If you look carefully at the picture above you will spot in the middle of the flames, about one third down from the top of the brick structure, a cracked oval object. It is the top of a human skull, and just a few hours before this photo was taken it was covered in skin and hair.

This was one of about five rural Issarn cremations that I witnessed while staying at Wat Pah Nanachat, the ‘International’ Forest Monastery in Thailand. Issarn is how Thais refer to the Northeastern provinces. It’s where the vast majority of the great forest monks hail from, and where Ajahn Chah spent most of his life. And it’s where the tradition of disposing of bodies on an open pyre still burns strong. It might sound a little odd to the uninitiated, but being able to observe these fascinating spectacles was one of the highlights of my sixteen month stay. I’ll explain why.

All of our problems are rooted in a misunderstanding of the true nature of things, which includes, in no small part, our bodies. Because of this misunderstanding we cling onto the body as if it were ours: we see it as something solid, real and lasting. And so we live at odds with the body’s changing nature. We fight pain, illness, aging and death – our own and that of those around us. But it’s a losing battle: the more we fight, the more we suffer. And even if we are young, to balance on the house of cards of ‘good’ health without realising the precariousness of our situation is to store suffering for later on. With the ephemeral nature of the body so apparent, why do we cling onto it as if it were a reliable thing? Why do we invest such time and effort into dressing up a bag of bones that’ll be crumbing in a few years? Because our minds don’t see clearly.

Which is why observing a cremation can be so fruitful. The Buddha advised us to contemplate the body in various ways, from breaking it down into the four great elements; to analysing the many foul parts it encases; to observing a dead body and reflecting: ‘My body too is of the same nature. It will be like that; it is not exempt from that fate!’ And so by frequently contemplating the body in light of these truths we align our minds with the true nature of the body: we come to terms with change, with ageing and death. We gradually release the pressure of the sense of self by seeing that the body is but an aspect of nature and that it doesn’t belong to us. This is what we mean by seeing clearly, and it results in one thing only: letting go and thus peace.

On the afternoon of a typical cremation that I attended the monks and local villagers would gather at about 2 pm. The whole event is very much rooted in the core practices of giving, morality, and mental cultivation (dana, sila, bhavana), making the most of the fertile ground a cremation provides. Firstly, the laity will take the precepts, after which they will make offerings to the Sangha. Then there will be some chanting followed by a talk. The funeral Dhamma talk, far from dishing out some mollifying wacky fairy tale, is a call for us to live in harmony with the nature of things, and that to understand and not fight change is the way to peace and happiness. But it’s not a cold, hard merciless pouring of brutal words on tender spots – not at all. The Issarn funeral Dhamma talk is often replete with an earthy and warm humour. Humour and truth – a most powerful combination.

Then the fire is lit, and almost the entire congregation, including young children, gathers and watches as the flames begin to consume the coffin. A good monk friend of mine at Nanachat told me that by the time a typical local village boy is twenty he’ll have seen about that number of open-air cremations. Can you imagine that? Yet what a way to grow up; what a healthy and natural exposure to life’s great truth. Compare that to the heavy smothering of reality that is our culture’s suspicious response to death. But here it is in the open, for all to see, regardless of age: this is the nature of life; this is the nature of the body. It’s normal.

Each time I watched a cremation the coffin had been a cheap, flimsy affair and it fell apart rather quickly, so the corpse was revealed early on. Most of the villagers didn’t tend to stay around once the fire got going, which meant that we monks were left to contemplate the burning body. Before the flames became too hot we took it in turns to climb the steps flanking the body to observe the process. It’s fascinating. What is this body? A piece of meat: the skin of a thigh split open and sizzling yellow fat pushed though, just like a sausage cooking in a frying pan. What is this body? Earth, water, fire and air: an arm stiffened and raised; the hand curled and shriveled and hardened – liquid dripped from the fingertips back into the flames only to evaporate. What is this body? Selfless: it didn’t feel anything, it didn’t cry, and it wasn’t afraid…

Thus the body was revealed in its true nature: it is a part of nature. Oh the relief! Oh the joy at beginning to realise this! The water permeating our body is as much you and me as that which the tree drinks from the earth. Our teeth are as much ours as the bleached shells on the beach. None of it belongs to us. How can we be afraid of change and death when we see the body in this way? How can we view it as ‘me’? But it takes time for these truths to blossom in our minds. It takes frequent contemplation and reflection to steer the stubborn veils of delusion away from our mind’s eye.

