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.

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.

If you’re new to this series of posts on improving mindfulness then it might be worth your while scrolling down to the first as it’ll put this and the previous post in context. You’ll read more in general about the benefits of improved mindfulness and the drawbacks of letting it slip.

4. TOUCH

Just pause for a moment and scan your body with your awareness. Notice where there is contact between your body and something else, for example the soles of your feet and the floor, your bum and the seat, and your neck and your collar. These areas are mindfulness power points: focussing on them will help us to develop sustained attention, mental agility, and – as it is the refined sensations that we are interested in – a greater subtlety of awareness.

When concentrating on a contact point we examine the various qualities of the physical sensation. We take an interest in seeing what is actually going on when we touch something. We notice such experiences as temperature: is it warm or cool? Texture: rough or smooth? Hardness: hard or soft? As we become more focussed we look for movement: is the sensation still or is it changing? If it’s changing is it doing so rapidly or slowly? We try to focus exclusively on the point of contact, knowing it as clearly and as intimately as we can.

Concentrating on these contact points is – like focussing on the breath – an exercise in stealth mindfulness: no-one will know you’re doing it. It can also be done at any time. Kicking your feet in the queue at Tesco’s? Shift your attention to your hands in your pockets and examine the sensations there. Enduring a typical life-and-death episode of EastEnders that your other-half is forcing you to watch? Focus on the back of your head resting against the cushion and allow the on-screen pandemonium to fade into the background. And if a difficult customer is getting angry, stay cool by anchoring your mind on a contact point; in a challenging situation doing this will help to stabilise you.

With this mindfulness exercise you can concentrate on just one point or you can move between several. Focussing on one allows you to develop your ability to sustain attention, but it may also bring additional benefits depending on its location. For instance, by being mindful of the sensations on the soles of your feet you will feel grounded, and as you are at the point of your body furthest from your head – the place where you see, hear, taste and smell – you will experience the simple joy of not being dominated by those senses for a few moments.

Moving from one contact point to another is an exercise in both concentration and mental agility. Begin by focussing on the sole of your left foot for ten seconds (you don’t need to count – this is just a guide. And you might want to stay at each place for longer). Afterwards, move your mind to your right foot and do the same. Then, in an upward direction, move to the other main contact points (in my case while sitting in an office chair) such as the back of your left and right thighs, your bum, lower back, forearms, fingers, neck, lips and eyelids. Pause at each spot, notice the various qualities of the sensations, and then move on to the next. Pause, notice and move on. After a minute or two of this you can unplug your mind from these points and return to what you were doing.

A few words on walking meditation

Take advantage of a quiet walk through a park and focus on the contact between the soles of your feet and the ground. Very often when practising walking meditation this is exactly what we do, although here you will probably only have a few minutes, as opposed to the hour or so usually given.

As you walk, be mindful of the sensations arising at the soles of the feet. Notice the pressure as it shifts from the heel to the toes of your left foot. Then switch your attention to the right foot and observe it in the same way. Repeat this for as long as you can. Walking meditation is perhaps one of the best ways to strengthen your everyday mindfulness.

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Next up we have SLOW, where we, errr, slow down – a very simple yet powerful way to develop mindfulness of the body.

3. BREATHE

How many minutes of the day do we have when there is nothing in particular for us to do? I’d say if we totted them up there’d be at least thirty, and almost certainly more. Think about how much time you spend fiddling with your phone, checking the news for the billionth time, standing around waiting for the bus, or chewing your nails while British Telecom put you on hold. Surely there’s something else we could be doing – something that will actually benefit us. There is. It’s being mindful of the breath.

We have the breath wherever we go. To concentrate on it requires no special equipment – no cushions, no meditation beads, no fancy foam thing for your hands to rest on. So not only is it accessible at all times (unless you’re dead), but it is discreet. You can focus on your breathing wherever you are and nobody will notice.

Being mindful of the breath is perhaps one of the best ways to recharge your mindfulness. Even focussing on ten breaths can make a huge difference. I heard of a man, I believe a nurse, who depended on his meditation to get him through a particularly tough situation: lunchtime in a mental hospital. Before he walked through those doors into the chaos of the canteen, he paused to collect his mind. In he then went – calm, composed, and ready for battle.

