                                          
                                          
                                          
                                PART IX
    
    
  I  make it a practice to wander about during the dry season every 
  year.  I do this because I feel that a monk who stays put in one 
  monastery is like a train sitting still at HuaLampong station -- and 
  everyone knows the worth of a train sitting still.  So there's no way 
  I could stay in one place.  I'll have to keep on the move all of my 
  life, as long as I'm still ordained.
    
    Some of my companions have criticized me for being this way, and 
  others have praised me, but I myself feel that it brings nothing but 
  good.  I've learned about the land, events, customs and religious 
  practices in different areas.  In some places it may be that I'm more 
  ignorant than the people there; in other places and with other groups, 
  it might be that I know more than they, so there's no way I can lose 
  by traveling about.  Even if I just sit still in the forest, I gain by 
  it.  Wherever I find the people know less than I do, I can be their 
  teacher.  In whatever groups I find that I know less than they do, I'm 
  willing to be their student.  Either way I profit.
    
    At the same time, living in the forest as I like to do has given me 
  a lot to think about.
    
    
    1) It was a custom of the Buddha.  He was born in the forest, 
  attained Awakening in the forest, and totally entered //nibbana// in 
  the forest -- and yet how was he at the same time able to bring his 
  virtues right into the middle of great cities, as when he spread his 
  religious work to include King Bimbisara of Rajagaha.
    
    
    2) As I see it, it's better to evade than to fight.  As long as I'm 
  not superhuman, as long as my skin can't ward off knives, bullets and 
  spears, I'd better not live in the centers of human society.  This is 
  why I feel it's better to evade than to fight.
    
    People who know how to evade have a saying:  "To evade is wings; to 
  avoid is a tail."  This means:  A tiny chick, fresh out of the egg, if 
  it knows how to evade, won't die.  It will have a chance to grow 
  feathers and wings and be able to survive on its own in the future.  
  "To avoid is a tail:"  This refers the tail (rudder) of a boat.  If 
  the person holding the rudder knows how to steer, he'll be able to 
  avoid stumps and sand bars.  For the boat to avoid running aground 
  depends on the rudder.  Since this is the way I see things, I prefer 
  living in the forest.
    
    
    3) I've come to consider the principles of nature:  It's a quiet 
  place, where you can observe the influences of the environment.  Wild 
  animals, for example, sleep differently from domesticated animals.  
  This can be a good lesson.  Or take the wild rooster:  Its eyes are 
  quick, its tail feathers sparse, its wings strong and its call short.  
  It can run fast and fly far.  What do these characteristics come from?  
  I've made this a lesson for myself.  Domesticated roosters and wild 
  roosters come from the same species, but the domesticated rooster's 
  wings are weak, its call long, its tail feathers lush and ungainly, 
  its behavior different from that of the wild rooster.  The wild 
  rooster is the way it is because it can't afford to let down its 
  guard.  It always has to be on the alert, because danger is 
  ever-present in the forest.  If the wild rooster went around acting 
  like a domestic rooster, the cobras and mongooses would make a meal of 
  it in no time.  So when it eats, sleeps, opens and closes its eyes, 
  the wild rooster has to be strong and resilient in order to stay 
  alive.
    
    So it is with us.  If we spend all our time wallowing around in 
  companionship, we're like a knife or a hoe stuck down into the dirt:  
  It'll rust easily. But if it's constantly sharpened on a stone or a 
  file, rust won't have a chance to take hold.  Thus we should learn to 
  be always on the alert.  This is why I like to stay in the forest. I 
  benefit from it, and learn many lessons.
    
    
    4) I've learned to reflect on the teachings that the Buddha taught 
  first to each newly-ordained monk.  They're very thought-provoking.  
  He taught the Dhamma first, and then the Vinaya.  He'd begin with the 
  virtues of the Buddha, Dhamma and Sangha, followed by the five basic 
  objects of meditation:  hair of the head, hair of the body, nails, 
  teeth and skin.  Then he'd give a sermon with four major points:
    
      a) Make a practice of going out for alms.  Be an asker, but not 
      a beggar.  Be content with whatever you are given.
      
      b) Live in a quiet place, such as an abandoned house, under a 
      projecting cliff face, in a cave. People have asked if the 
      Buddha had any reasons for this teaching, but I've always been 
      convinced that if there were no benefits to be gained from these 
      places, he wouldn't have recommended them.  Still, I wondered 
      what the benefits were, which is why I've taken an interest in 
      this matter.
      
      c) The Buddha taught monks to make robes from cloth that had 
      been thrown away -- even to the point of wearing robes made from 
      the cloth used to wrap a corpse. This teaching made me reflect 
      on death.  What benefits could come from wearing the cloth used 
      to wrap a corpse?  For a simple answer, think for a moment about 
      a corpse's things:  They don't appeal to anyone.  No one wants 
      them -- and so they hold no dangers.  In this point it's easy 
      enough to see that the Buddha taught us not to take pride in our 
      possessions.
      
      d) The Buddha taught that we should use medicines near at hand, 
      such as medicinal plants pickled in urine.
    