Most people reading this are 7000 miles away from an Issarn cremation, which is a shame. So we must settle for using our imaginations. Picture your body dead: is it you? Visualise your teeth and skin and bones in piles around you: are they yours? Be mindful of the pain in you back: is it under your control? All of this might sound a tad morbid, but it’s actually very healthy. It’s simply a matter of coming to terms with the nature of our body so that we give up the painful and futile battle of wishing it were otherwise.

 

 

 

I’ve just added a new page where I’ll put up my Dhamma Talks, mostly from Wednesday nights at the Hermitage.

A new post on my Thai experience is almost ready…

And so here I am, back in Britain.

Yes, after sixteen months in the Land of Thai my lungs are now supping fresh March English air. Mmmm. In one sense there’s not too much to say about my time over there; after all, places may change but the practice remains the same. And I stupidly forgot to leave all of my defilements in England! However, there are a few experiences and thoughts I’d like to share, beginning with this one:

A King under my Kuti

Towards the end of December, 2011, after having spent my first six weeks at a monastery in the mountains of Korat, I arrived at Wat Pah Ampawan in Chonburi Province for a three week stay. It’s a very quiet – sabbai - forest monastery nestled among verdant green hills, with a large lake separating the old and new areas of the wat. I stayed on the new side in a recently built (though powerless) traditional wooden kuti on metre high stilts. Just beyond a good stone’s throw from there, flanked by palm trees and overlooking the lake, stood the imposing Abbot’s kuti, where the Venerable Ajahn Jundee resides.

One warm night (a recurring theme in Thailand…), at around 7 pm, I was meditating in my kuti when I heard something moving through the dry leaves just outside my window. ‘What could it be?’, I innocently wondered. So, grabbing my torch, I sallied forth to investigate. Little did I know what creature of the night had come to say hello.

I saw its tail first: it was dark brown and pretty thick. It clearly belonged to a large snake that was currently disappearing behind the far corner of my kuti. I was about four metres away. Hardly had the tip of its tail slipped from view when the other end of the snake emerged at the same corner to investigate the torchlight. Its head and neck, perpendicular to the rest of its body, were reared up two feet off the ground. Its large distinctive hood was open. It paused and faced me. My mouth dropped; my eyes bulged. It couldn’t be. It was.

Being from England, where the most lethal animal is a grumpy hedgehog, I’m not too familiar with the deadly snakes of Thailand, but in this case it took me all of half a second to realise that I was face to face with nothing less than a King Cobra.

I won’t tell you exactly which words exploded into my mind at that moment, but I was excited – oh yes, and in awe, and quite unsure of what to do. And so I just gazed, transfixed. He (or she) gazed back. But I did not feel threatened, and so I was not afraid. I felt honoured. This noble being – so rarely seen by man – had come to visit, and he (or she) was not in a hurry to go away. On the contrary, after eyeing me up for a while, it slowly began to move again. Not away from me – no, no. This majestic creature was curious. It glided down under my kuti - closer to me. (Though giddy with excitement I was mindful enough to keep a wooden railing between us). It was when it had settled itself there on the sand that I could finally appreciate its length. I might be exaggerating, (though I honestly tried my utmost to pin down a realistic estimate in my spinning mind) but it was as much as four metres long. Four, solid, arm-thick metres of the largest poisonous snake in the world! I continued to gaze at him. He continued to gaze back. Then, after a minute or so, it turned, no doubt fed up with the dumbstruck monk shining a torch in its face, and nonchalantly meandered away into a thick clump of nearby bamboo. So that was it. That was the last I saw of it. You might think I’m crazy, but during subsequent evenings of meditation I implored the magnificent being to return. It didn’t.

