My mind had completely stopped formulating thoughts -- how all my thoughts had stopped, I had no idea. But I was aware -- feeling bright, expansive and at ease -- with a sense of freedom that wiped out all feeling of pain. After about an hour of this, teachings began to appear in my heart. This, in short, is what they said: "Focus down and examine becoming, birth, death and unawareness to see how they come about." A vision came to me as plain as if it were right before my eyes: "Birth is like a lightning flash. Death is like a lightning flash." So I focused on the causes leading to birth and death, until I came to the word //avijja// -- unawareness. Unawareness of what? What kind of knowing is the knowing of unawareness? What kind of knowing is the knowing of awareness? I considered things in this manner, back and forth, over and over until dawn. When it all finally became clear, I left concentration. My heart and body both seemed light, open and free; my heart, extremely satisfied and full. * * * * * * * *