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.

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.

An effective Buddhist practice is a daily Buddhist practice. Pulling out the dusty zafu once a year might give you some fleeting respite, but it’ll do little more than that. And plunging head-first into an intensive retreat every six-months might take you to heaven for a few days, but if you’re back to partying and alcopops the day after you probably shouldn’t have bothered.

It’s easy to fall into extremes: to neglect meditation and party like Keith Richards for ninety-nine percent of the time, and then go at it like a Himalayan sage for the rest. But what really counts when travelling this path is a commitment to a steady, consistent and methodical daily practice.

Formal meditation must, of course, be central to this. One or two thirty minute sittings each day, for example, will keep you gliding along nicely. If, for whatever reason, you find this is too much sometimes, then do it for five minutes… three… one… but certainly not none! If we meditate consistently we will soon reach a point where we experience withdrawal symptoms when we don’t meditate: the mind has become accustomed to being fed – when we stop, it gets hungry!

Then there’s the cultivation of mindfulness, and, in particular, mindfulness of the body. Maintaining awareness of the body provides a refuge for the mind. It grounds us, makes us less impulsive, and, crucially, enables us to quite easily step back from and observe our feelings, thoughts and mental states. To keep our mindfulness battery charged we can pepper our day with brief spells of slow-motion mindfulness exercises, for instance while making a cup of tea or folding the towels, where we closely follow every stretch, bend and turn with a precise and concentrated awareness.

To direct and inspire our efforts to cultivate our mind we turn to the words of the Buddha and those of realised (or soon to be realised) teachers – noble beings who have crossed over to the far shore and are beckoning us to join them. Reading and listening to Dhamma Talks probably won’t be something we do every day, but still we shouldn’t neglect them.

Daily attention to meditation, mindfulness and sprinklings of instruction are thus key elements of a successful practice. But at the heart of it must lie something else, something which on the surface seems quite mundane and in some cranky people’s eyes spiritually stifling, but which is actually an essential tool in our quest to understand the true nature of things and be free from suffering. That something is the observance of the moral precepts.

Harmony

Keeping the precepts brings harmony: harmony within and harmony without. Refraining from harmful actions frees us from remorse and worry – hence the harmony within; and nurtures human relationships based on respect, confidence and trust – hence the harmony without. Having as the basis of our practice this lush and fertile soil of harmony, our development of concentration, mindfulness and insight is able to flourish.

The Buddha, referring to the bhikkhu and his maintenance of the numerous moral precepts found in the Vinaya, said he experiences a blameless joy that comes from living a life ‘as pure as a polished shell’. It is a joy that arises, not from anything having been done, but from the simple fact that something has not been done – that is: harm.

It’s funny to think of the lengths that people go to in order to experience elation and joy: roller-coasters, sky-diving, horror movies, snorting cocaine… when all they need to do is purify their virtue. Try to tell them this, however, and they’ll probably burst out laughing. What they don’t understand is that their actions follow them everywhere, and that the oppressive shadow of their harmful words and deeds will be cast over every attempt they make to experience happiness. If we live a life of moral purity there will be no shadow. We can lie in bed at night and experience that pure joy welling up in our heart as we reflect: ‘I have done no harm today!’

But this harmony is not limited to our own minds: it permeates our relationships with others. Do we feel secure and comfortable when in the presence of a killer? a thief? an adulterer? a liar? a drunk? Or do we feel our personal safety threatened? On the other hand, when we are in the company of a virtuous person, how do we feel then? safe? secure? at ease? As human beings we have this kind of moral scent which others intuitively pick up on. If someone stinks we want to get away; if they smell sweet, we’d like to stay. To keep the precepts is thus to give the gift of social harmony: the harmony that comes from people feeling secure in the presence of one another.

Just for a moment imagine a world where everybody kept the five precepts. What a heavenly place it would be! But, alas, on our little scruffy patch of the universe very few people do. Even society’s role models and leaders: politicians, sportsmen and women, writers, actors, pop-stars and so on, are largely beacons of moral decadence. So if they’re at it, what about the rest of the population? The world is in a pitiful state because it’s bereft of virtue.

To bring the five precepts into your heart and let them guide you through each moment of your life is a powerful means to cultivate this sorely needed harmony – both within and without.

But the benefits that arise through keeping the precepts don’t stop here; the harmony and joy, though delicious, are merely the first fruits. As a direct result of holding fast to the precepts through the hum-drum of day to day existence we find the liberating qualities of mindfulness, concentration and insight riding in their wake.