    
    These teachings of the Buddha, when I first heard them, sparked my 
  curiosity.  Whether or not I would benefit from following them, there 
  was one thing I was sure of:  that the Buddha was not the sort of 
  person who would hold blindly to anything, and that he would never 
  teach anything without good reason.  So even if I wasn't totally 
  convinced of his teachings, I should at least respect them.  Or if I 
  didn't yet have confidence in my teacher's ability, I owed it to him 
  and to the traditions of the Sangha to give his teachings a try.
    
    I was reminded of the words of MahaKassapa, who asked to be allowed 
  to follow such ascetic practices as living in the forest, eating one 
  meal a day(going out for alms) and wearing robes made from thrown-away 
  rags all of his life.  The Buddha questioned him, "You've already 
  eradicated your defilements.  What is there left for you to strive 
  for?"
    
    MahaKassapa answered, "I want to observe these practices, not for my 
  own sake, but for the sake of those yet to come.  If I don't follow 
  these practices, who will they be able to take as an example?  If a 
  person teaches by example, the students will learn easily, just as 
  when a person teaches students how to read:  If he has pictures to go 
  along with the text, the students will learn much more quickly.  My 
  observing these practices is the same sort of thing."
    
    When I thought of these words, I felt sympathy for MahaKassapa, 
  subjecting himself to all sorts of hardships.  If you were to put it 
  in worldly terms, you could say that he was already a 
  multimillionaire, deserving a soft bed and fine food, but instead he 
  slept and ate on the ground, and had only coarse food to eat.  
  Thinking of his example, I'd be ashamed to look for nothing more than 
  creature comforts.  As for MahaKassapa, he could have eaten fine food 
  and lived in a beautiful home with no danger of his heart's being 
  defiled.  But -- and it's not surprising -- he was more concerned with 
  benefiting those who came after.
    
    All of these things have given me food for thought ever since I was 
  first ordained.
    
    Speaking of living in the forest, I've learned a lot of unusual 
  lessons there.  Sometimes I've seen death close at hand and have 
  learned a lot of lessons -- sometimes from seeing the behavior of 
  animals, sometimes from talking to people who live there.
    
    Once there was an old man who told me of the time he had gone with 
  his wife to tap tree sap deep in a large forest.  They happened to run 
  into a bear and a fight ensued.  The wife was able to get up a tree in 
  time, and then called down to her husband, "If you can't fight it off, 
  lie down and play dead.  Don't make a move."
    
    When her husband heard this, he came to his senses and so fell back 
  on the ground, lying absolutely still. Seeing this, the bear climbed 
  up astride him, but then let go of him and simply stood looking at 
  him.  The old man lay there on his back, meditating on the word, 
  "//buddho, buddho//," and thinking, "I'm not going to die.  I'm not 
  going to die."  The bear pulled at his legs and then at his head, and 
  then used its nuzzle to push him left and right.  The old man kept his 
  joints loose and didn't react in any way.  After the bear had decided 
  that the man was dead, it left.  A moment or so later the man got up 
  and walked home with his wife.  His head was all battered and bloody, 
  but he didn't die. 
    
    When he had finished telling me the story, he added, "That's the way 
  forest animals have to be.  If you can't fight, you have to play 
  dead."
    
    Hearing this, the thought occurred to me, "No one is interested in a 
  dead person.  Since I live in the forest, I should play dead.  Whoever 
  praises me or attacks me, I'll have to be still -- quiet in thought, 
  word and deed -- if I want to survive."  This can also be a good 
  reminder in the way of the Dhamma:  To free yourself from death, you 
  have to play dead.  This is a good lesson in //maranassati//, keeping 
  death in mind.
    
