Full Moon Day: The Four Protections Part 4: Mindfulness of Death

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Death is the single most important thing we can contemplate. Understandably, people would rather not, but to do so is foolish. Blind to the vanity of life, people lose perspective; they hold grudges; problems overwhelm them; they waste time; they act stupidly; they are distraught when they lose something or someone close. Contemplating death ensures these things do not happen. The most important reason for contemplating death, however, is that it gives us a vital kick up the backside: ‘I have this precious opportunity, but it won’t last for long. Don’t waste it!’

When young Prince Siddhattha saw the dead man on his tour of his father’s capital, some accounts state it was the very first time he had seen such a thing. There is naturally some speculation over whether this really could have been the case. But even if he had seen a dead body before it does not matter; because it was as though it was the first time he had seen one. We have all seen dead people, either on the television or in the flesh. But have we ever really seen a dead body? Have we seen one and realised: ‘One day I will be like that!’?

This is the thought that jolted the Prince from his slumber. He woke to his predicament: whatever I experience, whatever I achieve, however wealthy or famous or loved I become – it is all impermanent and must end in death.

When we see, as the Prince did, the reality of our situation, we cannot help but ask: ‘What is the point? What is the purpose of it all?’

Well, there is no point. There is no master plan, no integral purpose to our being here. We are born because of the coming together of our father’s sperm, our mother’s egg, and the stream of consciousness propelled by craving. Having been born we are then bound to die. In the lightning-flash of an interval between these two points we participate in the pantomime of life – loving and hating, laughing and crying, gaining and losing, being young and being old – all the time developing habits in thoughts, words and deeds that shape the course of events. And then we die and the whole charade continues. It is a blind process for which no beginning can be found; a process that has been going on, and will continue to go on, forever – that is if craving and ignorance remain rooted in the mind.

Our situation is thus a difficult one: to have no purpose; to be born only to die. This state of affairs is not so much a pantomime as it is a tragedy: the tragedy of life.

Now, there seem to be number of ways people respond to this tragedy.

Firstly, they are blind to it. They don’t see further than their Big Mac.

Secondly, they peer above their Big Mac and catch a glimpse of something else. They see there are some serious questions hanging over their head. They do acknowledge that death will take place. They recognise their possessions and relations will not be with them forever. And they wonder if there is some other way to live their life. But then they snap out of it, and plunge their nose back into the gherkins and ketchup.

Thirdly, there are those who have a clear understanding of their situation. They find the pretence of the masses sickening. They are aware of the suffering inherent in life. But they allow this angst to overwhelm them, and they do not search for a solution. They simply rock back and forth in their metaphorical crib, banging their head against the sides – overcome by the purposelessness of it all.

And fourthly, there are those who also have their eyes open, but who, instead of wallowing in the mire of suffering, give their life a purpose. This is what Prince Siddhattha did and it is what we should do. That purpose is not any old purpose. It is the most important of them all: to wake up to the true nature of things and be free from suffering.

This sense of purpose that comes from following the Noble Eightfold Path goes a long way to reducing our suffering. Never mind where we are on the path; what matters is that we are on it. And knowing that we are heading somewhere – a knowing that is based on what we have already experienced owing to the practice – brings a tremendous sense of relief.

The danger for us, then, is not that we succumb to the purposelessness of it all, but that we get complacent. The layers of trivia easily overlap our sense of purpose. The pantomime quickly engulfs us. And the winner of the X-Factor really begins to matter to us. This serious problem is countered in one way: by reminding ourselves that we will die.

The single most important thing we can contemplate is death. Understandably, people would rather not. But to sweep it under that all too familiar carpet is the golden road to suffering. Blind to the vanity of life people lose perspective: they hold grudges, problems overwhelm them, they waste time, they act stupidly, and they live intoxicated with anger, desire and attachment. Contemplating death ensures these things do not happen. The most important reason for contemplating death, however, is that it gives us a vital kick up the backside: ‘I have this precious opportunity, but it won’t last for long. Don’t waste it!’

When young Prince Siddhattha saw the dead man on his tour of his father’s capital, some accounts state it was the very first time he had seen such a thing. Whether this was really the case we do not know. But even if he had seen a dead body before it does not matter; because it was as though it was the first time. We have all seen dead people, either in the newspapers, on the television, or in the flesh. But have we ever really seen a dead body? Have we seen one and realised: ‘One day I will be like that!’?

This is the thought that jolted the Prince out of his stupor. He understood: whatever I experience, whatever I achieve, however wealthy or famous or loved I become – it is all impermanent and must end in death.

When we see, as the Prince did, the reality of our situation, we cannot help but ask: ‘What is the point? What is the purpose of it all?’

Well, there is no point. There is no master plan, no integral purpose to our being here. We are born because of the coming together of our father’s sperm, our mother’s egg, and the stream of consciousness propelled by craving. Having been born we are then bound to die. In the lightning-flash of an interval between these two points we participate in the pantomime of life – loving and hating, laughing and crying, gaining and losing, being young and being old – all the time crafting habits in thoughts, words and deeds, shaping what will come later on. And then we die, and the whole charade is repeated. It is a blind process for which no beginning can be found; a process that has been going on, and will continue to go on, forever – that is if craving and ignorance remain rooted in the mind.

Our situation is thus a difficult one: to have no purpose; to be born only to die. This state of affairs is not so much a pantomime as it is a tragedy: the tragedy of life.

Now, there seem to be number of ways people respond to this tragedy.

Firstly, they are blind to it. They don’t see further than their Big Mac.

Secondly, they peer above their Big Mac and catch a glimpse of something else. They see there are some serious questions hanging over their head. They do acknowledge that death will take place. They recognise their possessions and relations will not be with them forever. And they wonder if there is some other way to live their life. But then they snap out of it, and plunge their nose back into the gherkins and ketchup.

