Let Go of Fire
Modern practical teachings from one of the oldest
Buddhist traditions. Ajahn Sumedho’s wisdom and humour
bring us right to the heart of Buddhist meditation.
Ajahn Sumedho was ordained as a Buddhist monk in
Thailand in 1967 and trained under the guidance of the highly
respected Thai teacher, Ajahn Chah. He is now the abbot of
Amaravati Buddhist monastery in England.
Let go of Fire
An extract from Teachings Buddhist Monk by Ajhan
Sumedho
 The Buddha's teaching is all about understanding suffering -
its origin, its cessation, and the path to its cessation. When we
contemplate suffering, we find we are contemplating desire,
because desire and suffering are the same thing.
Desire can be compared to fire. If we grasp
fire, what happens? Does it lead to happiness? If we say: 'Oh,
look at that beautiful fire! Look at the beautiful colours! I
love red and orange; they're my favourite colours,' and then
grasp it, we would find a certain amount of suffering entering
the body. And then if we were to contemplate the cause of that
suffering we would discover it was the result of having grasped
that fire. On that information, we would, hopefully, then let the
fire go. Once we let fire go, then we know that it is something
not to be attached to. This does not mean we have to hate it, or
put it out. We can enjoy fire, can't we? It is nice having a
fire, it keeps the room warm, but we do not have to burn
ourselves in it.
When we really contemplate suffering, we
no longer incline towards grasping hold of desire, because it
hurts, is painful, there is no point in doing it. So, from that
time on, we understand, 'Oh! That's why I'm suffering; that's its
origin. Ah! now I understand. It's that grasping hold of
desire that causes me all this misery and suffering, all this
fear, worry, expectation, despair, hatred, greed, delusion. All
the problems of life come from grasping and clinging to the fire
of desire.
The human habit of clinging to desire is
ingrained. We in the West think of ourselves as sophisticated and
educated, but when we really begin to see what is going on in our
minds, it is rather frightening-most of us are horribly ignorant.
We do not have an inkling of who we are, or what the cause of
suffering is, or of how to live rightly-not an inkling. Many
people want to take drugs, drink, and do all kinds of things to
escape suffering-but their suffering increases. How conceited and
arrogant we Western people can be, thinking of ourselves as
civilised! We are educated, it is true, we can read and write,
and we have wonderful machines and inventions. In comparison the
tribal peoples in Africa, for example, seem primitive,
superstitious, don't they? But we are all in exactly the same
boat! It is just that our superstitions are different. We
actually believe in all kinds of things.
For instance, we try to explain our
universe through concepts, thinking that concepts are reality. We
believe in reason, in logic-which is to say we believe in things
we do not know. We have not really understood how it all
begins and ends. If we read a book and believe what it tells us,
believe what the scientists say, we are just believing. We think:
'We're sophisticated. We believe in what the scientists say.
People have PhDs-we believe in what they say. We don't
believe in what witch-doctors say; they're stupid and ignorant.'
But it is all belief, isn't it? We still do not know-it just
sounds good. The Buddha said we should find out for ourselves and
then we do not have to believe others.
We contemplate the universe as
impermanent; we can see the impermanent nature of all conditions.
From this contemplation, wisdom arises. There is nothing we can
find in changing conditions that has any kind of self-continuity.
All things begin and end; they arise out of the void and they go
back into the void. And wherever we look we are not going to find
any kind of permanent personality, or self. The only reason we
think we have a personality is because we have memories, ideas
and opinions about ourselves. If we are intellectual, we are
always up in the head, thinking about everything. Emotionally we
might not be developed at all-throw temper tantrums, scream and
yell when we do not get our own way. We can talk about Sophocles
and Aristotle, have magnificent discussions about the great
German philosophers and about Ramakrishna, Aurobindo, and Buddha,
and then somebody does not give us what we want and we throw a
tantrum! It is all up in the head; there is no emotional
stability.
There was a monk I knew once who was quite
sophisticated compared to some of the other monks. He had lived
in Bangkok for many years, been in the Thai navy, could speak
pidgin English. He was quite intelligent and rather impressive.
But he had this terrible health problem and felt he could no
longer exist on one meal a day. In fact his health was so bad
that he had to disrobe [leave the Buddhist Order]. After that he
became an alcoholic! He could give brilliant talks whilst being
smashed out of his mind. He had the intellect, but no morality or
concentration.
