.

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.

.

********

.

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.

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.

.

*****.

1. Review: Turning The Wheel of Truth

2. DN 16

3. MN 8

4. Dhp 276

.

May you soon attain freedom from all suffering.

.

Right View as the First Step on the Path

Right View, the raison d’être of Buddhist practice, the antidote to all suffering, lies not at the end of the Noble Eightfold Path, but at the beginning. Why so? Because without a small degree of it we wouldn’t even consider walking this path. Indeed, we would see no reason to.

What is Right View? It is wisdom. It is seeing things clearly – as they really are. On the ultimate, transcendent, level it is the total comprehension of the Four Noble Truths. In its initial stages it comprises an understanding of these truths to a lesser extent, and in a sometimes indirect way; and of the law of kamma – of how our actions result in either happiness or suffering depending on the intent behind them. Both of these truths will no doubt have had a bearing on our own decision to tread this path.

Appreciating the Law of Kamma

So one very important aspect of right view concerns the law of kamma. Put simply we can say that to possess a modicum of right view one must have some appreciation of the fact that good actions bring happy results and bad actions bring unhappy results.

Just over nine years ago I phoned my father. “I’ve got some news for you Dad.” “I don’t mind if you’re gay.” He said. “No, I’m not gay (but thanks anyway!).” “You’re going to join an ashram?” (he knew I meditated). “Warmer…” “What then?” “I have decided to become a Buddhist monk.”

Then over the course of the following weeks we had a number of lively conversations. On the whole he was fairly relaxed about the whole thing; after all, he left home when I was five, so it wasn’t as if he would see a lot less of me. Having said that, he wasn’t going to let me go too easily.

During one of our characteristically demanding chats I told him that one of the reasons I wanted to ordain was in order to invest in my future. “The future? You should be living now!” he retorted. “Make the most of your life now!”

Of course he had a point. A very big point. When are we ever going to live our life if we don’t live it now? But what we do now has consequences; our present actions are continually shaping our future state. And dependent on what lies behind these actions is nothing less than our own happiness and suffering. Considering the future with right view in this way we cannot help but live fully now.

I had always been very aware that however I might live my life, barring following this path, I would only find myself being unhappy. How could I possibly end up being happy? What was I doing that would bring happiness? I distinctly remember going out for a drive with my brother not long after I had passed my driving test, stopping in the countryside somewhere, and having a deep and not so jolly conversation with him. We both came to the conclusion that we would never be truly happy. Why would we think that? Well, I guess it boiled down to a smidgen of right view: an understanding that maybe we weren’t providing the conditions for that happiness to arise in the future; that the paths we were currently treading could not lead to that happiness.

So it was an investment, I told my father. I had often looked at older people and observed how they were just not happy. I did not want to be like that. But why this path? Well, I had been practising Buddhist meditation seriously for a good half a year or so and it had opened up two appealing avenues for me: happiness and wisdom.

When we consider that we are – at this moment – creating our future, then it makes us take stock. If we project our mind into the future and consider what kind of life we want to be living, what state of mind we want to have, what level of wisdom we want to possess, and how happy we would like to be, then we shine the light of right view on our thoughts and actions now and see whether they are leading us in that direction, or whether they are not. If they are not then we make an effort to change that.

Think of a potter at his wheel. There he sits with the lump of clay poised ready before him – its future shape entirely in his hands. Around spins the wheel and the potter begins to shape the supple clay. At every moment that clay is the perfect record of the movements of the potter’s hands. No movement will go unnoticed; each one will be unfailingly recorded in the clay. And so it is with our life. In every moment, with every intentional action, we are shaping our future state. And consequently, at every moment, our life is a record of our actions that have gone before.

This is one reason why it so crucial that we as Buddhists feel able to reject outright the existence of a creator God as wrong view. As soon as we lay the responsibility for our existence elsewhere we undermine this fundamental aspect of right view: that we are our own creators, that we alone are responsible for our present and future happiness and suffering; that the reasons for our existence are none other than our own ignorance and craving. These two things are the causes, the conditions, for us being here, now. And it is by uprooting them – which is done by gaining a direct insight into the Four Noble Truths – that we are able to free ourselves, through our own efforts, from this realm of birth and death.

So it all comes back to what we are doing now, and most importantly to what is behind what we are doing now. We trace these actions and our thoughts to their roots. And what do we find when we do this? We find six things: greed, hatred and delusion, and non-greed, non-hatred and non-delusion (put positively, the last three are generosity, loving-kindness and wisdom). These are the six roots (mula) of action – the architects of suffering and happiness; those that lead to happiness should be nurtured; those that lead to suffering – starved.

