"What should I do?" I asked the Mahathera. That was just after I'd arrived at the Hermitage.
"Do? What do you mean, do? You want to know how to meditate? How to observe the dasa sila?"
"No, bhante, I mean, what are the daily tasks here? Polishing the Buddharupa, or cleaning the danasala, or clearing back the jungle. I mean, is there anything I'm expected to do?"
"Clear back the jungle?" The Mahathera looked at the brambly forest surrounding us. "Where would you clear it back to? Or do you mean the jungle of the mind? Perhaps that's what you wanted to clear back?"
"What I meant was, what's expected of me here?"
"Nothing. The only demands made on you here are the one's you make on yourself. There are no daily tasks. Of course, if you want to do something you can always find work to be done. But the Samitiya pays the servants, and the dayakas help too. No, there's nothing you're supposed to do here except practice the Dhamma. Nothing at all. Unless you feel like sweeping leaves off the paths. There's no end to that kind of work."
But I didn't want to sweep leaves off the path, so I returned to my kuti, to books which I hoped would tell me what I should do.
Monks, apply yourselves to meditation, they advised. The monk who meditates knows things as they really are.
Every few days I returned a stack of books to the library and took out another stack, equally tall, to pore over.
One thing, I read, if developed and made much of, leads to great benefit, to great release from burden, to mindfulness and awareness, to the attainment of vision and knowledge, to a happy abiding in this very life, to the realization of the fruits of knowledge and deliverance. What is that one thing? It is mindfulness on the in- and out-breaths.
I'd devoted a few days -- and nights -- to puzzling over Ven. Ñanavira's book, Notes on Dhamma, and found much of it difficult. (I too, he'd written in a letter, find it difficult sometimes.) What I could understand of it I appreciated, but it was vastly more imposing, more compressed and concise, than his letters, and because of its tone of authoritativeness and precision lacking too in the wit and transparency of the letters.
I re-read the letters, then returned to the Suttas.
"Herein, a monk sits down cross-legged with the back erect. Placing attention on the face he inhales mindfully, he exhales mindfully. When he breathes a long breath he knows, 'I breathe a long breath.' When he breathes a short breath he knows, 'I breathe a short breath.'"
I'd tried to learn what I could from books on Hinduism, but they only bored me, and I put them aside. Some of the Mahayana books amused me (especially the Zen artists), some mystified me, most left me cold. I returned to the Suttas, about which I was becoming knowledgeable.
"Here a monk masters Dhamma. He spends the day in that mastery. He neglects solitude and does not devote himself to development of calmness. That monk is called 'Full-of-lore,' but he does not live by Dhamma."
What was I going to do, then? How much more time would I devote to reading advice that I should give up reading that advice? And what would I do otherwise? Slide back into sensuality? Rake leaves?
"And what, monks, is the aim of the life of the recluse? The destruction of lust, the destruction of hatred, the destruction of delusion are the aims of the life of the recluse."
I sat on the chair by the table and looked around. On the wooden mattress-less bed were several books, one of them open, spine up. On the table were almsbowl, vacuum flask, flashlight, matches, kerosene lamp, papers. A pile of books was in one corner. Against one wall some shelves were filled with papers, robes, books, and an oblate-shaped leaf fan. A broom stood in one corner; a water jug in another. On the cement floor were scattered several paduras, straw mats.
"Monks, here are the roots of trees; here are empty places. Meditate, monks. Do not be neglectful lest you regret it later. That is our instruction to you."
The root of a tree was hardly possible in a place as mosquito-plagued as the Hermitage, but perhaps an empty place could be arranged. To start with I stacked up all the books, tucked the pile under my chin, and carried it off.
One of the monks was sweeping leaves on the path near the library. He stepped aside to let me pass.
"Where are you going with all those books?"
"I'm taking them back to the library."
He looked at the stack of books I carried, then at the pile of leaves he'd gathered. "Some are leaf-people," he observed, "and some are book-people." And he returned to his sweeping.
I took the bed out of the kuti too, and the table and chair, and kept only the paduras on the floor. On the shelving I left only what was clearly essential: a lamp, the requisites of the monk, Ven. Ñanavira's letters ...
More papers. Did I really need them? I thumbed through the letters one last time, asking myself each time I read a few lines whether I could get along without them. Each time the answer was the same. I gathered up the papers and disposed of them. Then I returned to the kuti, empty now of distracting objects, sat down on the paduras, crossed my legs, straightened my spine, put the attention on the in- and out-breaths at the tip of the nose and, at last, began to meditate.