I wonder why it came, and why it acted as it did. Was it attracted to the light? or a smell? Was it just passing by? Or was it drawn by the meditative mind? Was it pacified by the practice of precepts and loving-kindness? Beings can sense when you mean them no harm, and when you regard them as your friends. I think the practice had something to do with it. It can have powerful effects, you know.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Top picture from Wikipedia: {{PD-US}} – published in the US before 1923 and public domain in the US. (Apparently I have to put this…)

After eleven years of living here at the Forest Hermitage I am moving to Thailand. I’m not sure how long I’ll be there; I only know where I will begin.

As my departure date has been approaching I have often thought it’ll be the last time I see this person, or the last time I’ll do this, or the last time I’ll do that, etc. But, in truth, it is wrong to think in this way, for every time we see a person, it could be the last time; every time we close a door, it could be the last time; every time we breathe, it could be the last time. On the other hand, every time we see a person, even a friend, it is for the first time – never have we seen them in that moment before. Every time we open a door, it is for the first time; every time we breathe, it is for the first time. Every experience is the first and also the last.

Before I go (I have to leave for the airport soon), I’d like to express my thanks to Luangpor for all he has done for me over the years:

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So little do I know

Of how fortunate I am

Or of the debt that I owe

For the training I have had.

 

You fight for our tradition

While others compromise

It’s a lonely position

But a sign of being wise

 

Other temples are a gauge

That show me you are right

In this Dharma-Ending Age

To never give up the fight.

 

We are Sons of the Buddha

So we have an obligation

To preserve the Real Dhamma

That leads to Liberation.

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It’s one of the basic rules of a monk that he refrains from indulging in various forms of entertainment such as watching films and plays and listening to music (sorry, no Lady Gaga for me). However, if, on a rare occasion, a suitably themed documentary is aired then it’s generally considered acceptable to watch it. By suitable we mean something that might promote virtue, meditation and wisdom, and not greed, aversion and delusion. As you’ll know, such a programme doesn’t come around too often.

One contemporary issue that demands the attention of anyone concerned with moral and spiritual matters is assisted-suicide. The subject has attracted heavy coverage recently, not least because of a documentary called ‘Choosing to Die’, hosted by the famous author and now Alzheimers sufferer, Sir Terry Pratchett. I thought it might prove insightful viewing and so the other night I tuned into the BBC’s iPlayer and watched it.

For those of you who didn’t see the programme, Sir Terry followed the journey of Peter Smedley, a charming 71 year-old millionaire with motor neurone disease who had made up his mind to travel to the controversial Dignitas clinic in Switzerland to end his life. His condition wasn’t particularly severe but, with the support of his wife, Christine, he chose to intervene before it got any worse. The documentary began with Peter sitting in his palatial home on Guernsey, and more or less finished with him slumped in a Swiss sofa, dead.

Dignitas, you will probably know, is an assisted-dying organisation that helps those with terminal-illnesses and severe mental and physical difficulties commit suicide with the aid of trained doctors and nurses. At a cost of £10,000 this non-profit organisation proposes to arrange for a peaceful death – from the initial consultations to check, among other things, that you are of a sound mind and that you are firm in your intentions, to the glass of poison administered some weeks later. The actual suicide takes place in their purpose-built blue and grey house situated next to a factory on an industrial estate in Zurich. It is not the most pleasant location, but the establishment and what goes on inside is legal and that is what matters for those people choosing to go down this route.

Which may soon include Mr Pratchett himself. With Alzheimers gradually taking its toll on his once brilliant mind, his interest in Peter’s experience was personal. As a potential Dignitas customer he wished to observe the entire process, not least the final moments when the poison takes effect. Was this something he’d be willing to go through? His reaction to it all was overwhelmingly positive (according to him Peter’s death had been ‘a happy event’) and so Sir Terry may well decide to follow in Peter’s footsteps in the not-too-distant future.

