The heat in the room was stifling as the teacher announced the imminent arrival of the visitor and the young monk began to squirm at the prospect of being stuck all afternoon in the heat in the presence of the important visitor. The visitor was a senior monk from a nearby monastery whom the younger monk had met before while attending a ceremony some days earlier. The teacher had said it was important that the young monk remain for the afternoon and that although he could not speak with the visitor because of his poor language skills he might nonetheless find the meeting interesting and useful. He gazed out the window and looked longingly and sleepily (after all they had just finished lunch) at the banana palms moving in the breeze and at the mountaintop off in the hazy distance with its gathering cloud canopy. Maybe it would rain after all and then it might cool down. Maybe. He certainly hoped so. The voice of the teacher brought him back into the room and its sticky heat. The visitor would arrive at one o clock. So there would not be enough time to go back to his little hut halfway up the mountainside. He would have to remain here for the next forty-five minutes and wait. Wait for the waiting to begin. He suggested to the teacher that perhaps he could go to his hut and return later, and even as the words left his lips he knew that he was lying. Once he reached the safety of his hut there would be no return for the afternoon visitor. Still the answer was no. He must stay where he was and wait.
The young monk was truly disappointed and irritated to hear that, no matter what, he had to remain while the visit took place and the two older monks chatted away in a language that he could not understand and about monastic business that was of no concern or interest to him. He was only too well aware of how long and boring these formal monastic visits could be. There would be the usual exchange of courtesies and politeness and then long rambling discussions about all manner of monastic politics and business. He felt annoyed too at this intrusion into his valuable practice time by a visitor that he hardly knew and that he cared little about. In fact when he had met the visitor previously he had taken an instant dislike to him because of his very apparent and overt venality. He was the private secretary to the abbot of an important monastery and he knew it. The secretary monk as he came to think of him was a man who was full of himself and most un-monk-like in his behaviour. Added to this he spat and sprayed spittle when he spoke and he gave of an unpleasant smell. In fact he stank. Even other monks had commented on his repulsive body odour, his dirty unwashed but expensive robes and his habit of spraying spittle as he spoke. He had an unfortunate squint, which meant that as he looked at you with one eye the other was turned up at an angle of more than forty-five degrees toward the sky. He looked sly and untrustworthy. One monk had even hinted that he might be dishonest (there was a long and rambling story of some funds having gone missing from a temple fair some years earlier). In the mind of the young monk here was a completely unpleasant, unworthy and unwelcome intrusion into his day of study and meditation.
Again the faint rattling noise of the waving banana palms drew his attention out of the room. The clouds were thickening over the mountain. He thought about the animals that would be seeking shelter now from the oncoming storm. The breeze picked up and the banana palms rattled rapidly but inside the room the temperature continued to climb. He began to imagine the sound of rain on the banana palms which always began at first as a gentle plop plop and then soon became a thunderous rushing sound like pebbles poured across galvanised iron roofs. For a brief moment he felt coolness course through his body only to be too quickly replaced by the unpleasant humidity and heat of the small room in which he sat. His teacher was busy moving some cushions and arranging a small table near the cushions which now faced each other. In a small and almost empty room he had managed to create a clearly defined yet open meeting space, which, while it appeared formal, looked welcoming.
The student roused himself and began to look for a broom with which to sweep the room before the arrival of the now, in his mind, dreaded and dreadful visitor. As he swept he still mumbled to himself inwardly about the nuisance that this visitor was and, although the teacher moved about the room busily moving books and a small tray of tea-making equipment, he felt that he was being watched.
Small patches of dust at the edges of the mat were overlooked as he thought about the way in which his afternoon routine was being disturbed and destroyed. The temperature and humidity both continued to rise and he felt as though the whole world inside the room had become a hot and sweaty mess. How, he wondered, did the tiny figure of his teacher manage to remain cool in this climate? At this time of the year when the world seemed ready to melt he was always cool and comfortable, the surface of his skin showing only the finest and lightest sheen of sweat in the most ferocious part of the hot season. The young monk could smell the odour of his own sweat and feel it running down his back and legs. If only he could be allowed to go to his hut. He knew that this was not possible. Monastic etiquette and the relationship of dependence on his teacher meant that he must remain and be at the very least courteous, polite and try to be attentive.
Noise from downstairs of coughing and appropriate throat clearing made it clear that the guest had arrived and would soon be escorted up the stairs and into the teacher s room by one of the temple boys. The sound of bare feet padding on the creaking stairs, some wheezing, and then there was that face, those eyes, one looking ahead and the other gazing up at the ceiling and then the body rising up out of the floor as if by magic as he ascended the staircase and entered the room. The teacher smiled and welcomed him, inviting him to take the seat already prepared. Before sitting down he bowed his respect three times. (Rather sloppily, thought the student a clear sign of his arrogance. The teacher would no doubt be aware of this arrogance and lack of sincerity.) The secretary wheezed again sounding like a child s rubber toy being squeezed of all its air. The rank smell he carried with him rose with the dust at the edges of the mat as he sat down and folded himself onto the cushion. Now was the time for the young monk to pay his respects to the visiting senior who was only too well aware of his importance in relation to this young foreigner. The student bowed low and very carefully, perhaps too carefully he thought. Now here was a real double bind: having to show respect to this monk and show it very mindfully in front of the master and yet not be too respectful to the secretary monk who sat with a look of such self-satisfaction on his face receiving each bow. The teacher motioned him to stop and be seated to one side. The master and the visitor began their conversation and so began a long and agonising period of waiting for the student.