Thirdly, there are those who have a clear understanding of their situation. They find the pretence of the masses sickening. They are aware of the suffering inherent in life. But they allow this angst to overwhelm them, and they do not search for a solution. They simply rock back and forth in their metaphorical crib, banging their head against the sides – overcome by the purposelessness of it all.

And fourthly, there are those who also have their eyes open, but who, instead of wallowing in the mire of suffering, give their life a purpose. This is what Prince Siddhattha did and it is what we should do. That purpose is not any old purpose. It is the most important of them all: to wake up to the true nature of things and be free from suffering.

This sense of purpose that comes from following the Noble Eightfold Path goes a long way to reducing our suffering. Never mind where we are on the path; what matters is that we are on it. And knowing that we are heading somewhere – a knowing that is based on what we have already experienced owing to the practice – brings a tremendous sense of relief.

The danger for us, then, is not that we succumb to the purposelessness of it all, but that we get complacent. The layers of trivia easily overlap our sense of purpose. The pantomime quickly engulfs us. And the winner of the X-Factor begins to matter to us. This serious problem is countered in one way: by reminding ourselves that we will die.

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New Moon Day: The Four Protections Part 3: Contemplation of the Body

In early 2002, just weeks before we were going to fly to India for our unforgettable tour of the Buddhist holy places, I happened to glance inside my passport. That was a fortunate decision: it was due to expire in the middle of our trip! Being very keen to go to India, but also to return, I hopped on a train with my brother and we bolted down to the Passport Office to get it renewed.

As the train raced through the winter countryside on the way to London, I gazed out of the window while Tim perused a glossy magazine. The first stop for him was the cover, which was graced – naturally – by a pretty woman. Turning and seeing her I asked him:

‘Do you think she’s pretty?’

‘Yup,’ he replied.

‘Imagine her without any eyeballs.’

Silence.

And so we see how easily the illusion of beauty is shattered. One little alteration and a pretty spectacle turns into an abhorrent one. And even if those lovely blue eyes were still nestled into those lovely sockets – what lies two inches behind them? A lovely brain.

The way of the world is to be infatuated with the body. But the way of the world is also the way of suffering. The Buddha’s only concern being suffering and its end, he taught us to take a good and sober look at this body to see what it is actually like. Not what we want it to be like, or what we perceive it to be like, but what it is actually like.

This body is not the desirable thing that our delusions tell us it is: it is a bag of flesh and bones with a large range of other slippery bits and pieces that cause us nothing but trouble. We have to feed it, clean it, wash it, empty it, rest it, keep it warm, keep it cool, keep it out of the rain, keep it out of the sun, keep it free from sickness, care for it when it does get sick, fix it when it’s broken, make it look presentable…

Now can we rely upon a thing such as this? Is it really a good idea to be obsessed with and attached to the body? Can such attachment bring anything but mental suffering and anguish? No. No. And no. But our delusions don’t respond to reason, which is why it is important that we contemplate the other side – to address the balance, to straighten our view.

When we remove the blindfold of delusion we view the body as simply an aspect of nature – not as a self, or a me, or mine – but as an amalgamation of a variety of organs, that each fulfil a particular function, but which will one day break down and fall apart just like an old wooden cart. Seeing in this way obviously goes against the worldly way. But it does not produce suffering, and that is what matters.

Whether we are ordained or lay, if we care for our well-being we will cultivate a more disenchanted relationship to the body. Although some of us may be young and our bodies are in reasonable working order, there will come a time – sooner or later – when they won’t be. And if we are attached to the body when it fails then our mind will fail too.

The Practice

It is a very good idea to include a period of body contemplation in our formal practice. In the method below we imagine parts of the body in neat little piles around us. Don’t worry, we don’t have to get too gory here; let’s just stick to the external bits – the first five in the traditional list of the thirty-two parts. And we don’t need to spend too long on it either; just a sweeping review will cause a sense of dispassion – and therefore peace – to arise.

Before we go any further an important point needs to be made: one must be sensible when approaching this practice, and not everyone will find it beneficial. A person with an angry temperament, for example, may find themselves experiencing strong aversion when focusing on the body in this way. This is obviously not what we are aiming for and in such cases that person would be advised to concentrate on more neutral and supportive practices such as mindfulness and breathing and loving-kindness.

For most people however, a sober perspective is sorely needed. But be careful, or that perspective might just lead you to the monastery gate…

(Forty or so years ago a certain young Thai man was preparing to get married. Dutifully following Thai custom he entered a local monastery to ordain for two weeks. Naturally he followed the routine of the monks – going on alms-round, studying the rules, doing the sweeping, learning the chanting. One of the morning chants in Thai monasteries focuses on the parts of the body. It is a kind of discursive meditation: ‘Head hair, body hair, nails, teeth, skin…’. So there was this young monk, soon to be married and full of the joys of spring, chanting away. However, after going over and over these parts he inevitably began to put two and two together: these body parts, and his fiancé!

Two weeks came. And went. But the new monk didn’t leave the monastery. Forty years later and he’s still in robes. I wonder if the not-so-young lady is still waiting?)

Five Heaps

Back to imagining those five heaps.

Firstly we have head hair. In front of you is a pile of your head hair. Oh, how much trouble people go to over their hair! And yet when you imagine it in a pile in front of you can you say it is beautiful?  What about when you are sitting in the hairdresser and you watch those flowing locks tumble off your shoulders and on to the floor? Do you care for it then?

To the right of that delightful spectacle is your body hair. Here it is – a heap of little hairs of varying lengths, thicknesses and degrees of squigglyness. Would you like to find some of those in your soup?

Next we have nails. Again, often dressed up, sometimes with quite extravagant designs. But what about when they are just lying there – semi-transparent, lifeless pieces of skin-cum-bone. When someone cuts their nails do they feel anything for the cast-offs? Do they think – ‘Oh, what a beautiful bit of nail!’ as it drops into the bin?