On the other hand, we can have very strict
morality and not have any wisdom. Then we are moral snobs, or
bigots. Or we can become attached to concentration and not have
any wisdom. 'I'm on a meditation retreat and I've developed some
concentration, some insight, but when I go home, oorh! I don't
know if I'll be able to practise any more, or even if I'll have
time. I have so many duties, so many responsibilities.' But how
we live our ordinary lives is the real practice. Retreats are
opportunities for getting away from all those responsibilities
and things that press in on us, so as to be able to get a better
perspective on them. But if the retreats are just used to escape
for a few days and that is all, then they are of no great value.
If, on the other hand, they are used for investigating
suffering-'Why do I suffer? Why am I confused? Why do I have
problems? Why is the world as it is?'-then we shall find out if
there is anything we can do about suffering. We shall find that
out by investigating this body and this mind.
Ignorance is only the scum on the surface,
it does not go deep; there is no vast amount of ignorance to
break through. That ignorance here and now, that attachment to
the fire here and now-we can let it go. There is no need to
attach to fire any more-that is all there is to it. It is not a
question of putting out the fire. But if we grasp it, we should
let it go. Once we have let the fire go, then we should not grasp
it again.
In our dally lives, we should be mindful.
What does it mean to be mindful? It means to be fully aware right
here, concentrating on what is going on inside. We are looking at
something, for instance, and we try to concentrate on that; then
a sound comes, and then a smell, then this and then
that-distractions, changes. We say: 'I can't be mindful of this
environment; it's too confusing. I have to have a special
environment where there are no distractions, then I can be
mindful. If I go to one of those retreats, then I can be mindful;
no distractions there-peace and quiet-noble silence! I can't be
mindful in Edinburgh or London-too many distractions. And I've
got family, children, too much noise!'
But mindfulness is not necessarily
concentrating on an object. Being aware of confusion is also
being mindful. If we have all kinds of things coming at our
senses-noises, people demanding this and that-we cannot
concentrate on any one of them for very long. But we can be aware
of the confusion, or the excitement, or the impingement; we can
be aware of the reactions in our own minds. That is what we call
being mindful. We can be mindful of confusion and chaos. And we
can be mindful of peace and tranquillity.
The path of mindfulness is the path of no
preferences. When we prefer one thing to another, then we
concentrate on it: 'I prefer peace to chaos.' So, then, in order
to have peace, what do we do? We have to go to some place where
there is no confusion, become a hermit, go up to the Orkneys,
find a cave. I found a super cave once off the coast of Thailand.
It was on a beautiful little island in the Gulf of Siam. And it
was my sixth year as a monk. All these Westerners were coming to
Wat Pah Pong-Western monks. And they were causing me a lot of
sorrow and despair. I thought: 'I don't want to teach these
people; they're too much of a problem; they're too demanding; I
want to get as far away from Western monks as possible.' The
previous year I had spent a Rains Retreat with five others. Oh,
what a miserable Rains Retreat that was! I thought: 'I'm not
going to put up with that! I didn't come here to do that; I came
here to have peace.' So I made some excuse to go to Bangkok and
from there I found this island. I thought it was perfect. They
had caves on the island and little huts on the beaches. It was
the perfect set-up for a monk. One could go and get one of those
huts and live in it. And then go on alms-round in the village.
The village people were all very friendly, especially to Western
monks because to be a Western monk was very unusual. We could
depend on having all the food we could possibly eat, and more. It
was not a place that was easy to get to, being out in the Gulf of
Thailand, and I thought: 'Oh, they'll never find me out here,
those Western monks; they'll not find me here.' And then I found
a cave, one with a Jongram, and it was beautiful. It had
an inner chamber that was completely dark and no sounds could
penetrate. I crawled in through a hole and inside there was
nothing. I could neither see nor hear anything. So it was ideal
for sensory deprivation: 'Oh, this is exactly what I've been
looking for; I can practise all these high jhanic states.
I can go in this cave and just practise for hours on end with no
kind of sense stimulation.' I really wanted to see what would
happen. But there was this old monk living in this cave who was
not sure whether he was going to stay. Anyway, he said I could
have the grass hut on the top of the hill. I went up there and
looked, and down below was the sea. I thought, 'Oh, this is also
nice because now I can concentrate on the sea, which is
tranquillising.'