Now, the moral and spiritual issues surrounding assisted-suicide are very great in number. But here I would like to be fairly brief and focus on one particular element of the documentary: the quality of Peter’s final moments and their possible implications for him.

Was there the sense of ‘wonderful release’ that his doting wife had spoken of not long before?¹ Was it to be as simple and as painless as falling asleep and not waking up? Obviously only he can have fully known the nature of his own experience as he took the poison and waited, but, even so, what was seen on screen was, I thought, very telling.

Approximately twenty minutes before his death, as the documentary neared its climax, he, his wife and an assistant called Erika sat around a circular table in the living-room of the blue and grey house as the pair chatted over a cup of tea, before he swallowed a chemical that would stop his stomach rejecting the poison he was about to take. The mood was jolly. He and Christine looked comfortable. He seemed to have no doubts whatsoever about what lay ahead. If you had only just tuned into the programme you’d have been forgiven for thinking it was a good-natured soap-opera as man and wife discussed which chocolate would go best with the poison.

A few minutes later the couple were nestled into a plump red sofa. The assistant, complete with poison, was perched on a chair to his side. For the final time she asked him if he was sure he wanted to go ahead. Not a hint of uncertainty was detectable as he confirmed his decision, confidently took the glass from her, and poured the contents – the barbiturate Nembutal – down his throat in one go. Now it was a matter of waiting.

Peter had been warned beforehand that after swallowing the poison he would become thirsty but that on no account should he drink any water as this would dilute the poison and therefore either prolong the dying process or prevent it altogether. After several minutes of becoming increasingly drowsy the thirst struck and quickly the viewing became, as he did, very uncomfortable.

With his wife fighting back tears he suddenly grabbed her arm, began to choke and was heard gasping, ‘Water…. Water…’ ‘No more water, just sleep.’ replied the cool Erika. His struggle then subsided as he began to fade, and with the side of his head coming to rest on the assistant’s shoulder his eyes closed and he began to snore very loudly – a sign of respiratory failure.

‘He’s sleeping very, very deeply now,’ Erika told his wife. ‘Soon his breathing will stop and then his heart’.

And so they did.

Some Perspective

I did not view Peter’s death as ‘a happy event’, as Sir Terry had put it. On the contrary, I found those last one or two minutes made for difficult viewing. This is not because I am averse to seeing a man die – far from it – but because I felt for him.

It was plain to see for anyone watching that Peter, as he choked and strained and gasped, was terrified. Just look at his final words: they were not tender expressions of love for his wife, nor of his elation at being very nearly ‘free’; they were harrowing pleas for water.

But this is not the end of the matter. If we stop to consider just what his chronic thirst implies we find a potentially significant and uncomfortable truth. Because what is it that underlies this desire for water? It is of course the innate desire to live.

Peter had made a rational decision to kill himself. To him, since severe discomfort and immobility would soon come to dominate his life, it seemed only sensible to put an end to it. And, he assumed, it would be as simple as swallowing some poison, going to sleep, and not waking up. But it appears that having taken the poison and set the process in motion, once the mortal thirst arrived the desire for death was rapidly eclipsed by the far more powerful intrinsic desire to live. All rationales behind his act were swept aside like leaves before a gale; the cool and charming personality of twenty minutes before had dissipated. All that remained was this raw will to survive.

In the depths of his being it wasn’t death that he truly craved, but to live free of pain. Now, however, he had brought both pain and death upon himself, only to find his innate urge to resist them. He craved life yet he had just taken his life. It is difficult to imagine a more traumatic experience than this.

So Peter’s last conscious moments were by no means peaceful. They were, I would say, characterised by pain, fear, distress, aversion, confusion and by the intense desire to preserve his life.