It is often very difficult, however, to simply begin being generous, loving and wise. There needs to be a bridge between the three unwholesome and the three wholesome roots. That bridge is restraint. Without restraint there can be no development on this path. There is a famous account in the suttas of the Buddha speaking to young Rahula the novice. The Buddha tells him that if, before, during or after an action, he sees that it will cause himself, another, or both himself and another harm, he should stop and refrain.

Mmmm… Pringles

We as monks naturally depend on others to provide and cook our food. Being thoroughly unenlightened this sometimes leads to a stirring of the three unwholesome roots in my mind, and therefore the potential to heap more suffering upon myself.

For instance, say I’ve observed that a lovely fresh pack of ready-salted Pringles has been given. There they are, taste bud tinglers in a tube, destined for my tongue. But they don’t appear at the meal time. Concern arises. Why aren’t they being offered? And so the desire to make a subtle hint manifests: ‘I noticed some Pringles were offered the other day…..’ – Just a casual, just thought I’d mention it in passing, type comment – you know the kind. ‘But hold on!’ I say to myself. ‘What is there in my mind right now? Why do I want to say this? What is the root of this potential action?’ Well, I give you three guesses: greed, hatred and delusion!

So there we have them: the architects of suffering; the enemies of happiness; the seamstresses of the veil of darkness before my very eyes. I then consider that if I am to act on these contemptible corruptions I will create future suffering for myself and possibly others. Just as if I were to throw a stone into the sky it would surely come back down, so too if I were to act on these unwholesome forces I would suffer in the future. Considering in this way and teaching myself to be careful, I refrain (usually).

A Reward

As humans who have access to the Dhamma we are very fortunate indeed. To have an affinity with the Dhamma, and to possess a healthy degree of right view, shows that much work has been done already. Furthermore, we should look upon this opportunity that we have as a reward, a reward for countless lifetimes of striving and struggling towards the light in this beginningless cycle of birth and death. So let’s not throw this opportunity away. It’ll be gone before we know it.

.

The next teaching will be on:

the full moon day, Thursday 6 August

..

Note: ‘The Sangha’ and ‘Links and Books’ pages have been updated.

.

.

Lights, Camera, Kamma

.

Kamma or Karma means ‘action’. More specifically, intentional action. “Intention is kamma” said the Buddha (A.III,415). Kamma Vipaka is the result of action. Kamma is of two types: kusala and akusala – skilful and unskilful, respectively. Skilful actions are beneficial to oneself and others, unskilful actions are harmful to oneself and others. Skilfulness, of course, is understood in regard to the development of the Buddha’s path to freedom from suffering.

What are some of the effects of an actor’s or performer’s actions, both on the audience and on himself? Are their actions kusala or akusala?

One of the most famous comedians in England of recent times was Tommy Cooper. He made a lot of people laugh, but at what cost?

His final performance, I believe, was initially successful. People rolled about in their familiar bouts of hysterics. But then came an extraordinary sketch which at first proved to be uncannily real. It turned out it actually was. The flailing figure on the stage, with his characteristic red Moroccan fez, was in the middle of this piece when all of a sudden he slumped to the floor, clutching his chest. The audience roared with laughter. He was having a heart attack; they thought it was part of the act. So there was this dying man, gasping for breath and desperate for help, and the only response he got was pointing fingers and howls of laughter.

Doesn’t this make you think? That nightmare was his own creation.

[...]

I’ve decided not to continue with the series of five posts on meditation that I’d planned. I’ve learnt that it’s not always a good idea to say you’ll be writing / talking about something several weeks from now. It can kill spontaneity. (Plus I’m fed up of talking about the plane!)

.down

Playing with Toys in a House that’s Burning Down

Before I became a monk I had an experience which caused an earthquake in the depths of my being and which undoubtedly turned me in the direction of devoting my life to the practice of the Dhamma.

[...]

I love teaching kids. Several years ago I visited a school in Warwick to speak to ninety eight-year-olds. I sat in this big sport’s hall, surrounded by the climbing bars and ropes, with this little sea of small wide-eyed faces in front of me. I talked about Buddhism: I talked about why we suffer when we don’t get the latest Nintendo (or whatever) for Christmas; and I spoke to them about generosity – “Is it better to share your sweets, or keep them all to yourself?”; and I talked about morality. I also let them in on one of the perils of being a monk: being given ice-cream when all your food has to go in the same bowl – “Urrrgghhh!” [...]