And next to the nails we have the teeth. Along with adverts telling you how to lose several inches of flab from your belly, I keep seeing ones for whiter teeth. It’s certainly true that we must care for our appearance. (Indeed, I was a little concerned when I was recently asked by a school kid if I brushed my teeth. I’ve been careful to brush them vigorously ever since to try to counter the effects of strong tea!) But we must remember they’re only teeth. Little oblong pieces of yellowing bone, with a jagged top where they are connected to the gum.

And lastly we have the skin. If there is one part of the body towards which so much lust, desire and delusion is directed it is skin. ‘Oh what soft skin!’ ‘Oh what smooth skin!’ ‘Oh what tanned skin!’ ‘Oh what moist skin!’ ‘Oh what young skin!’. And on and on it goes. But what about if it were heaped up next to you, stripped off like a discarded snake skin? On a typical Forest monk’s day out a few years ago we went to an exhibition in London called ‘Bodies’. It was fascinating. A technique has recently been developed whereby plastic is injected into body parts to preserve them. This was an exhibition of those parts, among which was a complete human skin, lying there, full-length, empty of everything else. It was remarkable. But it wasn’t attractive.

Just a Body

So that’s the body. And, as Ajahn Chah taught us to frequently repeat: ‘It’s just a body’. Very bland, purely functional, nothing special. An aspect of nature that is born, is aging and will die soon enough.

But the way of the world is to not see this. Watch the young models and actors dominating our screens and newspapers. They are principally there because of their looks. But can they depend on those looks? Or will those looks one day fail them? And if those looks do fail them will they suffer? The answer can be found by observing the people who were in exactly the same position as these youngsters 30 – 40 years ago – the Sophia Lorens and Elizabeth Taylors. Here they are, with aging bodies, but still clinging on to the illusion of beauty – getting a lift here, a little tuck there – desperate to retain a fraction of what they once had in abundance. But now it has gone. And they are suffering. Why not just let go?

New Moon Day: The Four Protections Part 2: Loving-kindness

The Fourth Protection: Loving-kindness

To say that loving-kindness is an important teaching in Buddhism is a monumental understatement. It is one of the things that Buddhism is most famous for. Loving-kindness is, of course, a million miles from what most people mean by love – the latter being sullied by attachment and possessiveness and often tainted with lust. Loving-kindness, on the other hand, knows no attachment. It knows no discrimination. And, when perfected, it cannot be undermined by another’s word or action – no matter how abusive. Loving-kindness is therefore a powerful and fearless state of mind; it is no pushover. It is not, as Ajahn Chah said while pulling a soppy face and rolling his head from side to side, all “Icky, icky, icky,” but it is capable of administering the bitter medicine. Most importantly, loving-kindness is steeped in wisdom. Without wisdom there can be no loving-kindness. The benefits of possessing a mind resplendent with loving kindness are, it goes without saying, innumerable, and its position among the Four Protections needs little explanation.

Hatred

Before we contemplate loving-kindness we should spend a moment considering the dangers of anger and hatred. Experiencing hatred is the mental equivalent of swallowing a red-hot iron ball. It burns, it is painful, it is destructive. Blood pressure rises, the heartbeat quickens, the face contorts, the stomach tightens. And if we allow it even an inch it will take a mile and we find ourselves rapidly metamorphosing into a demon, lashing out with our words and fists. How many times has a person got into an argument with somebody when a hammer was a little too close to hand? And then forty strikes and one smashed skull later he’s sitting in a cell that stinks of urine contemplating a life-sentence. Hatred kills our own happiness. It kills the happiness of others. It kills.

Which is why I found myself somewhat shocked the other day after coming across an interview between a devout American Christian and the well known and controversial atheist Christopher Hitchens. Ignorant of the extent of Hitchens’ materialistic views I was looking forward to a juicy and intelligent bit of creationism dismantling. Unfortunately I didn’t get it. (It might have come later in the interview but I didn’t stay around to find out.) Fairly soon into the conversation he launched into a vitriolic attack on the injunction to ‘love your enemy’. Not only did he strongly disagree with this sentiment, insinuating its immorality, but he said that we should actively hate the enemy. I was alarmed. How can an intelligent man think this? Well, intelligence is not the same as wisdom, and the latter is what Mr Hitchens clearly lacks in this respect. If he wants to make the world a better place he’s on the wrong track.

“Hatred does not cease though hatred, only through not hating does hatred cease. This is an an eternal law.”  Dhp.

Thus as we remind ourselves of the destructive nature of anger and hatred our mind turns away from them as a hair recoils from a flame. We then reach towards the soft, warm, and healing light of loving-kindness.

Loving-kindness is steeped in wisdom

Ajahn Chah’s loving-kindness was legendary. Luckily, we are the inheritors of a vast fund of stories that testify to this… There was once an English monk staying at Wat Pah Pong who had been teaching English in Thailand prior to ordaining. After having been in robes for some time he received a letter notifying him of the tax he owed on the money he had earned while teaching. Not knowing what to do he mentioned his situation to various people in the monastery and their reactions were as you might expect: they moaned and grumbled and fobbed the tax collectors off. Then he went to Ajahn Chah to see what he thought. I doubt the monk was expecting this classic response: “You must help them,” said Ajahn Chah. “They have a job to do. You must help them.”

So his loving-kindness was all-encompassing. But how often do we read about Ajahn Chah actually teaching us to develop it? I cannot think of many instances at all. What we do find him constantly teaching, however, is the need to cultivate wisdom. This is because loving-kindness depends on wisdom. Without wisdom there can be no real love. Our loving-kindness will only go as deep as our wisdom, no deeper. And what is wisdom? It is insight into the Noble Truth of Suffering.

