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Venerable Ajahn Sucitto -
Kwan Yin and the Noble Elephant
In the winter of
1986-87; Venerable Sucitto was in Thailand;
during that time he went wandering (tudong) with Venerable
Gavesako. Most of the time was spent in the Isan - the provinces
of Northeast Thailand - but in the following piece, he reflects on another
part of the trip, in Siraja and Ko Sichang. ...
Something in me let go and listened to the sounds of
the world. ..and the silence behind it all seemed to encompass everything. No sound could stain the
silence of the listening mind.
Siraja is not a particularly beautiful town. It's part of
that urban overspill to the east of Bangkok that flows along the coast through
Samut Pakhan and down to Chonburi, oozing along in the wake of the oil and
shipping developments around the Gulf of Thailand. Ajahn Gavesako and I had
decided to go there as part of our tudong trip, in order to get out to an
island called Ko Sichang -The Island of the Noble Elephant. This would be around
Christmas time, which like most festive occasions in Thailand is very noisy, at
least in the more Western-influenced cities. Accordingly, we planned to stay a
night or two at a small monastery that Ajahn Gavesako knew, and then go out to
the island for a few days of living very simply, away from the hustle and
bustle.
It seemed like a good
idea: even before the festival began, life in the city was noisy compared with
the forests of the Isan. The little monastery that we were staying in occupied a
few acres squashed up against a hillside on the outskirts of the city of Siraja;
it wasn't exactly in the heart of town, but it certainly wasn't outside of it.
There was a lot of noise from the streets and from Christmas music being played
very loudly; so after the initial pleasantries with the resident monks, I for
one was quite eager to get away. But of course one has to wait until someone
gets to know of one's wishes and offers to buy a ticket - which may take a few
days.
So one evening we went
down to the seafront and walked out to a small island that was connected the
mainland by a pier. On this island there was one of those Chinese Buddhist
temples, of which there are very many in Thailand, which go in for the more
ritualistic side of Buddhism. In order to obtain good fortune one can make
offerings at shrines in such temples - to the Buddha or to one of the
bodhisattvas, particularly to the Bodhisattva of Compassion, The One Who Listens
to The Sounds Of The World - or Kwan Yin, as she is known in Chinese. I must
admit this supplication to divine agencies has never fitted in with my ideas
about Buddhism; my mind kept turning away from the painted images and the
decorative shrines to the sea, bathed in sunset gold. The serene horizon hinted
of sublime planes, and I found myself more eager than ever to get out to a place
where I could apply myself whole-heartedly to meditation.
By the next afternoon,
unseen wheels had turned and we were able to get a ferryboat out to the island
of Ko Sichang. We landed at a little harbour and walked along the coast of the
island until we came to a more remote area. There we found a fantastic old
ruined temple that had been built in the reign of King Mongkut. It wasn't like
the Chinese temple. Its very decay gave it a certain air of sanctity: there was
a bodhi tree growing up through the roof, and the cracked walls inside were bare
except for a few photographs of tudong bhikkhus, like Venerable Ajahn
Mun. To be in the presence of such images of austerity and dedication to Dhamma
practice was very encouraging. This was the right place, sure enough.
We walked on down to the
rocky seashores, the beaches and the sparkling water. We decided to make the
best use of the situation by separating and practising on our own most of each
day. I had already resolved to fast for the five days that we'd be out there,
because whenever I fast then I find that this gives a clarity to my mind, and a
greater refinement to my attention. The physical energies calm down and level
out and there is less need to sleep.
The weather was beautiful.
December in Thailand is a lovely time of year, hot but not stuffy and sticky;
and then being on an island there were pleasant breezes, so it was quite
idyllic. At night it was warm and balmy and I would sit underneath the
measureless stars meditating with the moon as my only companion. Time stretched
itself out and went to rest. ...
So after a few days of
this I was getting pretty blessed out. Then, I think it was on the third clear
day, I came across a beautiful old wooden palace structure that was half burnt
down, set in grounds with frangipani trees - and that was quite amazing. It was
near the ruined temple, and exploring further I found a cave, which opened, into
the ground. You could walk down inside this great cleft in the ground, which
then opened out to reveal long galleries where you could do walking meditation,
and niches in the rock where you could sit and meditate. Then you could go down
even further until you couldn't see or hear anything; so you could be completely
enfolded in the earth's womb. A hermit's dream!
I thought, 'This is
amazing, this is really wonderful!' And it was the day of the full moon. My mind
immediately constructed the evening confrontation with Mara: I was near the
ruined temple, so I could sit there with Ajahn Mun, or I could go down into the
cave and practise, or I could do walking meditation out under the frangipani
trees with the cool evening breezes blowing and the full moon beaming down.
'This is it,' I thought, 'this is going to be the night when I really get into
some samadhi.'
I was feeling very light,
almost skipping up the slope with expectation, when I noticed some people coming
along - which was kind of strange. They were all dressed in white; then I
recognized that it was one of the anagarikas from the monastery in Siraja we'd
been staying at, and he had some laywomen with him who were also dressed in
white. I quickly realized that they must have come to see us; but I
didn't want to be bothered with polite conversation - particularly as I couldn't
speak the language. However, they'd seen me: I couldn't ignore that, so I
decided to make the best of it, come over, be nice, and hopefully it wouldn't
last too long. We sat down by a big bodhi tree outside the ruined temple and
they had one of those refrigerated boxes with some Coca Cola in it, so I
accepted a bottle and drank some. They started asking questions and talking and
I couldn't get very much of what they were saying. I just smiled and said I
didn't understand and thought that sooner or later Ajahn Gavesako would happen
along. Then he could talk to them, and I could go off and sit somewhere and get
into some samadhi.