There was a Thai monk on the island who
was a very good friend of mine and he said: 'Well, if they find
you here, there's an island about fifteen miles further
out-they'll never find you there. There's a little hut there, and
a little village; the people in the village would love to take
care of a monk.' So I was thinking: 'You know, possibly after the
Rains Retreat, I will go out to that further island.'
I really was determined to escape. I
wanted peace and I found the Western monks very confusing. They
would always ask lots of questions and were so demanding. So I
was all set to spend the Rains Retreat in this idyllic situation.
And then-this foot! My right foot became severely infected and
they had to take me off the island into the local hospital on the
mainland. I was very ill. They would not let me go back to the
island and I had to spend the Rains Retreat in a monastery near
the town. Sorrow, despair and resentment arose towards this
foot-all because I was attached to tranquillity. I wanted to
escape the confusion of the world; I really longed to lock myself
in a tomb where my senses would not be stimulated, where no
demands would be made on me, where I would be left alone,
incognito, invisible. But after that I contemplated my attitude;
I contemplated my greed for peace. And I did not seek
tranquillity any more.
I never did return to that island. The
foot healed fairly well and I had a chance to go to India. Then,
after that I went back to Wat Pah Pong, and by that time I had
decided not to make preferences. My practice would be 'the way of
no preferences'; I would just take things as they came. On my
return to Wat Pah Pong I was put in the responsible position of
being a translator for Ajahn Chah. I detested having to translate
for Westerners, but there I was. I had to do it, and I also had
to teach and train monks. A year or so after that they even sent
me off to start my own monastery! Within two years there were
about twenty Western monks living with me. Then I was invited to
England.
And so I have never escaped to that cave
because I no longer made preferences. The responsibilities and
teaching seem to be increasing, but it is part of the practice of
'no preferences'. And I find, through this practice, my mind is
calm and peaceful. I no longer resent the demands made on me, or
dwell in aversion or confusion about the never-ending problems
and misunderstandings that arise in human society. So the
practice is-just mindfulness. No longer do I long for
tranquillity. Tranquillity comes and I see it as impermanent.
Confusion comes-impermanent; peacefulness-impermanent;
war-impermanent. I just keep seeing the impermanent nature of all
conditions and I have never felt more at peace with the world
than I do now, living in Britain-much more so than I ever did
when I was, say, those few days on that island. At that time I
was clinging desperately to ideals of what I wanted and there was
the accompanying fear of having them taken away-I was afraid that
Westerners would come and bother me and that my peaceful
environment would be interfered with. There was a real
selfishness involved in that rejection and shutting out of
others, and a real fear that others might ruin it for me. So this
attachment to peace and conditions inevitably brings fear and
worry along with it, because all conditions can easily be taken
away or destroyed. The kind of peace that we can get from 'no
preferences', however, can never be taken away. It can never be
taken away because we can adapt; we are not dependent upon the
environment for tranquillity; we have no need to seek
tranquillity, or long for it, or resent confusion. So, when we
reflect on the Buddha's teaching (seeing suffering, its origin,
its cessation and the path to its cessation), we can see that he
was teaching the path of 'no preferences.
The Buddha was enlightened. He spent six
years as an ascetic, doing tranquillising practices, attaining
the highest states of absorption, and he said: 'No! This isn't
it! This is still suffering. This is still delusion.' And, from
that realisation he found the Middle Way, the path of ' no
preferences', the path of awareness.
We should not expect high degrees of
tranquillity if we are living in an environment where people are
confused or not tranquil, or where we have a lot of
responsibilities and duties. We should not think: 'Oh! I want to
be somewhere else; I don't want to be here.' Then we are making a
preference. We should observe the kind of life that we have,
whether we like it or not-it is changing, anyway; it does not
matter.
In life 'like' tends to change into
'dislike'; 'dislike' tends to change into 'like'. Even pleasant
conditions change into unpleasant ones, and unpleasant conditions
eventually become pleasant. We should just keep this awareness of
impermanence and be at peace with the way things are, not
demanding that they be otherwise. The people we live with, the
places we live in, the society we are a part of-we should just be
at peace with everything. But most of all we should be at peace
with ourselves-that is the big lesson to learn in life. It is
really hard to be at peace with oneself. I find that most people
have a lot of self-aversion. It is much better to be at peace
with our own bodies and minds than anything else, and not demand
that they be perfect, that we be perfect, or that everything be
good. We can be at peace with the good and the bad.
Author: Ajahn Sumedho
|