The Precepts and Meditation

When we close our eyes to meditate we look directly at our mind. Consequently, we become very aware of how it is coloured by the moral ‘tones’ of our actions, and, more importantly, how those tones dictate how we feel. Generally speaking, people are blind to how their thoughts, words and deeds affect their minds; ceaselessly chasing pleasure and fleeing pain they never stop to look. But the honest meditator is unable to hide. He or she witnesses how each action deposits an impression in the mental stream, and, depending on whether the action was harmful of not, how it produces suffering or happiness.

The impressions left by unskilful actions are like little monkeys on our shoulders. As soon we stop to meditate they start causing trouble. ‘La la la la laaa! I’m not going to let you meditate! I’m not going to let you meditate!’, they sing, while jumping up and down, tugging our ear lobes and pulling our hair (if we have any). But if our actions have been pure then there won’t be any disturbance. The monkeys will remain fast asleep while we close our eyes and effortlessly let go of a past that is not regretted, and a future that is not feared.

The mind fortified by virtue is a mind that can let go of past and future at will and thus become concentrated.

The Precepts and Mindfulness

When we keep the precepts we must be vigilant. We must be continually observing ourselves. They bring us right into the present moment as we keep guard over what we say and do to ensure that they are not broken.

As monks, living by hundreds of precepts, we are naturally made to be mindful of even the most seemingly insignificant of actions: we can’t lick our lips when we eat (try that with a jam doughnut!), we must wear our robes in a particular way, we mustn’t twiddle our thumbs in public, we mustn’t gaze at our reflection in the mirror… To somebody who doesn’t understand Dhamma practice these rules seem a tad ridiculous; but to one who actually trains with them their value proves to be inestimable: they make you so very aware. And not only aware of what you are doing, but, more importantly, of your intentions that are bubbling beneath the surface. The precepts reveal all.

The Precepts and Insight

It is this restraint, concentration and all-encompassing awareness that are generated by the precepts which combine to offer to us on a golden platter the most important quality of all: liberating insight.

Insight comes through observation and the precepts give us a lot to observe.

When our practice has no moral structure our greed, anger and delusion do as they please. Like great powerful tigers they eat whatever and whenever they want. With a full belly they sleep, purr and saunter around, admiring their silky coats and flexing their deadly claws, all the time increasing in strength and becoming potentially more and more dangerous.

Lock them in a cage made of precepts, however, and there’ll soon start to weaken. How can they increase in strength when they aren’t getting fed?

But they don’t always go quietly: no longer able to do as they wish they start to make a fuss. And this, though sometimes uncomfortable, is actually what we want. Because when these harmful mental forces are aggravated we can see them more clearly. Seeing them clearly we are able to observe and investigate them. And it’s through investigating them that we reveal their true nature. We see how they rise and fall, how they don’t last, how in reality there is no substance to them. By understanding this they fall away.

When this three-fold process of uncovering, investigating and understanding is repeatedly practised, our insight accumulates. Gradually the defilements wither under our ever-present gaze of mindfulness, concentration and wisdom. Eventually, they disappear altogether.

In some ways this isn’t such a difficult thing to do. It simply requires patience and a consistent practice that is led by the modest yet deceptively powerful hand of the precepts.

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The other day I came across a book review of a Western forest monk’s commentary on the Buddha’s First Sermon (1). What the Buddha set out in this discourse forms the framework for every teaching that he was to give during the remainder of his life, that is: the Four Noble Truths and the Noble Eightfold Path. A commentary on this sermon is thus a commentary on the full depth and breadth of Buddhist practice.

At the very beginning of the piece I was pleased to read the reviewer pointing out that we Western monks are at pains to offer this ‘full picture’ of the Dhamma to our fellow Westerners, and not just meditation. In light of the current and disconcerting trend of people, and especially teachers, extracting the bits of Buddhism they like: mindfulness, vipassanā/insight, etc., and leaving behind those that they don’t: precepts, traditions, renunciation, Nibbāna (!), etc., I took it as a compliment. Her words also fired up my determination and sense of responsibility to strive to present this ‘full picture’ of the Buddha-Dhamma. In other words: to keep it real.

Understanding the integrated nature of the Noble Eightfold Path is imperative. Like an eight-stranded rope, each part combines to create the whole; not one is superfluous. Each has its own particular function but at the same time both supports and nurtures the others. Thus, if this ‘rope’ is to be used as intended – to provide a means for us to climb out of our suffering – every thread must be in place. Neglect Right Action, for instance, and soon enough you’ll hear the rope start to fray, ‘plink, plink, plink’, then snap, and before you know it you’ll find yourself once again wallowing at the bottom in the muck. Cultivate and maintain each of the eight threads, however, and the rope can be relied upon as you focus on your sole responsibility: to climb to the top.

Although every thread in this rope is vital, it should be borne in mind that pre-eminent among them is Right View: it is the very core of the rope around which all the other threads are wrapped.

