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Venerable Ajahn Medhanandi -
The Food of Kindness
For if you
should enter the temple
for no other purpose than asking
you shall not receive.
And if you should enter into it
to humble yourself
you shall not be lifted;
Or even if you should enter into it
to beg for the good of others
you shall not be heard.
It is enough that you enter the temple
invisible.
Kahlil Gibran: The Prophet
My alms
bowl is central to my life. A symbol of the Theravada Buddhist monastic
tradition in which I trained, it is the soul of my mendicancy coming
empty-handed before the laity to receive material nourishment and
responding to their generosity. Sometimes that means reciprocating with
a teaching from the Buddha, sometimes with a blessing chant or simply an
expression of gratitude and kindness.
I am a beggar, and I must also be true. It is not easy to be a true
beggar. I have to be worthy to be fed by the kindness of others and have
all my needs provided. This way is rare and precious, as are acts of
generosity in a world so driven by greed and selfishness.
Cultivating the spiritual path with integrity demands much of a beggar,
primarily a faithful allegiance to the Vinaya, the code by which
I live, as well as a sincere appreciation and respect for my supporters,
their devotion and hard work to obtain, prepare, and bring offerings
even at considerable sacrifice. It also calls for contentment with
little a simplicity of being and a commitment to renounce on many
levels.
These qualities develop through a vigilance of heart that is difficult
to practise in a large, well-funded institution. In those days when my
monastic requisites, especially meals, were complete, assured, and
generally abundant, I used self-abstinence to remind myself of the value
of all that was given to us. On occasion, we also went on tudong
or walked for alms in the nearby villages, accepting whatever we
received as our meal for the day. But these were temporary privations
not a sustained way of life. They bore the flavour of heroic adventure
but could hardly reflect the daily grind of spiritual endeavour.
It was only after I left the mother monastery to live on my own in New
Zealand, a non-Buddhist country, that I came to know true choicelessness,
at times facing physical hunger or a powerless isolation. This propelled
me into a level of faith not demanded of me before, especially on days
when I received very little, if anything, that would serve as a meal.
And so I learnt to meditate on the emptiness of my bowl consciously
relinquishing desire for food and accepting hunger. Bearing hunger with
faith led me beyond des-pair to a gratitude and joy for what I did
receive a feeling of fullness that was not borne of food.
These hardships ripened me. I have gone hungry. But I have been able to
keep going because every part of my body is made up of the
loving-kindness from generous people who have cared for me for years and
years, and my life is composed of pure kindness and thanksgiving.
Now, in my passage through Malaysia, I have again taken the opportunity
to walk pindapat in the local market of Penang where it is surprisingly
easy to beg. I knew I would be well-fed. With my bowl secure in its
harness around my shoulder and cradling it in my palms, I stood between
the main fruit and vegetable vendors and rows of flimsy stalls that
display a collage of baby clothes, ladies' handbags, jewellery,
household items, and colourful trinkets.
I chanted for each person who stopped to make offerings. Within minutes,
my bowl was weighed down with fruits, biscuits, pancakes, rice and
coconut delicacies, and fried noodles each wrapped in a colourful
plastic bag.
The early Sunday morning shoppers, primarily local Chinese, know what to
do when they meet someone in robes going for alms. In this society,
Buddhist nuns rarely go pindapat, and the monks who beg often
accept money. Today they saw a nun a foreigner receiving only
offerings of food into her bowl.
Word spread. Whenever people tried to give money, I had to be quick to
cover my bowl with my hand. Amazed, they returned with sweetmeats,
sticky rice, or fruits. More came, and when my bowl was brimming, they
piled their offerings into a growing collection of pink plastic bags at
my feet. With all this attention, I was distracted from my normal
practice of focusing on the bowl and meditating on emptiness.
The first time someone knelt and made anjali, I quickly removed
my sandals before chanting a blessing, Sukhi hotu, avera hotu,
abhayapaja hotu. I had not wandered out barefoot as the Buddha would
have done because of the rubbish everywhere but it felt wrong to receive
her respect wearing shoes. Remembering how I had thrown off my sandals
and walked the filthy streets of Yangon last year to beg for alms
inspired me to be barefoot again.
I continued to stand, softly chanting to myself the
Dhammacakkappavattana Sutta and giving blessings each time someone
placed more food in my bowl. I felt the turning of the wheel of Dhamma
and reflected on the thousands of years that this way of begging and
receiving has nurtured the faithful. And here again, it was being upheld
by simple acts of kindness now a child with a bag of fried rolls, now
a woman with jackfruit, now an Indian man curious to know from which
country I hailed.
Some asked whether to place their offerings directly into the bags at my
feet when they saw the bowl overflowing. I wanted at least to accept
each offering with my hand if I could not in my bowl, and so create a
sense of connection and relationship, chant a blessing, and bear witness
to their kindness.
It was in one of these moments between the overflow of the bowl and the
rush of generosity that I suddenly felt a hypocrite. I was well-fed,
staying with my devotee, lacking nothing, and the bags were spilling out
beside me. What right did I have to stand there and beg? How could I
dare hold my bowl out to be filled again and again when so much had
already been given? What right did I have even to begin to beg?
Stifling and sweating in my robes, these questions crowded my mind. I
remembered the story of the 'Sorcerer's Apprentice' who tried to clean
while the brooms multiplied and kept bringing more water. It seemed
absurd to be juggling so many bags of food when I had no hunger in my
belly.
Not even half an hour had elapsed. Embarrassed, anxious, and feeling
unworthy of receiving the tide of generosity, I fretfully looked about
hoping my devotee would return soon to collect me. And then, to calm my
mind, I began to chant more loudly.
Contemplating the Four Noble Truths, I watched the feet of all who
passed sandals of every colour and style, high heels and broken shoes,
human beings of all ages, shuffling, hobbling or brisk in pace. Looking
at their faces, I saw the bent, disabled, and healthy, the dishevelled
and well-dressed, the shrivelled and overweight, smiles and frowns, worn
and distracted expressions, mothers, infants, a father grasping the hand
of his small son, bicycles and litter, traders shouting and the smells
of the market, the world the World.
My heart grew bright with compassion. I knew that I was standing there
to let my bowl be filled again and again by those who love Truth. Hungry
or not, I had every right to receive what they freely gave.
I was not abusing that beauty because it was not for me that they filled
the bowl. I was a beggar for love of that blessedness, and the filling
and emptying of my bowl was the natural process of each of our lives
being remembered and honoured in random acts of kindness.
I receive and I give back.
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