Some people feel that the term suffering is a little strong as a definition of dukkha. It’s true, we may want to refrain from using it too much when we introduce Buddhism to newcomers. But when we really begin to look at life, when we really see what life actually is, then we find that suffering is a pretty accurate description! We are born, we age, we get sick and we die. We balance precariously on the crest of the wave of impermanence, where every experience rushes by never to be seen again. We cannot hold onto any possession or person no matter how dear, for they are also swept away by this inexorable law of change. And at any time our life or the life of one close to us can be lost in an instant. How often do we see in the news a story about a family who were on their way to the seaside but never arrived? Did they ever think that could happen to them? Do we think that could ever happen to us? On seeing how all beings are oppressed by this same suffering loving-kindness wells up in us and we cannot help but think “May all beings be happy and free from suffering!”

And because loving-kindness sees that we are all of the same kind: vulnerable beings caught in the whirlpool of ignorance, craving, hatred and suffering, it is unconditional. It does not pick and choose. It does not think ‘I will love this person but not that person’. Just as the sun shares its light and warmth with all beings irrespective of race, religion, sex, gender or class, so too loving-kindness shares its warmth and light with all.

Non-Attachment

Seeing that genuine loving-kindness arises from wisdom, it must therefore be free of attachment. Attachment is a bar to real love. Some people new to Buddhism jump up and down when they hear this. Not long after I went to the monastery a woman whom I had known previously came to meditate with her friend. During tea-time she asked Luangpor this question: “Isn’t it irresponsible to not be attached?” This old chestnut arises because of a lack of understanding of what we mean by non-attachment, as if it is cold, heartless and uncaring. I’ll give an example that involves my mother to show how this isn’t the case.

Naturally she had a hard time accepting my move to the monastery nine years ago. At one point she went as far as saying that I might as well have been dead! But gradually the tables turned and she began to venture here on the odd occasion when I was giving a talk. “Tell me when you’re on,” she’d say. I suspect her interest was not initially in the Dhamma: I don’t imagine she heard a word I said since she was too busy watching me! But her eyes soon closed and the teachings settled in. That, combined with the meditation, inevitably meant changes took place. Then, last November, soon after my brother had left for Australia to find work, she unexpectedly discovered one of those changes when she saw how relaxed and cool she was on his departure. She was not overwhelmed by emotion. She didn’t wallow in a flood of self-pity. In other words, her selfish attachment had been reduced, and with it her suffering.

Can we say this was an uncaring reaction? Can we say it was cold? Of course not, because it wasn’t. It was a wise and sensible reaction that benefitted both herself and her son. After she had told me this we discussed the nature of attachment and how stupid and selfish it is. It is founded on what I want, what I need, how I want to feel, what I want you to do. Attachment is a bar to real love because it centres on ‘me’ and ‘mine’. Loving-kindness in the ultimate sense is blissfully devoid of all notions of self and other.

Under all Circumstances

Are there any circumstances when loving-kindness is to be exchanged for anger and hate? No. The Buddha went as far as to say that even if bandits were to sever you limb from limb with a two handled saw you should maintain a mind of compassion, and that whoever gave rise to a mind of hate would not be following his teaching. This is obviously a tall order: most of us might be slightly put out if we found ourselves in that position! But at least we know where Buddhism stands in terms of retaliation, violence and, especially, WAR. At least we know where to aim in even the most difficult circumstances.

There is a wonderful story of the Chinese Master Hsu Yun showing loving-kindness and compassion even in the face of the most brutal of attacks. He was in his 113th year when his monastery was besieged by a gang of hooligans. Monks were beaten and even murdered as the monastery was raided for money and weapons that the assailants believed were stored there. The master himself was dragged by a group of thugs to a small room and interrogated as to the whereabouts of the booty. But as their accusations were baseless he could only say that there was nothing for them to have. Determined to extract a confession the men pummelled him with their heavy boots and steel poles. As the blows rained down and the old master’s body crumpled to the floor he entered samadhi to escape the pain and to preserve his life. Thinking the master was dead, the group left him sprawled on the floor. His attendants then rushed in, and, detecting warmth in the cheeks of his battered face, sat him up in meditation posture before quickly departing. On returning the following day the thugs were furious to see him sitting up and so the boots and poles began to fly once more. When they came on the third day and found him again sitting in meditation they became frightened and fled.  A week or so after the first attack the attendant monks heard the master groan. He had emerged from his state of samadhi only to become conscious of his pain-racked mangled body. Later on he was asked why he had come back, why he had not just renounced his life and attained Final Nibbana. His motives were loving-kindness and compassion: he couldn’t allow himself to die for it is a terrible karma to kill an enlightened being.

War

And war. Does it really need to be said that Buddhism does not condone war? Apparently, yes. Okay, soooo…. the case for a just war. On your marks. Get set….

A Buddhist country is under attack.

The very existence of the beacon of wisdom and peace hangs by a thread.

Aware that Buddhism will be destroyed if they do not fight the persecutors, the Buddhists take up weapons.

The enemy is thus destroyed and Buddhism saved.

Or was it?

NO. Of course it wasn’t. It was destroyed along with the enemy.

To die with loving-kindness in mind is better than living with blood on your hands.

To say that loving-kindness is an important teaching in Buddhism is a monumental understatement. Without loving-kindness Buddhism would not exist. Loving-kindness is, of course, a million miles from what most people call love; the latter being possessive, wrapped up with attachment, and often sullied by lust. Loving-kindness, on the other hand, is free of all attachment. It does not discriminate. It is not undermined by any word or action – no matter how abusive. It is not, as Ajahn Chah said while pulling a soppy face and rolling his head from side to side, all “Kutchi, kutchi, kutchi,” but is capable of administering the bitter medicine. It is therefore strong, fearless and, most importantly, steeped in wisdom. Indeed, without wisdom there can be no loving-kindness. The benefits of possessing a mind resplendent with loving kindness are, it goes without saying, innumerable, and its position among the Four Protections needs little explanation.