Without a degree of Right View – that is, without some insight into dukkha and the ‘problem of life’ – we wouldn’t even set foot on this Path. Why would we want to if everything was tickety-boo? So Right View forms the beginning of this Path: every other factor has it as its pre-condition. But it is also the culmination: its perfection is the goal, the objective, the destination towards which every effort flows. All eight factors are pointing us in this one direction: to see things as they really are. It is Right View that stands between us and freedom from suffering. It is Right View that brings the beginningless cycle of birth and death to a halt.

So Right View is the Daddy. But we wouldn’t climb very far up this rope, let alone reach Nibbāna, if it wasn’t for one other rather crucial factor: Right Effort.

So much of what the Buddha said can be summed up in his final words: ‘All conditioned things are impermanent: work out your own liberation with diligence’ (2). Personal responsibility; the transiency that is the hallmark of this mundane life; the desirability of ‘the far shore’, Nibbāna; the urgency of the task ahead in light of the brevity of existence; and, especially, the need to make a constant effort while we are still unenlightened – all of these principal themes that permeate his teachings sparkle like gems in these final words. Open a copy of the Pāli Canon at random and there’s a good chance you’ll find the Buddha exhorting his listeners to strive, to make an effort, to not delay ‘in case you regret it later’ (3). That was one of his main responsibilities: to inspire us to make the effort. After all, ‘Buddhas only point the way.’ (4)

This central tenet of personal responsibility and the fact that we can only depend on our own efforts is not palatable to many people. So what better way to shirk this solemn proposition than to lump all of your hopes onto an imaginary deity or ‘other power’? This is why the drug we call religion holds the vast majority of the planet in its sway, and it’s why these fanciful elements have been slipped into various forms of Buddhism over the centuries: it is a great comfort to imagine some smiling dude in the sky looking after us, or some all-pervading benevolent force that we can tap into for help. Wouldn’t it be great if these things were true? Wouldn’t it be so much easier? Who wouldn’t want to sit in a deck-chair and slurp pineapple juice all day while something else did all the work? But for a true follower of the Buddha it’s all nonsense. It is a blatant, yet understandable, attempt to hide from the weighty and often lonely reality that if we want to be free we have to turn to ourselves to make the effort, and not any old effort, but the Right Effort.

Before we look at how the Buddha defined Right Effort, it is important to recognize how he, speaking as plain as ever, divided actions of body, speech and mind straight down the middle: that is, into right and wrong; harmless and harmful; skilful and unskilful; those that conduce to Nibbāna and those that don’t. Many people imagine the Buddha to have been a passive hippy who floated around with a flower in his hair telling people, ‘you can do whatever you like, maaan.’ The truth, of course, is far different. He never shied away from telling someone they were a fool for doing something stupid, and he certainly never minced his words when it came to defining what is right and what is wrong.

To know whether an action of body, speech or mind is skilful or not we must trace it to its root. What is driving this thought? What is fuelling these words and deeds? If you find the defilements of greed, aversion and delusion, or any of their derivatives: pride, jealousy, restlessness, etc., then it is unskilful and the result will inevitably be suffering for oneself, for others, or for both. If, however, we find non-greed, non-aversion, and non-delusion, or, put another way: generosity, loving-kindness and wisdom, then the action is skilful and the result will be happiness.

A word of caution: while we remain blinded by delusion we are not always in a position to know on which side of the fence some actions sit. How often have we been led to believe that a certain course of action is skilful, when in fact it is not, or vice-versa? There is no better example of this aspect of delusion working than when a so-called Buddhist endorses the armed forces. ‘It’s all right to kill with a kind heart’, I read one Tibetan man saying… (I hope your jaw just hit the floor, as mine did.)

So how can we be sure? By turning to the Buddha’s words, of course! Killing is unskilful, stealing is unskilful, sexual misconduct is unskilful, lying is unskilful, taking intoxicants is unskilful, Wrong Speech, Wrong Livelihood, Wrong Mindfulness and so on are unskilful. Harmlessness is skilful, generosity is skilful, restraint is skilful, truthfulness is skilful, clarity of mind is skilful, Right Speech, Right Livelihood, Right Mindfulness and so on are skilful.

By understanding in this way which actions of body, speech, and mind lead to suffering and which lead to Nibbāna we can effectively employ the Buddha’s formula that constitutes Right Effort: to prevent the unskilful that has not yet arisen in oneself, and overcome that which has; to develop the skilful that has not yet arisen in oneself, and maintain that which has.

Having thus lowered the rope down to us by making known how liberation is reached, the Buddha has done all he can. Now it’s for us to make that effort and climb.

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1. Review: Turning The Wheel of Truth

2. DN 16

3. MN 8

4. Dhp 276

One of the most important questions we can ask ourselves is this: ‘What can I rely upon?’ When we look closely we will see that there is only one answer: our wisdom.