But then he fell asleep. Was this the end of his mental anguish? We cannot be sure but it’s quite possible that the turmoil continued into a dream-like or semi-conscious state. Perhaps he was even fully conscious as his respiratory system and then heart failed, in the same way that people in comas can sometimes be aware of their condition. And so what of his dreams, if he had any? Taking into account his life-threatening thirst, and the various forms of anguish we suppose he was experiencing, it’s reasonable to say there would have been no dream – just a nightmare. And what if he had been conscious of the whole process up until the point of death? One can only imagine his suffering was acute.

Whether he was truly asleep or not, however, the snoring, and his heart, did finally stop.

The Implications

As for the implications, for him², of his troubled final moments, our take on what these could have been will depend on our view of what happens after the moment of death.

For a materialist, that is someone who believes that only matter exists and that death heralds the complete end to everything about a conscious being, all talk of implications for the individual is meaningless. The last few minutes of suffering experienced by Peter would probably be seen as a small price to pay for the months or years of discomfort of which they suppose him to be now relieved.

For the person who reserves judgement over what, if anything, follows death until they reach that point, I think they might be cautious of entering the great unknown under such negative circumstances.

And for the many of us who accept the doctrine of rebirth? For us, the taking of one’s life is viewed as a deeply unskilful act, with grave implications for the individual.

According to Buddhist teaching, the thought-process that immediately precedes a person’s death is highly significant. For it is precisely this that determines the first thought-process of the next life. It is not dissimilar to how a thought obsessing the mind before sleep will be the first to appear when one awakes.

And furthermore, it is the moral nature of the thought-object (an object being a memory or a vision, for example) which determines both the nature of the new physical form and the station of rebirth.

It is important to note that when this dying thought-process takes place, we will have no control over what the thought-object is. It will either be related to an act habitually performed (which is why Buddhists say that life, in a way, is preparation for death, and hence why we try to cultivate good habits); a vision of the realm that awaits; or, and here our attention returns to Peter, to a weighty act – good or bad – done just before the moment of death.

(It is also worth pointing out that the final thought-object will arise no matter what the dying person’s condition or how quickly death takes place, i.e. whether he drowns, dies instantly in a car crash, falls from a cliff, is fast asleep, or is blind drunk.)

So, the serial-killer, owing to his habitual deeply immoral acts, will experience a thought-object embodying the grave nature of those deeds – for instance the image of a bloody knife. This thought-object will in turn condition an unfavourable rebirth. The philanthropist, on the other hand, may experience a memory that embodies the joy and happiness he so often felt and gave. Thus he can expect a favourable rebirth.

Central to all of this is the doctrine of kamma – the moral law of intentional action and result. Briefly put, our wholesome actions – that is those rooted in generosity, loving-kindness and wisdom – produce pleasant results; our unwholesome actions – those rooted in greed, aversion and delusion – produce unpleasant results.

Who we are now, and the happiness and the suffering that we experience, is nothing but the result of these wholesome and unwholesome deeds of body, speech and mind performed in the past. Likewise, who we will be in the future is determined by the wholesome and unwholesome deeds of body, speech and mind of the present. Death, for us, does not interrupt this process; the individual stream of consciousness, driven by craving, merely latches on to a new physical form and this conditioning process continues.

Bearing all of this in mind we see that, since birth follows death, suicide is no solution to the problem of suffering. And, as a weighty act born of strong aversion directed towards oneself (or one’s condition), it will have serious consequences for the next life.

Apart from the doctrine of rebirth being a logical theory that explains many things about our lives, it is backed up by compelling evidence: thousands of accounts of young children with memories that indicate beyond reasonable doubt they had lived before. Even the famous sceptic and debunker Carl Sagan, aware of some of these children’s memories, admitted they could only be understood through the theory of ‘reincarnation’³, and that it was therefore a subject worthy of ‘serious study’.⁴

And so what of Peter? With the trauma caused by his own act of suicide dominating his final moments, his dying thoughts were no doubt fixed upon that destructive deed. Thus it seems likely that the thought-object would have been intensely undesirable and therefore his rebirth will have been too.