It’s important to recognise that your concentration during these short spells may not initially be of a high standard. But even though you might spend all of that time reigning the mind in as it rushes off to thoughts and feelings, at least you are exercising it. To pull the mind away from thoughts and feelings is to exercise it, to strengthen it, to gain some control. So much suffering arises through us being at the whim of our thoughts and feelings. To stop every so often and hold our attention on the breath is to take some control over our mind, and, consequently, our life.

So be awake to opportunities. When I first started practising meditation I would usually sit formerly in the morning and then again in the evening. These were the twin pillars that supported my practice. But then I also experimented with mindfulness-of-breathing at other times. I’d spend a few minutes sitting in the quiet section of the library in between lessons at college; I’d try and hold my attention on the breath as I bounced up and down on the seat of the college bus; I’d stop half-way through walking the dog and focus on some breaths. Not only did this help me right there and then, but the benefits of those moments of mindfulness that I sprinkled throughout the day would accumulate. They were like an investment: come the evening I’d feel calm, focussed, and I’d be carrying much, much less baggage.

There are many ways to be mindful of the breath. Part of our practice can be judging which of these ways best suits a certain situation. Tired? Ten short sharp breaths. Restless? Ten long, slow, deep breaths. Already calm? Then let the breath be natural. You could time yourself. Set your alarm to go off in three minutes. Focus on your breathing until the alarm goes off. If you don’t have three minutes, try two, or one. If you have the luxury you could pause every half-an-hour and focus on the breath for five minutes. Try it and see what happens.

Like any skill, the more we practise in this way the better we will be at it. The breath will become our refuge. You have probably heard of power-napping, where people are able to drop into deep sleep for a very short period and wake up refreshed, as though they’d been asleep for hours. We can also train our mind to ‘drop into’ the breath. We put down what we are carrying, we put down our thoughts and moods, and we ‘drop into’ the breath. When we emerge, even after one minute, we will feel like new.

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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I’ve decided to take a break from Dhamma Diary for a while. How long that will be I don’t know…

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“There are these roots of trees, these empty huts:

Meditate, monks! Do not delay lest you regret it later.

This is my message to you.”

………………………………………….The Buddha (MN8)

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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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In early 2002, just weeks before we were going to fly to India for our unforgettable tour of the Buddhist holy places, I happened to glance inside my passport. That was a fortunate decision: it was due to expire in the middle of our trip! Being very keen to go to India, but also to return, I hopped on a train with my brother and we bolted down to the Passport Office to get it renewed.

As the train raced through the winter countryside on the way to London, I gazed out of the window while Tim perused a glossy magazine. The first stop for him was the cover, which was graced – naturally – by a pretty woman. Turning and seeing her I asked him:

‘Do you think she’s pretty?’

‘Yup,’ he replied.

‘Imagine her without any eyeballs.’

Silence.

And so we see how easily the illusion of beauty is shattered. One little alteration and a pretty spectacle turns into an abhorrent one. And even if those lovely blue eyes were still nestled into those lovely sockets – what lies two inches behind them? A lovely brain.

The way of the world is to be infatuated with the body. But the way of the world is also the way of suffering. The Buddha’s only concern being suffering and its end, he taught us to take a good and sober look at this body to see what it is actually like. Not what we want it to be like, or what we perceive it to be like, but what it is actually like.

This body is not the desirable thing that our delusions tell us it is: it is a bag of flesh and bones with a large range of other slippery bits and pieces that cause us nothing but trouble. We have to feed it, clean it, wash it, empty it, rest it, keep it warm, keep it cool, keep it out of the rain, keep it out of the sun, keep it free from sickness, care for it when it does get sick, fix it when it’s broken, make it look presentable…

Now can we rely upon a thing such as this? Is it really a good idea to be obsessed with and attached to the body? Can such attachment bring anything but mental suffering and anguish? No. No. And no. But our delusions don’t respond to reason, which is why it is important that we contemplate the other side – to address the balance, to straighten our view.

When we remove the blindfold of delusion we view the body as simply an aspect of nature – not as a self, or a me, or mine – but as an amalgamation of a variety of organs, that each fulfil a particular function, but which will one day break down and fall apart just like an old wooden cart. Seeing in this way obviously goes against the worldly way. But it does not produce suffering, and that is what matters.

Whether we are ordained or lay, if we care for our well-being we will cultivate a more disenchanted relationship to the body. Although some of us may be young and our bodies are in reasonable working order, there will come a time – sooner or later – when they won’t be. And if we are attached to the body when it fails then our mind will fail too.