* * * * *
... mindfully a long breath in and mindfully a long breath out; mindfully a long breath in and mindfully a long breath out; mindfully a long breath in and mindfully an itching toe; oh no, oh no, an itching toe, and should I scratch it? maybe so; try not to, though; back to the nose: mindlessly that itch arose; gotta scratch it: hold back, slow: better wait and meditate and mindfully a long breath in and ah, that's better, heed your breath, forget about everything else and mindfully a long breath out; mindfully a long breath in and mind, you're getting really good: concentration's where it's at, calmness, insight, all of that is better than a wandering mind, uncontrolled and unrefined, dreaming dreams of ... whoops! where is it now? oh, there: a long breath out; mindfully a long breath in and mindfully oh no! oh no! it's back again, that itching toe which bothered me; I'll scratch the itch, but mindfully; scratch with mindfulness and then back to the practice once again; oh, that's nice, that feels good, but now the itch is on top of my foot and if I scratch it there it's just gonna move up my leg and I'll spend the next ten minutes on a body rub and I'm supposed to be meditating, I'm on company time.
Is there a mosquito in here? Is that why my toe itches and -- oh, that feels so good -- the tops of both feet itch so much? And now my back itches too, I'll scratch it a little, ooh, nice, okay, too bad there's all these distractions from the practice because they're so ... the practice! You've forgotten it! How can you be so mindless? Back to it:
... mindfully a long breath in and mindfully a long breath out; mindfully a long breath in and mindfully a long breath out; mindfully review your face, relax those muscles and erase the lines of tension that compete for your attention; no distress: everything is peaceful; rest but do not doze; meditate upon the nose as each breath passes in or out the nose-tip just observe it; don't react, just heed fully a long breath out; mindfully a long breath in and mindfully a long breath Shit! there is a mosquito in here, I can hear it whining. Hunt it down? No, let it be. If it comes around to me I'll just have to -- breathe in -- to catch it, but as long as -- long breath out -- as long as it doesn't bother me I'll leave the legs crossed, try -- mindfully -- to keep it up, meditation, long breath out, mindfully a long breath in and mindfully ... mindfully ... mindfully ...
My mind emptied (quiet, weightless, steady, void): it was no longer filled with thoughts about, there was only awareness of, and not even awareness of the breathing now, but of a tiny cool spot of space somewhere in front of my face, quite distinct from awareness of the breath. There was a steadiness to it, a fineness, a silken coolness that was altogether pleasant, but the pleasure of which I had to ignore. For as soon as the thought, "pleasure," arose that very thought filled the voidness of which that silken cool spot was the shell. The impalpable joy of voidness was dispersed by thinking about it. It was very shy, this elfin nothingness that so attracted me; it required a great deal of patience to find it.
Some sessions seemed fruitless: I never got past mindfulness of the breathing. In some sessions this spot, this nimitta, never became refined enough. But this one had been good, no thoughts about at all, not even an undercurrent, no wavering. Then this cool emptiness of a spot winked once and vanished back into mindfully a long breath in and mindfully a long breath out, and I knew that I would have to rest shortly anyway because the effort of concentrating so intently for so long a time -- maybe a whole minute -- was exhausting.
For a while I sat still, my mind flickering between moments of concentration (on that spot, the nimitta) and minutes of mindfulness (of the breath), and then outside thoughts began pressing in. The mind was satiated. It was time to stop sitting and walk for a while.
The set of my shoulders dropped slightly; I relaxed for a while, then grasped hold of my feet and lifted my legs out of the lotus position. They'd long since grown numb beyond the point of tingling and I stretched them out now in front of me, waiting for feeling to surge in and subside before I would walk on them. I looked at the leaves of the jungle just outside the window screens, mostly observing, just a little thinking about. Occasionally I became aware of some feeling somewhere on the body, but did nothing about it. In another minute I'd get up and pace for a while; then I'd sit for another session. When I was tired of walking I could sit. When I could sit no longer I would walk. The mind was no longer so filled with grappling hooks, and I was content with just that much.
With poor control, in one unchecked,
sensualities collect.
A mind well-tamed the wise extol,
and pleasure comes from mind's control. (Dh. 35)
* * * * *
I looked over the list of dhutangas and, as if I were shopping in a supermarket, selected those that appealed to me. Never-lying-down: that sounds formidable. Lately I've been crashing out after those huge danas the dayakas bring. I've got to develop more energy somehow. This Dhamma is for those who strive unremittingly for alertness. Maybe I'll give it a try, see if it helps. Then there's eating but once a day. If I pass up breakfast, though, I'll only stuff myself more at noontime. Besides, I don't think I'm ready for it now. Better pass on that one; maybe later on.