But somewhere in the back
of my mind was an anxious voice: 'Why have they come? I wonder what it is?'
Then Ajahn Gavesako came
along. I sat with him for a while, but he seemed quite at ease listening and
talking to them, so I thought: 'We'll just move off.' I started to slip away;
but as I was slipping away he turned around and said: 'Oh, Tun Sucitto, pack
your bag, will you? We're going back.'
My mind stopped: 'Back,
what?' He said, 'We're going back to Siraja.' And I said, 'What for? What are we
going back for?' Suddenly my evening of samadhi dropped away. 'Oh, they've
invited us.' I looked at him questioningly, and he added, 'I don't know what
for. It doesn't matter. They've invited us so we'd better go. It wouldn't be
polite to refuse.'
At that point something in
me stopped. I turned round and walked off and went to where my bowl bag was and
packed my alms bowl with my mind going: 'What do they want? What are we doing? I
suppose we're going back to chant something or another, do some ritual. Why
can't we stay here? We came here for a few days. We were going to go back in a
couple of days anyway. We came here for a few days to practise and now
we've got to go back to the town. What for? What do they want?' But I knew
enough to recognize that resistance in the mind and not to follow it. So I
packed my bag. We walked back from that haven to a road where they'd got a
motorbike taxi to give us a ride out to the little harbour village. We waited
there. I stared glumly at the sea, and then when the ferry came we all packed
into it. The boat lingered for a few minutes, then turned and carried us away
from the Noble Elephant back to the reeking harbour of Siraja.
We returned to the temple
in the city not knowing what for. I went to my kuti, unpacked my bag and sat
there waiting for something to happen. And I sat and waited; and nothing
happened except the sounds of the city swelled as the dusk fall turned into
night. Sounds of the traffic, sounds of the world - and I had to listen to it as
night turned into day. And it being Christmas Eve and Thai people, Christians as
well as Buddhists, enjoying loud music, there were lots of loud Christmas songs
- in English. Perhaps it was because they were in English that it didn't seem to
matter what they were about, because they weren't even Christmas carols that you
could be inspired by. What came rolling into my kuti was Christmas Muzak,
like 'White Christmas' and 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer' - again and again. I
sat there in the night and I sat there in the morning; listening, waiting and
listening to 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer', remembering the full moon, the
ruined temple, Ajahn Mun, and samadhi.
But I did listen; and something
in me got the point. Something in me stopped resisting and became at one with
the way things are. 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer' is quite a reasonable song
actually, when you listen to it a few times; it's got a moral to it. And when
something in me let go and listened to the sounds of the world, it seemed there
was a vibrant silence behind it all. And the silence behind the sound of the
world seemed to encompass and listen to everything. Profound or petty or inane,
no sound could stain the silence of the listening mind; and in that acceptance
was timeless compassion.
Nobody came for us; nor did
anyone come to take us anywhere. They didn't want me to give a talk, do any
chanting, bless anything, go anywhere, say anything. Maybe they were worried
that we were getting lonely. Perhaps they thought we were not getting enough to
eat; I expect the whole event arose out of compassion. But in the end I was
grateful. Whatever the Law or compassionate Bodhisattva that arranges these
events - I have a lot to thank them for. They've always managed to catch me out;
always turned me away from my attachments, and ideas of practice to make me
listen to the way things are. Their emissaries are everywhere. They never let
up.
And perhaps I learnt something
about the Noble Elephant, the symbol of Dhamma practice. The Buddha himself is
likened to the elephant: it's the symbol of the unstoppable aspiration to
Nibbana that keeps going through anything. It is with such an aspiration that a
tudong monk establishes his practice - he inclines to be enduring, to be
resilient, and to be tested by wild and lonely places. In fact for me it's
always been a great pleasure to go to remote places, where I could be alone and
independent. Yet I've also noticed that when I interpret the aspiration too
literally, a mahout climbs on the back of the Noble Elephant. This mahout is
always saying things like: 'I'm going to get into jhana tonight. This is
the real place for practice, if I could stay in this place forever, I'd really
develop.' And he's always asking the practice to come up with something fancy;
like a mahout that wants his elephant to dance and prance and perform tricks.
He's always been a burden, this mahout; and as long as he's driving the elephant
I've never felt that satisfied, even in blissful circumstances. Instead
my attitudes get caught up in trying to prove or attain or hold on to something-
a rather self-conscious striving that finally does not lead to coolness,
detachment or liberation.
Of course, when one lives as a
bhikkhu there are chances to undertake austerities and live alone sometimes, but
the basic standard always entails a relationship with the society. The life is
one of dependence; it's an interface. Yet if the Buddha established the bhikkhu
life for liberation then we should trust the opportunity for selflessness that
it presents. It's a bumpy ride at times, but I've learned to appreciate the
tests of Sangha life, and the enigmatic compassion of The Way It Is: they always
create predicaments where I have to let go.
When I came down from my kuti
on Christmas Eve morning, Ajahn Gavesako was reading a newspaper. 'It says here
there are four babies born in the world every second! ', Better get used
to group practice,' I commented.
Sometimes we need austerities,
sometimes we need isolation, and sometimes it takes a Red-Nosed Reindeer to
awaken us from ourselves.
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