The Practice

It is a very good idea to include a period of body contemplation in our formal practice. In the method below we imagine parts of the body in neat little piles around us. Don’t worry, we don’t have to get too gory here; let’s just stick to the external bits – the first five in the traditional list of the thirty-two parts. And we don’t need to spend too long on it either; just a sweeping review will cause a sense of dispassion – and therefore peace – to arise.

Before we go any further an important point needs to be made: one must be sensible when approaching this practice, and not everyone will find it beneficial. A person with an angry temperament, for example, may find themselves experiencing strong aversion when focusing on the body in this way. This is obviously not what we are aiming for and in such cases that person would be advised to concentrate on more neutral and supportive practices such as mindfulness and breathing and loving-kindness.

For most people however, a sober perspective is sorely needed. But be careful, or that perspective might just lead you to the monastery gate…

(Forty or so years ago a certain young Thai man was preparing to get married. Dutifully following Thai custom he entered a local monastery to ordain for two weeks. Naturally he followed the routine of the monks – going on alms-round, studying the rules, doing the sweeping, learning the chanting. One of the morning chants in Thai monasteries focuses on the parts of the body. It is a kind of discursive meditation: ‘Head hair, body hair, nails, teeth, skin…’. So there was this young monk, soon to be married and full of the joys of spring, chanting away. However, after going over and over these parts he inevitably began to put two and two together: these body parts, and his fiancé!

Two weeks came. And went. But the new monk didn’t leave the monastery. Forty years later and he’s still in robes. I wonder if the not-so-young lady is still waiting?)

Five Heaps

Back to imagining those five heaps.

Firstly we have head hair. In front of you is a pile of your head hair. Oh, how much trouble people go to over their hair! And yet when you imagine it in a pile in front of you can you say it is beautiful?  What about when you are sitting in the hairdresser and you watch those flowing locks tumble off your shoulders and on to the floor? Do you care for it then?

To the right of that delightful spectacle is your body hair. Here it is – a heap of little hairs of varying lengths, thicknesses and degrees of squigglyness. Would you like to find some of those in your soup?

Next we have nails. Again, often dressed up, sometimes with quite extravagant designs. But what about when they are just lying there – semi-transparent, lifeless pieces of skin-cum-bone. When someone cuts their nails do they feel anything for the cast-offs? Do they think – ‘Oh, what a beautiful bit of nail!’ as it drops into the bin?

And next to the nails we have the teeth. Along with adverts telling you how to lose several inches of flab from your belly, I keep seeing ones for whiter teeth. It’s certainly true that we must care for our appearance. (Indeed, I was a little concerned when I was recently asked by a school kid if I brushed my teeth. I’ve been careful to brush them vigorously ever since to try to counter the effects of strong tea!) But we must remember they’re only teeth. Little oblong pieces of yellowing bone, with a jagged top where they are connected to the gum.

And lastly we have the skin. If there is one part of the body towards which so much lust, desire and delusion is directed it is skin. ‘Oh what soft skin!’ ‘Oh what smooth skin!’ ‘Oh what tanned skin!’ ‘Oh what moist skin!’ ‘Oh what young skin!’. And on and on it goes. But what about if it were heaped up next to you, stripped off like a discarded snake skin? On a typical Forest monk’s day out a few years ago we went to an exhibition in London called ‘Bodies’. It was fascinating. A technique has recently been developed whereby plastic is injected into body parts to preserve them. This was an exhibition of those parts, among which was a complete human skin, lying there, full-length, empty of everything else. It was remarkable. But it wasn’t attractive.

Just a Body

So that’s the body. And, as Ajahn Chah taught us to frequently repeat: ‘It’s just a body’. Very bland, purely functional, nothing special. An aspect of nature that is born, is aging and will die soon enough.

But the way of the world is to not see this. Watch the young models and actors dominating our screens and newspapers. They are principally there because of their looks. But can they depend on those looks? Or will those looks one day fail them? And if those looks do fail them will they suffer? The answer can be found by observing the people who were in exactly the same position as these youngsters 30 – 40 years ago – the Sophia Lorens and Elizabeth Taylors. Here they are, with aging bodies, but still clinging on to the illusion of beauty – getting a lift here, a little tuck there – desperate to retain a fraction of what they once had in abundance. But now it has gone. And they are suffering. Why not just let go?