Peter, if the doctrine of rebirth is correct, appears to have made a terrible mistake.

 

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1. I am 90 per cent certain this is what she said. If it wasn’t then what she did say was very close to it and meant the same thing.

2. As for the wider implications of assisted-suicide, that’s a whole different kettle of fish. I would agree with the many who say assisted-suicide should have no place in civilised society, no matter what your view on rebirth. For more of a Buddhist overview of the subject I recommend this article.

3. Buddhists should use the term ‘rebirth’ to distinguish it from ‘reincarnation’ as the latter involves the transmigration of an immortal soul. Buddhism teaches that the belief in such an entity is a delusion. The term ‘rebirth’, however, is not entirely satisfactory, as it still implies that ‘something’ or ‘someone’ is ‘re-born’; in reality there is only a chain of mental and physical causes and effects.

4. Further reading on the topic of Rebirth and Kamma:

Rebirth and Questions on Kamma (Two excellent short and succinct introductions)

The Case for Rebirth (includes a case history)

Rebirth as Doctrine and Experience: Essays and Case Studies (See Part 2)

Rebirth Explained (Includes a detailed analysis of the actual process)

Dhamma Without Rebirth?

Kamma and its Fruit

Fundamentals of Buddhism: Kamma and Rebirth

Articles by and about Dr Ian Stevenson, who collected thousands of cases of rebirth

‘Born Again’, an article from the Bangkok Post

‘Could a Little Boy Be Proof of Reincarnation?’

‘Science and the Near-Death Experience’ Compelling evidence undermining materialism.

 

Yup – you’d have guessed by the title that I’m engaged in many forms of working-meditation in this busy period leading up to Ajahn Liam and co.’s visit at the end of the month, and consequently the weekly Dhamma Diary alarm that rouses me to write (sometimes successfully) has been well and truly ignored.

I thought I’d mention that it’s been just over one hour since I returned from visiting a group of Scouts in Kenilworth. I spoke to them in two lots, for about twenty minutes at a time. Before answering the inevitable deluge of questions I related how I came to Buddhism and why I became a monk. We then finished with a very successful few minutes of meditation.

During my two little talks I pointed out, as I love to, that Buddhism is a religion of knowing – not of belief – and that it offers us the path that leads to an understanding of truth. In other words, it tells us what we need to do, not what we need to believe.

It’s just gone 11 pm so I’d better finish this post and get back on the roof to finish putting the tiles on…  just kidding.

PS – It’s Vesakha Puja next week, which is the anniversary of the Buddha’s birth, Enlightenment and Final Passing. These three events took place on full-moon days of the ancient Indian lunar month of Visakha. That means that just over two thousand five hundred years ago a certain thirty-five year old man named Siddhattha Gotama was only one week away from completing his quest.

PPS – After his brother’s death last year, just a few hours ago Fergus the ferret passed away and moved on to pastures new. He’d been suffering from pancreatic cancer. Fergus gave much joy in a way that only animals can. May he be happy and one day attain the secure peace of Nibbana.

 

 

6. ORIENTATE

Sight – check. Sound – check. Smell – check. Taste – check. Touch – check. To orientate ourselves to the present moment we can do this simple exercise. We pay attention to the doors of the eyes, ears, nose, mouth and body to see what exactly is happening there. Just as the captain of a ship checks his compass to determine his position; so we can check each of the sense-doors to determine our position – which is, of course, the present.

If we are not careful, these inner worlds of ours easily become choked with troublesome thoughts, perceptions, memories and characters. But are these private worlds we drag around a true reflection of the outside world? Aren’t they just based largely on our own mistaken perceptions? How many times do we pass judgement on something, only to have it promptly overturned moments later? Our inner worlds are – for the most part – disconnected from reality, from what is actually going on right now.