Hatred

Before we contemplate loving-kindness we should spend a moment considering the dangers of anger and hatred. Experiencing hatred is the mental equivalent of swallowing a red-hot iron ball. It burns, it is painful, it is destructive. Blood pressure rises, the heartbeat quickens, the face contorts, the stomach tightens. And if we allow it even an inch it will take a mile and we find ourselves rapidly metamorphosing into a demon, lashing out with our words and fists. How many times has a person got into an argument with somebody when a hammer was a little too close to hand? And then forty strikes and one smashed skull later he’s sitting in a cell contemplating a life-sentence. Hatred kills our own happiness. It kills the happiness of others. It kills.

Which is why I found myself somewhat shocked the other day after coming across an interview between a devout American Christian and the well known and controversial atheist Christopher Hitchens. Ignorant of the extent of Hitchens’ materialistic views I was looking forward to a juicy and intelligent bit of creationism dismantling. Unfortunately I didn’t get it. (It might have come later in the interview but I didn’t stay around to find out.) Hardly had the conversation begun when he launched into a vitriolic attack on the injunction to ‘love your enemy’. Not only did he strongly disagree with this sentiment, insinuating its immorality, but he said that we should actively hate the enemy. I was alarmed. How can an intelligent man think this? Well, intelligence is not the same as wisdom, and the latter is what Mr Hitchens clearly lacks in this respect. If he wants to make the world a better place he’s on the wrong track.

“Hatred does not cease though hatred, only through not hating does hatred cease. This is an an eternal law.”  Dhp.1.5

Thus as we remind ourselves of the destructive nature of anger and hatred our mind turns away from them as a hair recoils from a flame. We then reach towards the soft, warm, and healing light of loving-kindness.

Loving-kindness is Steeped in Wisdom

Ajahn Chah’s loving-kindness was legendary. Luckily, we are the inheritors of a vast fund of stories that testify to this…

There was once an English monk staying at Wat Pah Pong who had been teaching English in Thailand prior to ordaining. After having been in robes for some time he received a letter notifying him of the tax he owed on the money he had earned while teaching. Not knowing what to do he mentioned his situation to various people in the monastery and their reactions were as you might expect: they moaned and grumbled and fobbed the tax collectors off. Then he went to Ajahn Chah to see what he thought. I doubt the monk was expecting this classic response: “You must help them,” said Ajahn Chah. “They have a job to do. You must help them.”

So his loving-kindness was all-encompassing. But how often do we read about Ajahn Chah actually teaching us to develop it? I cannot think of many instances at all. What we do find him constantly teaching, however, is the need to cultivate wisdom. This is because loving-kindness depends on wisdom. Without wisdom there can be no real love. Our loving-kindness will only go as deep as our wisdom, no deeper. And what is wisdom? It is insight into the Noble Truth of Suffering.

Some people feel that the term suffering is a little strong as a definition of dukkha. It’s true, we may want to refrain from using it too much when we introduce Buddhism to newcomers. But when we really begin to look at life, when we really see what life actually is, then we find that suffering is a pretty accurate description! We are born, we age, we get sick and we die. We balance precariously on the crest of the wave of impermanence, where every experience rushes by never to be seen again. We cannot hold onto any possession or person no matter how dear, for they are also swept away by this inexorable law of change. And at any time our life or the life of one close to us can be lost in an instant. How often do we see in the news a story about a family who were on their way to the seaside but never arrived? Did they ever think that could happen to them? Do we think that could ever happen to us? On seeing how all beings are oppressed by this same suffering loving-kindness wells up in us and we cannot help but think “May all beings be happy and free from suffering!”

And because loving-kindness sees that we are all of the same kind: vulnerable beings caught in the whirlpool of ignorance, craving, hatred and suffering, it is unconditional. It does not pick and choose. It does not think ‘I will love this person but not that person’. Just as the sun shares its light and warmth with all beings irrespective of race, religion, sex, gender or class, so too loving-kindness shares its warmth and light with all.

Non-Attachment

Seeing that genuine loving-kindness arises from wisdom, it must therefore be free of attachment. Attachment is a bar to real love. Some people new to Buddhism jump up and down when they hear this. Not long after I went to the monastery a woman whom I had known previously came to meditate with her friend. During tea-time she asked Luangpor this question: “Isn’t it irresponsible to not be attached?” This old chestnut arises because of a lack of understanding of what we mean by non-attachment, as if it is cold, heartless and uncaring. I’ll give an example that involves my mother to show how this isn’t the case.

Naturally she had a hard time accepting my move to the monastery nine years ago. At one point she went as far as saying that I might as well have been dead! But gradually the tables turned and she began to venture here on the odd occasion when I was giving a talk. “Tell me when you’re on,” she’d say. I suspect her interest was not initially in the Dhamma: I don’t imagine she heard a word I said since she was too busy watching me! But her eyes soon closed and the teachings settled in. That, combined with the meditation, inevitably meant changes took place. Then, last November, while driving back from the airport after having said goodbye to my brother before he took off to find work in New Zealand, she was struck by one of those changes. “This is extraordinary,” she thought to herself. “I’m not upset.” She had intuitively grasped the pointlessness of holding on and not letting go. Consequently her attachment had been reduced, and with it her suffering.

Can we say this was an uncaring reaction? Can we say it was cold? Of course not, because it wasn’t. It was a wise and sensible reaction that benefitted both herself and her son. After she had told me this we discussed the nature of attachment and how unhelpful and selfish it is. It is founded on what I want, what I need, how I want to feel, what I want you to do. Attachment is a bar to real love because it centres on ‘me’ and ‘mine’. Loving-kindness in the ultimate sense is blissfully devoid of all notions of self and other.

Under All Circumstances

Are there any circumstances when loving-kindness is to be exchanged for anger and hate? No. The Buddha went as far as to say that even if bandits were to sever you limb from limb with a two handled saw you should maintain a mind of compassion, and that whoever gave rise to a mind of hate would not be following his teaching. This is obviously a tall order: most of us might be slightly put out if we found ourselves in that position! But at least we know where Buddhism stands in terms of retaliation, violence and, especially, WAR. At least we know where to aim in even the most difficult circumstances.