Here's a couple I just can't do: accepting only almsfood and wearing only rag robes. Between the accusations of putting on airs and concern that, poorly fed and poorly dressed, I was a disgrace to the Island's supporters, I'd be caught in a withering crossfire. On the other hand there were two freebies: not living in a village and having only one set of robes. The Hermitage wasn't a village, and I happened to have (and need) just the three robes. The robes (as I tried to remember each time I put them on) weren't for adornment or beauty but only as protection from insects and elements and as a covering for decency's sake. For that, one set of robes was adequate.
Then there were three I wasn't even going to try: dwelling only at the root of a tree, dwelling not even at the root of a tree but only in dewy places, and dwelling in any chanced-on place. That last one, that was for wanderers, carika monks, who traveled about on foot with no fixed abode except during the rainy season. My abode was settled: I was Hermitage monk.
What else? This one might be interesting, eating only twenty-one bites. That would help me cut down on noon danas. Of course I'll allow myself breakfast, too. All I'm given for breakfast; twenty-one bites for lunch: that sounds right. And -- hmm -- sleeping in a cemetery? That's intriguing. Doesn't sound too difficult either. I don't think I'd be scared.
There's no dangerous wildlife about except a few snakes, and for that I've got the mongooses to protect me. The mosquitoes would be nasty, though: I'd have to get hold of some repellent or some netting.
Reading further I learned that there had been a scandal in the Buddha's day when a monk was accused of taking part in a burglary because no one could vouch that he'd gone to the cemetery merely to spend the night in meditation. That was when a rule was made that before spending a night in the cemetery someone has to be informed. All the others were to be done privately, lest they be a cause of conceit; only this one had to be pre-announced.
There was a cemetery on the island, complete with two graves. One of the graves was that of Ñanatiloka, the German bhikkhu who, in 1911, had founded the Hermitage. Not many people seemed to get buried here.
The next time I saw him I told the Mahathera that it was my wish to spend the next night in the graveyard.
He looked at me sharply: "No, you're not going to spend any nights in the cemetery." The idea upset him: I could tell.
"But bhante ..."
"Why do you want to do such a thing?"
"Because ..." I wasn't sure. "To practice mindfulness of death."
"Why can't you do that in your kuti? Americans always do crazy things. Then you'll go tell people you sleep in the cemetery. That's no good. We don't want any of that here."
"But bhante, I wouldn't tell other people. I'm telling you, nobody else. The rule says I have to tell another monk. And I need some mosquito netting."
"No. You're not going to sleep in this cemetery."
And I didn't.
I didn't pass a night without lying down either. I tried it for five nights, sitting or standing. If only there'd been a way to prop up my head it might have been possible. But as I dozed my neck sagged into an awkward position and kept me on the border of wakefulness. My arms hung heavily from the shoulders. The body became such a hindrance to the solid sleep the mind craved that at last, at some dismal hour of the morning, I relented and stretched out, lying down with luxurious relief. I surrendered to comfort and slept deeply for the few hours that remained of the night.
I didn't restrict myself to twenty-one mouthsful, either. I ate slowly, or tried to. I mindfully formed the rice and curry into a ball, mindfully raised it to my mouth, and mindfully flicked it in. And only when I'd mindfully lowered my hand and was otherwise unoccupied, only then would I slowly chew and swallow the food. And I would reflect, or try to, that the food was only for maintaining the body so the practice could be continued. I tried to practice the perception that food was a loathsome mass that I saw otherwise only through the distorting lens of my desires, while my stomach sent up gurgling grinding digestive messages through the gullet, "More! More!" and my whole innards were set to trembling with craving for food that wasn't arriving quickly enough. Only after I'd swallowed would I mindfully allow myself to begin making up another riceball.
I counted each handful carefully. Nineteen ... twenty ... twenty-one. That's it. That's it? Really? But I've hardly begun. I looked hungrily at the mess of rice in the almsbowl. Why fight biology? I decided to take more. Say, twenty-five or, no, that's only four more bites, say, thirty mouthsful, that's nine more. And when I'd eaten the nine more bites of food I regarded the plate of fruit and sweets that had also been set out and wondered why I subjected myself to this ordeal by hunger. Was it really possible to overcome desire, to be content with little, or even nothing at all? Or was I just playing games with myself, to see how much I could take?
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