And so it is crucial that we learn to be mindful of what is happening around us; that we pause to pay attention to what is occurring, in the present, at each of the sense-doors. The sense-doors are our windows to the world, and to stop the creation of more mental proliferation we must be vigilant and learn to just observe. To be mindful of what is actually happening around us puts a break on these meanderings of the mind and we become aware of what is right in front of our noses.

We can begin with sight. Here we pay attention to the objects that occupy our field of vision and try to let there be just what is seen. Normally there is a moment of bare perception – when we simply see – before the labels, perceptions and associations come tumbling along and bury it. So, for instance, we see a teacup, and with that seeing come all manner of things such as liking or disliking, memories of good cups of tea had, thoughts of who gave the cup, etc. So, our experience of seeing the teacup largely comprises our own inner proliferations; we are not actually seeing the teacup.

If we let go of all the associations, perceptions, liking and disliking, etc., there will be the bare experience of seeing. So when this happens what do we actually see? Colour and shape – that is all. To just see is to see without labels, without commentary, without proliferation. We see the teacup as it actually is: a white upturned semi-circle with a few wiggly blue lines on the face and a little thin ear-shaped bit on the side, and nothing more. And so it is with the other things that fill our little screens, where there is no ‘dog’, no ‘tree’, no ‘miserable mother-in-law’ – just a few brown lines, a wavy green blob, a red square. As the Buddha said, ‘When seeing, just let there be what is seen.’ So we drop all of the inner-commentary and experience just seeing.

Then we move to sounds. What can you actually hear? Listen carefully and try to be aware of the various sounds around you. The longer you listen, the more you will hear. And again, try to hear without the labels and commentary; ‘When hearing, just let there be what is heard.’ There’s the sharp tweet of a bird – though we don’t label it ‘bird’; there’s the whirrr of the fridge – though we don’t label it ‘fridge’. We pay attention to how the sounds actually sound, without piling our conditioned reactions onto them. We notice the textures of sounds, the pitches, the frequencies, and so on. We are mindful of the bare experience of just hearing.

Then we do the same for tastes, odours and bodily sensations. At each of these doors we ask: ‘What is actually happening? What is being experienced?’ Bitter, sweet, bland, spicy, sour; strong, subtle, sweet, pungent; warm, cool, comfortable, painful, etc… We are mindful of the bare experiences of just tasting, just smelling and just feeling.

Not only does this orientate us to the present but it fosters a very subtle awareness. For instance, as we are mindful of what we can hear we gradually tune into sounds which would usually go unnoticed. Try it now. What can you actually hear? After a few moments the quieter sounds will begin to appear to you. You will hear the faint hum of the traffic, the rustling of the leaves, perhaps even the snoring of a mouse! And in the same way you will notice subtle experiences at the other sense-doors – experiences which had hitherto been undetected.

To begin with, this practice serves to help remind us of the simplicity of the moment. But as we progress, these sense-bases – including the sixth: mind – become the source of liberating wisdom. The more carefully we examine sense-impressions with an unclouded awareness the more we will gain insight into their ephemeral nature. We like to say that ‘Everything speaks the Dhamma’, that every experience speaks the truth. Well, if we really learn to just see, just listen, just smell, and so on, then we will hear that message. And what will these experiences tell us? ‘I am transient, unsatisfactory, and empty!’ In this way the senses cease to be substantial and a great sense of ease and relief takes its rightful place.

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Summary of the Six Ways

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1. QUIET: Convenient, efficient, rewarding. Simply take your time to do something quietly and see how your mindfulness levels immediately increase. Mindfulness turns all of our actions into an art form, and it is especially so with this method.

2. STOP: In theory simple, in practice not always, but deeply rewarding if we can really do it. As the method’s name implies our sole concern is to stop. We put down our things, and stop externally; and we put down our thoughts/worries/plans/emotions, and stop internally.

3. BREATHE: The breath is always available and it is very discreet. When a few minutes present themselves to you don’t fiddle with your phone or pick your nose – make that time count by focussing on your breathing. Even ten breaths will make a difference.