    Another time, early one morning when I was staying in the middle of 
  a large forest, I took my followers out for alms.  As we were going 
  through the forest, I heard a mother chicken cry, "//Kataak!  
  Kataak//!"  Since she didn't fly away, I figured she probably had some 
  baby chicks, so I sent the boys to run and look.  This frightened the 
  chicken and she flew away over the trees.  The boys saw a lot of baby 
  chicks running around, but before they could catch them, the chicks 
  scurried into a large pile of fallen leaves.  There they hid 
  themselves and lay absolutely still.  The boys took a stick and 
  stirred around in the leaves, but the chicks didn't move.  They didn't 
  even make a peep.  Although the boys kept looking for a while, they 
  couldn't find even a single chick.  I knew that the chicks hadn't gone 
  anywhere.  They had just pretended to be fallen leaves.  So as it 
  turned out, of all those little tiny chicks, we couldn't catch a one.
    
    Thinking about this, I was struck by their instincts for 
  self-preservation, and how clever they were:  They simply kept 
  themselves quiet in a pile of fallen leaves.  And so I made a 
  comparison for myself:  "When you're in the wilds, then if you can 
  keep your mind still like the baby chicks, you're sure to be safe and 
  to free yourself from dying."  This was another good lesson.
    
    In addition to the animals, there are other aspects of nature -- 
  such as trees and vines -- that can set you thinking.  Take vines, for 
  instance.  There are some that don't turn in any direction but right.  
  Observing this, I've made it a lesson for myself.  "If you're going to 
  take your mind to the highest good, you'll have to act like the vines:  
  i.e., always to the right, for the Buddha taught, "//Kaya-kammam, 
  vaca-kammam, mano-kammam padakkhinam//" -- going to the right in 
  thought, word and deed.  You'll always have to go right -- by keeping 
  yourself above the defilements that flare up and consume the heart.  
  Otherwise you'll be no match even for a vine."
    
    Some kind of trees make themselves quiet in ways we can see:  We say 
  that they "sleep."  At night, they fold up their leaves.  If you go 
  lie under them, you'll have a clear view of the stars in the nighttime 
  sky.  But when day comes, they'll spread out their leaves and give a 
  dense shade.  This is a good lesson for the mind:  When you sit in 
  meditation, close only your eyes.  Keep your mind bright and alert, 
  like a tree that closes its leaves and thus doesn't obstruct our view 
  of the stars.
    
    When you can think in this way you see the value of living in the 
  forest.  The mind becomes confident.  Dhamma that you have studied -- 
  or even that you haven't -- will make itself clear because nature is 
  the teacher.  It's like the sciences of the world, which every country 
  has used to develop amazing powers.  None of their inventions or 
  discoveries came out of a textbook.  They came because scientists 
  studied the principles of nature, all of which appear right here in 
  the world.  As for the Dhamma, it's just like science:  It exists in 
  nature.  When I realized this I no longer worried about studying the 
  scriptures, and I was reminded of the Buddha and his disciples:  They 
  studied and learned from the principles of nature.  None of them 
  followed a textbook.
    
    For these reasons I'm willing to be ignorant when it comes to texts 
  and scriptures.  Some kinds of trees sleep at night and are awake 
  during the day.  Others sleep by day and are awake by night.  The same 
  is true of forest animals.
    
    Living in the forest, you also learn from the vapors that each plant 
  exudes.  Some plants are good for your health, some are bad.  
  Sometimes, for example, when I've been feverish, I've gone to sit 
  under certain kinds of trees and my fever has disappeared. Sometimes 
  when I've been feeling well I've gone to sit under certain kinds of 
  trees and the elements in my body have become disturbed.  Sometimes 
  I've been hungry and thirsty, but as soon as I go sit under certain 
  kinds of trees, my hunger and thirst disappear.  Learning from trees 
  in this way has caused me to think about the traditional doctors who 
  keep a statue of a hermit on their altars.  Those hermits never 
  studied medical textbooks, but were able to teach about medicines that 
  can cure disease because they had studied nature by training their 
  minds the same way we do.
    
    Similar lessons can be learned from water, earth and air.  Realizing 
  this, I've never gotten very excited about medicines that cure 
  disease, because I feel that good medicines are everywhere.  The 
  important point is whether or not we recognize them, and this depends 
  on us.
    
    In addition there is another quality we need in order to take care 
  of ourselves:  the power of the mind.  If we are able to keep the mind 
  quiet, its ability to cure disease will be tens of times greater than 
  that of any medicine.  This is called //dhamma-osatha//:  the medicine 
  of the Dhamma.
    
    All in all, I can really see that I've gained from living in forests 
  and other quiet places in order to train the mind.  One by one I've 
  been able to cut away my doubts about the Buddha's teachings.  And so, 
  for this reason, I'm willing to devote myself to the duties of 
  meditation until there is no more life left for me to live.
    