At first he tried listening to their conversation but his rudimentary knowledge of their language made this quite impossible and this soon became very frustrating. He then watched the motes of dust moving in a beam of sunlight, trying to detect any pattern of movement which might be present. Nothing but dust and sunlight presented itself. From where he sat now the window was at an awkward angle and he could not look out of it, so instead he tried to listen for the sound of the banana palms rattling in the breeze. The monk s voices were just loud enough to prevent him hearing the palms. He tried to imagine their sound instead. His legs began to ache. He shifted uncomfortably on his small cushion, feeling the wetness at the back of his knees and under his arms as he moved around trying to find an easier position. No comfort, no coolness and still the older monks droned on. Occasionally his teacher would laugh a little and smile broadly although the secretary seemed to find nothing amusing or even remotely funny in what was being said. Instead he sat as if transfixed with one eye firmly focused on the master and the other apparently looking at the tiny geckos which scuttled across the ceiling seemingly unaware that they were upside-down. Both eyes were humourless and seemed endlessly looking for something just out of reach. The student looked at the ceiling trying to imagine how this man saw the world with his eyes pointing in different directions but this too became boring and soon he fell into a hazy mindlessness sinking into the heat and sweltering humidity. Suddenly this was broken by the sound of his teacher s voice speaking in English, We will have tea. Please make tea for our guest.
He swayed a little on his cushion as if waking up from a long sleep, a sleep which he was unable to remember having had. The guest politely declined the offer of tea but the master insisted it be made and offered. The young monk rose very slowly and carefully from his seat not wishing to let either of the monks see that his legs had gone to sleep as they talked on. Picking up the small tray, which held two tiny clay cups and a very tiny teapot, he made his way outside to make the unwanted tea. He lit the kindling in the small fireplace and then placed some larger pieces of wood on the fire and watched with a sleepy fascination as the fire caught and the bright yellow and orange flames arose. Placing the kettle of well water over the flames he sat and waited. If he listened carefully he could just hear the voices of the monks in the room behind him. The small verandah on which the fireplace was located was hot and its wooden boards dry as dust. It wouldn’t take much for it to burn down he thought idly. He was getting annoyed. So much time being wasted and still the water hadn’t boiled. Making tea that nobody wanted. Making tea for a very odourous visitor. Wasting his precious study time, his precious time for meditation practice. The water suddenly boiled and he tossed some dry tea leaves into the tiny pot and poured in the water which splashed everywhere lightly scalding his fingers and wetting the edge of his robe. Quickly he lifted the tray and went back into the room of his master. Placing the tray on the floor he politely bowed to the master and then offered the tray of tea in the very formal way that monastic etiquette dictated. The teacher took the tray placed it to one side and continued his conversation.
Much time passed, steam rose and vanished from the tiny teapot and as their conversation continued the tea grew cold, un-drunk and then undrinkable. Perhaps another hour passed, perhaps less, but it felt like days to the student. The teacher again called for tea to be made. The visitor politely declined the kind offer and yet again the teacher insisted. Once again the young monk found himself outside on the verandah re-lighting the now cold fire all over again and waiting once more for the water to boil. He tossed the unused and by now bitter liquid into a nearby pot plant, some of the wet tea leaves fell onto the dry wooden verandah boards. Wet and slippery they were hard to pick up and he flicked them roughly from his fingers into the base of the small potted tree. Now he was really annoyed. Making tea that was unwanted and unnecessary. Spending all of this time sitting in pain and considerable discomfort being forced to listen to a conversation, which he couldn’t understand, which did not concern him and was of no interest to him. This whole business was really quite silly and an inordinate waste of his time. How could the teacher not see this, after all he was a serious student? He wanted to get back to his study and meditation not sit around listening to nonsense and making cups of tea. He was becoming more annoyed, more irritated even a little angry at this imposition. The water boiled lifting the lid of the kettle noisily and again he quickly made the tea and re-entered the room. The polite formalities of bowing and offering ended with not a word from the master. He once again resumed his uncomfortable seat.
The tea remained untouched. The conversation continued, now animated; now almost lapsing into silence as if they were finally running out of things to talk about. He feared that the near silence might just be a drawing of breath. His body ached and his mind now ached with it. The boredom he felt was truly was intolerable. We will have some tea.