There is a powerful story of the Chinese Master Hsu Yun showing loving-kindness and compassion even in the face of the most brutal of attacks.

He was in his 113th year when his monastery was besieged by a gang of hooligans. Monks were beaten and even murdered as the monastery was raided for money and weapons that the assailants wrongly believed were stored there. The master himself was dragged into a small room and interrogated as to the whereabouts of the booty. Determined to extract a confession the thugs laid into him with their heavy boots and steel poles. As the blows rained down and the old master’s body crumpled to the floor he withdrew into a deep state of samadhi. Thinking the master was dead, the group departed. Immediately his attendants rushed in, and, detecting warmth in his cheeks, sat him up in the meditation posture. On returning the following day the thugs were furious to see him sitting up and so once again the master was pummeled into the ground. When they came on the third day and found him again sitting in meditation they became frightened and ran away. A week or so after that first attack, while patiently watching for a change in the master’s state, his attendants heard a groan. He had emerged from samadhi, only to become painfully conscious of his bruised and swollen body. Later on he was asked why he had come back, why he had not just renounced his life and attained Final Nibbana. His motives were born of loving-kindness and compassion: he couldn’t allow himself to die for it is a terrible karma to kill an enlightened being.

WAR

And WAR. Does it really need to be said that Buddhism does not condone WAR? Apparently, yes. Okay, soooo…. the case for a just WAR. On your marks. Get set….

A Buddhist country is under attack.

The very existence of the beacon of wisdom and peace hangs by a thread.

Aware that Buddhism will be destroyed if they do not fight the persecutors, the Buddhists take up weapons.

The enemy is thus destroyed and Buddhism saved.

Or was it?

NO..Of course it wasn’t. It was destroyed along with the enemy.

To die with loving-kindness in mind is better than living with blood on your hands.

 

Full Moon Day: The Four Protections Part 1: Contemplation of the Buddha

When full moon day was a distant memory: The Four Protections: Part 1

Picture a brilliant rainbow in a clear sky. Now cast your eyes over that great arc and you’ll see a tremendous range of colours: from deep blues, to violets, to scarlets, to oranges, to yellows, to greens. In the same way when we cast our mind over the Buddha’s teachings we find a comprehensive array of meditation techniques: from mindfulness of breathing, to contemplation of the body, to loving-kindness and compassion, to contemplation of one’s moral purity. Why did the Buddha teach such a range? Because he understood the diversity of people’s temperaments: their different tastes, tendencies, abilities and obstacles. As such we require different methods to nurture our strengths and extirpate our faults.

Ajahn Chah’s approach to teaching, as with many of the forest masters, respected this refreshing openness. He compared himself to someone who takes round a bowl of fruit: one person takes an apple, another takes a pear, another takes a banana. In this way, he said, ‘everyone gets fed’.

In contrast we sometimes hear of teachers saying that the method they teach is ‘the only way!’ This approach may inspire confidence in their followers but for some of us it seems quite dogmatic and belies the Buddha’s own approach.

The Four Protections

The Four Protections is the name given to a group of some of the most important meditation objects. Taking time to nurture each one will ensure our practice matures into a well-rounded, balanced and effective one. The four are usually developed together, often as a preliminary to mindfulness of breathing, though at other times one or two will take centre stage when a particular benefit is required. They are called protections as they protect the mind’s welfare and happiness. They guide us away from delusion and towards wisdom. The four are: Contemplation of the Buddha, Loving-kindness, Contemplation of the Body, and Contemplation of Death.

Contemplation of the Buddha

It is common for newcomers to Buddhism to have misconceptions regarding the presence of Buddha statues in our shrine rooms. They may even be reluctant to go into such a room, thinking that we worship these images as idols. This is understandable, but – as we know – far from the truth.

Go into any teenager’s bedroom and you’ll no doubt find his walls plastered with posters. There will be Wayne Rooney tearing across the turf, Usain Bolt in a flash green and yellow lycra, Neil Armstrong gliding across the moon. The child has these posters for obvious reasons: to encourage him, to inspire him, to show him what can be achieved through effort and determination. And if he wants to be a famous footballer or runner they continually remind him of his goal.

And this is exactly why we have statues of the Buddha, and also why we contemplate the Buddha: to encourage us, to inspire us, to show us what can be achieved through effort and determination, and to remind us of our goal.

When we contemplate the Buddha we consider what made him the Buddha, what it was that set him apart. Physically he was really no different from you and me: once a person entered a hall full of monks and among them was the Buddha. The visitor could not recognise him. So it was not his physical appearance that made him the Buddha; nor was it his voice or the many unusual happenings that we associate with his life. What distinguished him was his mind. When we contemplate the Buddha we consider a mind that is very different to our own. But also one that we have the potential to emulate.

The Mountain Peak

We can approach this contemplation from a number of angles, in the same way that you might admire the peak of a great mountain from a variety of positions: each view may be slightly different, but they are all of the same peak.

Perhaps our first view of this lofty peak of the Buddha’s mind should be this: its total absence of greed, hatred and delusion. His epithet, ‘Arahant’, means ‘one who is far from defilement’. We can consider this first as it puts before us a very tangible vision of our goal.

Try to imagine a mind where every shade of desire has been abandoned, where each corrosive form of aversion relinquished – a mind that no longer knows these poisons. When we do this we are beginning to understand the Buddha’s experience. At this point it needs to be said that it wasn’t, as some people seem to think, that he still experienced remnants of desire and aversion but owing to his powerful mindfulness was able to immediately dissipate them, as if his mind were a red-hot metal plate and the defilements drops of water falling on that plate; it was that these corruptions did not arise at all. Indeed, they could not arise, for their root had been destroyed.