    The gains that come from training the mind, if I were to describe 
  them in detail, would go on and on, but I'll ask to finish this short 
  description here.
    
    
                                 * * * 
                                          
                                          
  Coming now to the present, I've begun work on making Wat Asokaram a 
  permanent base for people yet to come.  On December 5, 1956, while 
  staying at Wat Asokaram, I was given a rank and a title -- Phra Khru 
  of the first order, with the title, "Phra Khru Suddhidhammacariya" -- 
  without my having known or even thought about it beforehand. In 
  December, 1957, I learned that, again without warning, I had been 
  given the rank of Chao Khun, with the title, "Phra Suddhidhammaransi 
  Gambhiramedhacariya," so I have decided to spend the rains at Wat 
  Asokaram ever since.
    
    In 1959 I started feeling ill in the middle of the rains. Thinking 
  of my illness, I began to grow discouraged about living on.  There 
  were days when my thoughts would turn away from my followers and be 
  concerned only with myself alone:  I would see places where I could 
  find quiet and solitude as the highest form of happiness.  Sometimes 
  my illness would recede; sometimes I'd be sick all night long, but I 
  was able to bear with it.  I had sharp pains in my stomach, and there 
  was one day when I ran a very high fever for many hours.  So when the 
  rains were over I came to rest at Somdet Phra Pin Klao Hospital.
    
    My first stay was for three days  -- November 2-5, 1959 -- but after 
  returning to the Wat I had a relapse, and so I re-entered the hospital 
  on Tuesday, November 10.  Since then my illness has slowly subsided.
    
    One day, lying in bed, I thought to myself:  "I want the fact that 
  I've been born to be useful both to myself and to others.  Even if I 
  were to be born into a world where there is no sickness, I'd want to 
  be of use both to the world and to the Buddha's teachings all of my 
  life.  But here I'm sick, so I'd like my sickness to be of use both to 
  myself and to others."  With this in mind, I wrote the following 
  letter:
    
    
      Concerning my food, I don't want anyone to worry.  The hospital 
      has everything I could want.  So if anyone feels inspired to 
      bring food, I ask that he or she take the cost of the food and 
      the amount of money it would cost to bring it here, and use the 
      money to make merit in some other way, e.g. to compensate for 
      all of the hospital's medicine I've used or, if there is money 
      left over, to help pay for the poor and destitute who need 
      hospital care. Wouldn't that be a better way to think?
      
      The building where I'm staying is a special building.  It hasn't 
      yet been opened to other patients.  The doctors have given me 
      the best possible care and attention, without asking for even a 
      single cent.  Therefore, whoever has good intentions should 
      think this over.
      
      In conclusion, I'd like to donate some beds to the hospital as a 
      memento.  Whoever would like to help can contact either me or 
      the Director and Assistant Director of Somdet Phra Pin Klao 
      Hospital.
    
                                         //Phra Ajaan Lee//
                                         Special Room
                                         Somdet Phra Pin Klao Hospital
                                         (The Naval Hospital at Puggalo)
    
    
      (On November 11, 1959, the Naval Hospital at Puggalo received 
      permission from the Defense Ministry to change its name to 
      Somdet Phra Pin Klao Hospital, one day after I was re-admitted.)
    
    
    
    When I had finished the letter, I thought to myself: "At the very 
  least, we should get 30,000 baht to help the hospital."  So I had my 
  intentions announced to my followers, and beginning that very day 
  people started to donate money.
    
    On November 16, a group of people from Samut Prakaan came to see me 
  at the hospital to tell me that (a) there had been another car crash 
  at "Death Curve" on Sukhumvit Road in Bang Ping; and (b) a number of 
  people had seen all sorts of frightening spirits appearing at the 
  curve.  I decided it would be a good idea to make merit and dedicate 
  it to people who had died in accidents along the road.
    
    I went to consult the deputy governor of Samut Prakaan and a group 
  of my followers, and we agreed that we would have to make merit.  The 
  proceedings began the evening of December 18.  A group of monks 
  chanted in a temporary pavilion set up by the side of Sukhumvit Road 
  near the office of the Samut Prakaan Roads Bureau.  Fifty //phaa 
  paas// were presented and the names of the curves on the road were 
  changed as follows:
    
      Bodhi Tree Curve was renamed Bodhisattva Curve.
      Death Curve was renamed Safe Curve.
      Mido Curve was renamed Victory Curve.
      
    This finished, I returned here to the hospital that afternoon, and 
  have continued staying on for nearly a month since. The doctors and 
  nurses have been very attentive and helpful.  For example, Admiral 
  Sanit Posakritsana, the director of the hospital, has been very 
  attentive, bringing food to donate early each morning and looking 
  after me as if he were one of my followers. 
    