To try to depend on anything else is a recipe for disaster. Wealth, youth, health, status, people, emotions: they are all, by their nature, unreliable. Yet we still cling, we still attach, we still dawdle blindly along without considering that sooner or later they will fall.

But with wisdom we remain detached. We clearly perceive the undependable nature of all things in this world. Ironically, it is this understanding that is dependable. To see impermanence, as Ajahn Chah said, is to see that which is permanent. To understand that we cannot depend on these things is to find that which we can depend on. Seeing and knowing thus we live in perfect harmony with the true nature of things – touching the moment, at ease, not forming attachments, continually letting go.

To understand impermanence is desirable; but it takes training. We can’t just decide one day: ‘Right! I’m going to start seeing things as being impermanent.’ We are heavily conditioned beings, unable to flip our views over as easily as we can turn our hand. To change our mind takes patience, perseverance, concentration and, most importantly, investigation.

Investigation is the second of the Seven Factors of Enlightenment, coming immediately after mindfulness. Here we see how the development of mindfulness is not an end in itself – not just a mundane coping tool – but a preliminary step leading us into the realm of investigation and beyond.

A detective committed to uncovering the truth of a crime won’t settle for a casual look at the evidence; he will take his magnifying glass and examine that evidence – probing, investigating and considering it until he understands it. In the same way we take up the powerful magnifying glass of focused awareness to uncover the truth of our experiences – probing, investigating and considering them until we understand them.

This investigation is to be developed at all times. We should turn our awareness to whatever we experience, without taking anything for granted. When we experience depression we should take a good look and ask: ‘What is this?’ Look closely and examine it – you will see it is not a static thing. Happy moods must not escape this penetrating gaze either: ‘Is this permanent or impermanent?’ And, most importantly: ‘Can I depend on this?’ Step back, give rise to perspective and wisdom, and let go.

We can also gain insight by turning our beam of awareness to pain. When we are experiencing a painful feeling we must resist the habitual reaction to avoid it and instead direct unwavering attention towards it. Doing this we will soon see that the problem is not the pain. The problem is our mind.

What is pain? Look closely, investigate, examine. Ask yourself:

‘Where is the pain?

It’s in my knee.

But where exactly in my knee?’

You won’t be able to find it. As soon as you think you have located it, it shifts. So you follow it with the persistence of a treasure-hunter who senses gold: ‘Where’s the pain? Where’s the pain? Where‘s the pain?’ But all the time it eludes your efforts, moving and shifting, expanding and contracting, appearing and disappearing. Eventually it dawns on you that there is no such thing as ‘pain’.

And this is how it is with all of our experiences. The sight of a strawberry, the sound of a blackbird, the smell of a pink rose, the feeling of joy bubbling in our veins: they are all shifting and changing and we cannot put our finger on any of them and say that is that.

But we don’t normally see this. We live in a world of labels: the sound of a car, the smell of a roast potato, the blade of grass, you, me and the dog. We put our experiences in convenient boxes. But these boxes don’t really exist. There is only the river of change.

By continually investigating our experiences insight gradually accumulates. The question of how much concentration we need in order to develop insight has been argued over for two thousand years and I don’t feel like joining in. Ajahn Chah was very clear on this, however: you do not need a great deal to begin with – just enough. Indeed, he went so far as to say it may not be wise to develop concentration that is too deep. 1

Some people, he said, incline towards developing powerful states of peace and unification of mind, but they lack wisdom. We hear of monks soaring to the heights of the eighth jhana, but still falling for visions of women, thinking: ‘We’ve been lovers in a previous life! We were meant to be together!’ And then they throw in the towel and run off for a bit of rumpy-pumpy. 2

Of course, such high states of concentration can be used to develop liberating wisdom – the Buddha’s own experience being the prime example – and without any concentration wisdom simply cannot arise. But deep concentration does not bring wisdom automatically.

Then, said Ajahn Chah, there are those people whose minds do not easily lend themselves to deep concentration, but who have inherent wisdom. They use this wisdom to probe and investigate, to turn things over, to dig deeper and deeper into their experiences, gradually uncovering the truth of things. 3

So probe, investigate, examine. Don’t let anything go by without contemplating change. When we understand impermanence everything else will fall into place and all of our troubles will come to an end. We don’t need to read all of the books. We don’t need to spend hours on Buddhist forums. We don’t need to listen to a thousand Dhamma talks. We don’t need to look very far – what you have now will do.

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(1) A Taste of Freedom ‘The Path in Harmony’

(2) Autobiography of a Forest Monk Chapter 22.2

(3) A Taste of Freedom ‘On Meditation’

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The next teaching will be on

The Half Moon Day, Thursday 10 December

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