A mind free of greed and hatred, and consequently of fear and all other derivatives, is a mind that cannot be overcome by any sight, sound, smell, taste or feeling. It remains unperturbed and detached under all circumstances. There is a story of a Brahmin who went to see the Buddha in order to provoke and anger him. Hurling harsh and abusive speech he only managed to exhaust himself while the Buddha calmly sat there, patiently watching the whole charade. Eventually the Brahman gave up and exclaimed how amazing it was than even as he unleashed this torrent of nastiness the Buddha’s face remained clear and bright.

We can begin to grasp what it might be like to have a mind where greed and hatred are no longer active. This is because we know and see them. But of delusion most of us know very little. We cannot see it as we see with it. It is this total absence of delusion that truly set the Buddha’s mind apart. Greed and hatred would still have been operating had he not uprooted the Big Daddy of Dukkha that is delusion. The word ‘Buddha’ literally means the ‘One who Knows’. What did he know? He knew that all things of this world, of all conditioned existence, from the mountains, trees, and stones, to palaces, bricks and mortar, to every component of his mental and physical makeup, was, without exception, impermanent, unsatisfactory, and without self, soul or substance.

It is this comprehension of last of the Three Characteristics – the absence of any self, soul or substance in anything – that I personally find very inspiring. When contemplating the Buddha I might imagine being in the presence of someone whose mind was free of all notions of ‘I’, ‘me’ and ‘mine’. What would that be like?You would see his body; yet in his state of knowing there would be no delusion that that body possessed, or was possessed by, a self. You would know that in his mind there would be feelings, perceptions, mental formations and consciousness; yet in his state of knowing there would be no delusion that these mental factors possessed, or were possessed by, a self. What would his mind have been like? – I wonder. If any goal is worth pursuing it is this one: to be free of all notions of ‘I’, ‘me’ and ‘mine’.

“The greatest happiness of all is to be rid of the conceit: ‘I am’.”

The Ten Perfections and Mastery of Mind

Gazing at the peak from another angle we can consider his mastery of each of the Ten Perfections. For those of you who don’t know, they are: generosity, virtue, renunciation, wisdom, truthfulness, energy, patience, determination, loving-kindness, and equanimity. When contemplating the Buddha from this perspective we reflect that in terms of developing these perfections there was nothing left for him to do. In other words he could be no more generous, no more wise, no more patient, no more determined, no more virtuous, no more loving, no more equanimous. Think about that.

And then we can consider his mastery of the practice of concentration. There is an account of when he was staying in a barn on retreat. While meditating in a doorway a violent thunderstorm tore across the sky. Great claps of thunder pounded the atmosphere and tremendous bursts of lightning electrified the sky. After it had passed a man went to find the Buddha to see if he was all right. The Buddha, on being approached, replied that he hadn’t noticed the storm. Such were his powers of concentration.

And we witness his mental dexterity as he was about to pass away. Entering the first jhana he quickly passed through to the second, the third, the fourth, all the way up to the ninth – which is the cessation of perception and feeling. It is said this final attainment is accessible only to the Non-returner and Arahant. It is the epitome of mental concentration. At this point Ananda declared that the Buddha had passed away. But the Venerable Anuruddha exclaimed the Blessed One was still alive, but had attained the cessation of perception and feeling. He then arose from that attainment and glided though the preceding eight back to the first, from where he again moved through to the fourth. He then attained Final Nibbana.

These states of concentration, it must be said, are extraordinary achievements in their own right. And the Buddha traversed them with the agility of a young child skipping through the playground.

To have a mind like the Buddha’s

We have admired the mountain peak from a number of view points. There are of course others but I think these are the most breathtaking.

When it comes to actually contemplating the Buddha as a meditation object we can simply recite: ‘The Buddha, the Buddha, the Buddha’, or ‘Buddho, Buddho, Buddho’, or we can imagine a favourite statue or picture, or even what it would be like to be in his presence. And while we do these things we allow our mind to explore and investigate the nature of the Buddha’s mind. Doing this can cause determination and rapture to arise – rapture at the prospect of having a mind such as his, a mind totally free from all defilement, from all sense of me and mine, from all suffering.

From the elements, to compassion, to loving-kindness, to mindfulness of breathing, to the contemplation of one’s purity of virtue: the spectrum of meditation subjects taught by the Buddha is diverse. But why did he teach such a range? For two main reasons, it seems.

Firstly, because people are different. We have different tastes, talents and tendencies, and different obstacles to overcome. As such, one size does not fit all.

In line with this approach, Ajahn Chah’s way of teaching – as with many of the Thai forest masters – was refreshingly open. He compared himself to someone who takes round a bowl of fruit: one person takes an apple, another takes a pear, another takes a banana. In this way, he said, ‘everyone gets fed’.

And secondly, because of our need to work on the mind from a number of different angles; to gain the benefits of a number of different fruits.

The Four Protections

Four of the most popular and nourishing fruits that the Buddha offered us were grouped together in later years and designated the ‘Four Protections’. They are Contemplation of the Buddha, Loving-kindness, Contemplation of the Body, and Contemplation of Death.

Taking time to develop each one of these meditation objects will ensure our practice matures into a well-rounded, balanced and effective one. They are often cultivated as a preliminary to mindfulness of breathing (or whatever our central practice is), though at times we may decide to devote an entire session to them. An individual protection can also be called upon when a particular benefit is required. They are called protections because they protect the mind’s welfare and happiness and ensure that we remain firmly on course for freedom from all suffering.

Contemplation of the Buddha

It is common for newcomers to Buddhism to have misconceptions regarding the presence of Buddha statues in our shrine rooms. They may even be reluctant to go into such a room, thinking that we worship these images as idols. This is understandable, but – as we know – far from the truth.