The words floated across his mind like some strange cloud formations in a blank sky and he knew that he had heard correctly. The teacher wanted more tea made. Surely he can t be serious, he thought. What nonsense. What a waste of time. What a waste of tea. What? He bowed and picking up the tea tray, left the room and stormed onto the verandah. The sun had shifted in the sky and the verandah was now in shade but he couldn’t feel it, didn’t notice the shadows lengthening. The fire had of course long gone out and so a new one had to be lit all over again. Roughly he tore at the kindling and broke half a dozen matches trying to light it. He tossed larger pieces of wood onto the tiny fire, almost putting it out, but it rose up, wrapped itself around them and began to blaze. Quickly he filled the kettle with water from a large stone jar by the steps and placed it on the fire with a great clanking sound. The lid was bent slightly and hard to fit so he tossed it to one side. He stood staring into the water and then squatted down to await it s boiling. More waiting and more boredom as he stared into the kettle watching for the first sign of steam or a tiny bubble to form on its pock marked base. Noticing the lengthening shadows creeping across the dusty courtyard, he felt real anger now at the way in which his whole afternoon had been wasted. Making useless cups of tea, serving two monks who paid him no attention and said no thanks for his tea making and his polite attentiveness. The heat was still intense and perspiration flowed steadily down his arms and legs. The robe at his waist was wet and clung to his body unpleasantly. He cast the old tea and its leaves off the verandah into the dust below almost hitting one of the sore-covered temple dogs as it ambled by looking for food which it would almost certainly not find until after dawn the next day when the monks returned from their alms rounds. As the dog looked up and ran off quickly he felt a tiny moment of regret that he had missed. After all cold tea and a few tealeaves would not have really hurt the dog.
Waiting, his impatience and anger grew steadily. It became almost without an object, just irritation, just annoyance, just anger. His mind and heart were ablaze with anger. Seething with anger and resentment. He was on fire. Looking back into the kettle he saw the water boiling furiously. He had missed the first tiny bubbles and now before him the kettle rocked and rattled unsteadily as its contents convulsed and threw boiling water out in great splashes into the fire and onto the dry wooden verandah boards. He stood transfixed, staring into the rolling boiling water. It was his mind that he saw rolling and seething, hissing and bubbling spitting and spewing its dangerous hot spray in every direction. Here was anger, here was resentment, and here was aversion. From somewhere deep within his heart and mind laughter began quietly to bubble up. He could hear it. Gently, silently, he was laughing, at himself. Such a fool. Such self-importance. Such arrogance. What an idiot; and like steam the anger and the foolishness dissolved. Just laughter remained. Ideas, thoughts and feelings arose and vanished as quickly as steam; my time, my practice, my study, me, mine, what foolishness. Laughter flowed, cooling body heart and mind. What else is there to do now but make tea? He touched the tea leaves and smelt their delicate fragrance. He heard the water as it first touched them within the tiny teapot and felt the soft grinding of the terracotta lid as it settled into its place. Lifting the tray and looking out across the courtyard, he felt that the coolness of evening seemed somehow near in the long shadows that rippled across the dusty ground. Two dogs skulked by in the distance and sorrow tinged with something else arose within him.
Carrying the tray into the room he was struck by how quiet it had become. Placing the tray to one side he bowed placing his forehead to the floor before his master and his heart was flooded with gratitude and calm joy. Lifting the tray to make the offering and feeling the hands of the teacher taking the tray he heard the teacher say, At last we have a cup of tea!
Placing the tray now in front of himself the teacher calmly and simply poured some tea into each cup and offered one small cup with both hands to his visitor. The secretary took the cup but without drinking he placed it politely to one side and announced that he must leave immediately. The teacher lifted the other cup to his lips and laughing very gently said, What a shame. It is a very special tea. Drinking it down with one gulp he placed it down gently and said, “Enough for one day.”
The secretary monk politely took his leave and as he went down the stairs they could hear the plop, plop sound of rain striking the banana leaves. Within minutes there was the thunderous roar of tropical rain. He would be drenched before taking just a few steps. Suddenly the room was cool. They went silently to the window. Looking through the teeming rain into the distance toward the now almost invisible mountain the teacher said quietly, almost whispering to himself, “Beautiful. Cool, so cool”.
The Loving-kindness, Compassion, Patience and Wisdom of the Thera have grown out of his own experience of living in Nissaya/dependence with an elder/director. His personal struggle for freedom from greed, grasping and unwholesome attachment, anger, hatred and aversion and the darkness of ignorance or delusion has taken place in the supportive presence of his own Thera. This makes him more compassionate and loving in his encounter with his own student. His vision is whole (Samma) and he understands well the small incident in the Samyutta Nikaya (Part I chapter 3. 18 Diligence 2) where the Buddha corrects the faulty understanding of his disciple Ananda:
On one occasion .the Venerable Ananda approached me .and said: Venerable Sir, this is half of the holy life, that is, good friendship, good companionship, good comradeship.
When this was said .I told Ananda: Not so, Ananda! This is the entire holy life Ananda, that is, good friendship, good companionship, good comradeship.
Through his own hard-won wisdom he is able to lead the student along the path to freedom. The director or Thera in this tradition is not self-selected. He is not a theoretician, someone who knows something about the spiritual life. He is a practitioner who has plunged into its depths. He is knowing, loving and compassionate. He is extraordinarily ordinary.
In the words of a great Thera, the Most Venerable Tahnchaokhun Phra Visalsalmanagun:
In the spiritual life you cannot teach anyone what you know,
Most Venerable Tahnchaokhun Phra Visalsalmanagun
Simply show them what you yourself are knowing.