    During this period I wrote a book, //A Handbook for the Relief of 
  Suffering//, to be distributed free of charge.  I had no difficulties 
  in having it printed.  Two of my followers helped print 2,000 copies:  
  Khun Nai Lamai Amnueysongkram, 1,000 copies; and Navy Lieutenant Ayut 
  Bunyaritraksa, the other 1,000.  It seems that my aims have been 
  realized fairly well.  For instance, I wanted to collect money to help 
  the hospital, and today -- January 10, 1960 -- as I leave the hospital 
  after staying here 45 days, we've collected 31,535 baht, which shows 
  that even when ill, I can be of use.
    
    Even when I die, I'd like my remains to be of use to those still 
  living.  I've seen one example:  Khru Baa Sri Wichai, who is revered 
  by people up north.  He had made plans to build a bridge across the 
  Mae Ping River, but died before the bridge could be finished.  So some 
  of his followers took his body and placed it in a coffin near the 
  unfinished bridge, with a notice that whoever wanted to help with the 
  funeral, please help finish the bridge first.  In the end, even as he 
  lay there rotting, Khru Baa Sri Wichai was able to be of use to the 
  people.
    
    And so in my life I've aimed at being of use all along, ever since I 
  first went out to practice meditation in 1926 up to the present.  I've 
  taught students in a number of provinces, and have helped set up 
  monasteries for the convenience of Buddhists at large.  In setting up 
  monasteries like this, I've helped in two ways:
    
    1) When my followers had set up monasteries on their own, but were 
  still lacking in some way, I've offered assistance and encouragement.
    
    2) When my friends were thinking of building monasteries but hadn't 
  yet completed them, if they needed monks I'd send some of my followers 
  to live on a permanent basis.  As for monasteries that my teachers had 
  built while passing through from place to place, I've continued 
  visiting and helping train the people living there.
    
    In Chanthaburi there are eleven monasteries I helped to set up.  In 
  Nakhorn Ratchasima there are two or three.  There's one in Srisaket, 
  and more in Surin -- all are friends in meditation.  In Ubon 
  Ratchathani there are many places.  In Nakhorn Phanom, Khon Kaen, 
  Loei, Chaiyaphum, Phetchabun, Prajinburi, Rayong, Trat, Lopburi, 
  Chainat, Tak, Nakhorn Sawan, Phitsanuloke are monasteries where I've 
  taught on a temporary basis, without setting up any monasteries of my 
  own.  In Saraburi I've helped set up one monastery.  Uttaradit is a 
  place where I've trained people while passing through.  Lampang, 
  Chieng Rai, Chieng Mai, Nakhorn Nayok, Nakhorn Pathom and Ratchaburi 
  I've passed through and taught people, but without setting up 
  monasteries.  In Prajuab some friends have begun setting up a 
  monastery in Hua Hin district.  In Chumporn there are two or three 
  monasteries I've helped set up.  Surat Thani I've passed through, but 
  haven't started a monastery.  In Nakhorn Sri Thammarat I stayed for a 
  while and helped start a monastery that has since fallen vacant.  
  Phattalung some of my followers have passed through, but as of yet 
  there's no monastery.  In Songkhla there are a lot of forest 
  monasteries.  In Yala some of my followers have started establishing a 
  base, and I myself have been there twice.
    
    During the dry seasons I've made it a point always to go visit old 
  students of my teachers.  Sometimes I've gone off to meditate on my 
  own.  After I was reordained in the Dhammayut Sect in 1927, I spent my 
  first Rains Retreat in Ubon Ratchathani province.  I then spent the 
  rains in Bangkok at Wat Sra Pathum for three years, then one rainy 
  season in Chieng Mai, two in Nakhorn Ratchasima and one in Prajinburi.  
  After that I built a monastery in Chanthaburi and spent fourteen Rains 
  Retreats there.  From there I went to India, where I spent one rainy 
  season.  Returning from India, I passed through Burma and then spent 
  the rains at Wat Khuan Miid in Songkhla province.  After that I 
  returned to Chieng Mai for one rainy season, and then spent three 
  rainy seasons at Wat Boromnivasa.  Since Somdet Mahawirawong (Uan)'s 
  death, I've gone out to spend four Rains Retreats at Wat Asokaram, the 
  fourth Retreat being in 1959.
    
    As I dictate this, I'm lying in bed at Somdet Phra Pin Klao 
  Hospital, Thonburi.
    
    
    
                            * * * * * * * *