Venture into any teenager’s bedroom and you’ll no doubt find his walls plastered with posters. There will be Wayne Rooney tearing across the turf, Usain Bolt in a flash of green and yellow Lycra, Neil Armstrong striding over the moon. The child has these posters for obvious reasons: to encourage him, to inspire him, to show him what can be achieved through effort and determination. And if he wants to be a famous footballer or runner they continually remind him of his goal.

And this is exactly why we have statues of the Buddha. And therefore why we contemplate the Buddha: to encourage us, to inspire us, to show us what can be achieved through effort and determination. And to remind us of our goal.

When we contemplate the Buddha we consider what made him the Buddha. Physically he was really no different from you and me: once a person went into a hall full of monks. The Buddha was among them but the visitor couldn’t recognise him. So it was not his physical appearance that made him the Buddha; nor was it his voice or the many unusual happenings that we associate with his life. What distinguished him was his mind. When we contemplate the Buddha we consider a mind that is very different to our own. But also one that we have the potential to emulate.

The Mountain Peak

We can approach this contemplation from a number of angles, in the same way that you might admire the peak of a great mountain from a variety of positions: each view may be slightly different, but they are all of the same peak.

Perhaps our first view of this lofty peak of the Buddha’s mind should be this: its total absence of greed, hatred and delusion. His epithet, ‘Arahant’, means ‘one who is far from defilement’. We can consider this first as it puts before us a very tangible vision of our goal.

Try to imagine a mind where every shade of desire has been abandoned, where each corrosive form of aversion relinquished – a mind that no longer knows these states. When we do this we are beginning to understand the Buddha’s experience. At this point it needs to be said that it wasn’t, as some people seem to think, that he still experienced remnants of desire and aversion but owing to his powerful mindfulness was able to immediately dissipate them, as if his mind were a red-hot metal plate and the defilements drops of water falling on that plate; it was that these corruptions did not arise at all. Indeed, they could not arise – they had all gone, for their root had been destroyed.

A mind devoid of greed and hatred is a mind that cannot be overcome by any sight, sound, smell, taste or feeling. It remains in a state of non-attachment and freedom in all circumstances. There is a story of a Brahman who went to provoke and anger the Buddha. Hurling harsh and abusive speech he only managed to exhaust himself while the Buddha calmly sat there, patiently watching the whole charade. Eventually the Brahman gave up and exclaimed how amazing it was that even as he unleashed this torrent of nastiness the Buddha’s face remained clear and bright.

The ‘One Who Knows’

Greed and hatred we know and see. It is therefore within our reach to begin to contemplate a mind which is no longer disturbed by them. But delusion – the root of those two and of all suffering – is a different kettle of fish altogether. Unlike greed and hatred we cannot see delusion because we see with it. It is only once we begin to lift this veil that we can turn around and say ‘Aha! I was deluded!’, in the same way a fish who has spent his life under water comes up, tastes the air, and says: ‘Aha! I was in water!’ Delusion is not knowing and seeing things as they really are.  It is precisely the absence in his mind of this one thing that made the Buddha the ‘Buddha’ – the ‘One who Knows’.

What, then, did the Buddha know? He knew that all things of this world – of all conditioned existence – from mountains, trees, and stones, to palaces, bricks and mortar, to every sight, sound, smell, taste, feeling and thought, to his own body and mind, was – without exception – impermanent, unsatisfactory, and without self, soul or substance.

It is this comprehension of the last of the Three Characteristics – the absence of any self, soul or substance in anything – that I personally find very inspiring. When contemplating the Buddha I might imagine being in the presence of someone whose mind was free of all notions of ‘I’, ‘me’ and ‘mine’. What would that be like? I wonder.

“The greatest happiness of all is to be rid of the conceit: ‘I am’.”   (Vin. Mv. 1:3)

The Ten Perfections and Mastery of Mind

Gazing at the peak from another angle we can consider his mastery of each of the Ten Perfections. For those of you who don’t know, they are: generosity, virtue, renunciation, wisdom, truthfulness, energy, patience, determination, loving-kindness, and equanimity. When contemplating the Buddha from this perspective we reflect that in terms of developing these perfections there was nothing left for him to do. In other words he could be no more generous, no more wise, no more patient, no more determined, no more virtuous, no more loving, no more equanimous. Think about that.

And then we can consider his mastery of the practice of concentration. There is an account of when he was staying in a barn on retreat. While meditating in a doorway a violent thunderstorm tore across the sky. Great claps of thunder pounded the atmosphere and tremendous bursts of lightning electrified the sky. After it had passed a man went to find the Buddha to see if he was all right. The Buddha, on being approached, replied that he hadn’t noticed the storm. Such were his powers of concentration.

And we witness his mental dexterity as he was about to pass away. Having made a prior determination he entered the first jhana and quickly passed through to the second, the third, the fourth, all the way up to the ninth. It is said this final attainment – the epitome of mental concentration – is accessible only to the Non-returner and Arahant. At this point the Venerable Ananda declared that the Buddha had passed away. But the Venerable Anuruddha exclaimed the Blessed One was still alive but had attained the Cessation of Perception and Feeling. Arising from that attainment the Buddha glided through the preceding eight back to the first, from where he again moved through to the fourth. It was here that he attained Final Nibbana.

These states of concentration, it must be said, are extraordinary achievements in their own right. And the Buddha traversed them with the agility of a young child skipping through the playground.

To have a mind like the Buddha’s

We have admired the mountain peak from a number of view points. In the course of contemplating the Buddha you may find other views that are just as breathtaking.

When it comes to actually contemplating the Buddha as a meditation object we can simply recite: ‘The Buddha, the Buddha, the Buddha’, or ‘Buddho, Buddho, Buddho’, or we can imagine a favourite statue or picture, or what it would be like to be in his presence, or we can read his words and the stories about him. And while we do these things we allow our mind to explore and investigate the nature of the Buddha’s mind. Doing this can cause determination and rapture to arise – rapture at the prospect of having a mind such as his, a mind totally free from all defilement, from all sense of ‘me’ and ‘mine’, from all suffering.