4. TOUCH: Pause and take a few moments to focus on the obvious points of contact experienced around the body, for instance your feet touching the floor: examine the sensations and be mindful of hardness, texture, temperature and movement. Don’t spend too long on one contact point before moving to the next.

5. SLOW: Often taught by meditation teachers and for good reason: not only is it devastatingly simple, it is perhaps unparalleled in its potential to enhance our moment-to moment awareness. Making a cup of tea? Do it slowly and see what happens.

6. ORIENTATE: The captain of a ship checks his compass to determine his position; so too can we be mindful of what is occurring at each of the sense-doors to determine our position – which is, of course, the present. Simply be mindful of exactly what you are experiencing at the doors of the eyes, ears, nose, mouth and body.

 

5. SLOW

When… we… slow… down… it… is… very… easy… to… be… mindful.

Every… movement… is… distinct.

Every… movement… makes… an… impression.

Every… movement… is… remembered.

See? By taking our time reading those sentences we allowed each word to make an impression. Each word was distinct and each word was more easily remembered.

Slow-motion mindfulness exercises are a convenient yet exceptionally powerful way to hone our awareness. They are easy to do, they can be done at any time (though ideally not when crossing a busy road…), and their effects can be felt for a long time afterwards.

Remember

Let’s get back to that word remember. The term ‘mindfulness’ is, in this unsatisfactory realm, generally regarded as the most satisfactory translation of the Pali term ‘sati‘. But much is lost in translation and so to gain a more comprehensive understanding of this little word we need to look at its other connotations. Sati is closely linked to memory and so as well as ‘mindfulness’ it can be rendered as ‘to recall’, ‘to recollect’, ‘to remember’. When we are mindful we are thus continually recollecting or remembering a particular object in the present moment.

Take, for instance, Anapana-sati: it means mindfulness or recollection of the in-and-out breath; or Marananussati: mindfulness or recollection of death; and Kaya-gata-sati: mindfulness or recollection of the body. To be mindful of something is to hold it in mind, to be continually recollecting it, to be continually remembering it. To be mindful of the body is, in part, to be continually remembering what we are doing as we are doing it. That’s where moving slowly comes in.

We can’t move slowly without being aware. This is because it takes a deliberate effort in order to slow down. To deliberately slow down requires mindfulness. If you try this exercise you will notice that when your mindfulness slips you speed up and shift into auto-pilot: ‘Ooops! I speeded up. I must have lost my mindfulness.’

So how slowly should we move? Well, even moving a fraction slower than normal demands mindfulness and will therefore benefit us. If this is all you can manage then do it. However, for the best results we should move very slowly indeed – as if we were a frail old person of a hundred and ten years. Not only will this allow us to concentrate precisely on each movement, but we will come to be aware of a little-noticed but fundamental aspect of our lives: the intentions that precede our actions. See if you can catch them.

The Art of Making Tea

The beauty of the slow-motion method is that it transforms even the most mundane and bog-standard task into a powerful mindfulness practice. Washing up, folding the tea-towels, tidying your room and re-stacking the bookshelves are all perfect candidates.

But let’s now take that most sacred of events – making a cup of tea, as an example. During your tea-break at work/university/home determine to take your time while making the special brew. Break the tea-making process up into manageable chunks of mindfulness by slowing down each movement – even the most insignificant movement. Especially the most insignificant movement! (There’s no such thing as an insignificant movement in this practice.) Put down your thoughts and moods and concentrate totally on the act of making a cup of tea:

Slowly and deliberately lift the kettle.

Slowly move it towards the cup.

Slowly tilt it and pour the water in.

Slowly tilt it back.

Slowly return it to the base.

Slowly move your hand to the spoon.

Slowly open your fingers.

Slowly grasp the spoon.

And so on.

If you break any activity down like this then there is a much greater chance of you recollecting and remembering what you are doing as you are doing it. In other words, of being mindful.

*****

Next up we have ORIENTATE, where we pay attention to each of the external sense-doors in turn to see exactly what is happening there.