Self-reflection journal no.2: Wat Pa Mahawan.
Sar V.
Socially Engaged Buddhism
Day 1:
7:10: a phone call wakes me up. “Sa!” Robin’s voice startled my semi-conscious.
“Y-yeahh…”
“Are you going on the field-trip?”
“nNahh, It’s been canceled,” I groaned. He woke me up for this?
“What are you talking about? We’re all down in the lobby right now!”
“WhaT!” I literally fell out of bed, cushioned by a heap of dirty laundry beside my bed. “Are you sure?”
“Are you stoned?”
“Nah, nah… oh geez, someone told me it was canceled!” I fumbled to think who it was… oh right; it was the dude with the Mohawk who delivered me that telegram…
“Get down here now!”
“Right… give me 5 minutes!”
I hung up, roused myself to complete awakeness. Things flew in and out of my school bag at light speed, and by the second phone-call I was jamming a sock on my cold feet. Such was my haste I didn’t even kiss my coffee machine goodbye before I was out the door, not bothering to lock the door. The last thing I remember before passing out again in the van was scribbling a note for Sarah at the front desk and leaving behind some rolling tobacco we bought last night.
Someone woke me up as we stopped at a large candy shop in somewhere Phetchaburi. Though I totally wasn’t in the mood for it, I ate. The highlight of that stop was talking to Jeff about what he did during the Vietnam years.
“A rescue service for bad trips on acid?”
“Yeah, we just wanted to make sure they didn’t hurt themselves.”
“Whoa… why the hell wasn’t I born to experience San Francisco in the 70’s! Why?!” I bought two Krong Tips before jumping back in the van for another long nap
Our next pit stop was at a Tesco Lotus somewhere, I wasn’t even sure if it was before or after Bangkok. After some appalling supermarket food (no wonder they were offering a 10 baht refund for every 50 baht return), I had some of Jeff’s left-over ice-cream.
“Come on, I normally wouldn’t do this, but it’s lemon sherbet!” I explained to the people giving me looks.
After everyone left, I asked Chelsea about her trip to Suan Mokkh. It was very interesting, and made me definitely interested in traveling there. It also helped me clarify some key points.
“Did you get to meet Buddhadasa?”
“No. He died, like, 30 (or was it 3) years ago.”
“Oh… err, the articles must’ve been written when he was still alive.”
“Yeah…”
After a couple of smokes I wandered back to the van. Terrell had bought a portable chess-board so we could play chess in the van.
“Are you really to get your ass kicked?”
“Yeah right! We’ll see who’s going to get it!”
We started playing. I attacked very early, as is my usually philosophy of playing chess: ATTACK, ATTACK, and ATTACK! The result was, as usual, a loss of both the queens in less than 10 moves.
“Well, the bitches are dead now,” I smile.
“Yeah, it’s just us men left to fight. Hey, would you mind body-bagging these guys?” He handled me some pieces.
Soon, however, I startled feeling very sick. We were almost evenly matched, but before the game was over I had to forfeit. The headaches were just too much. Robin taunted me as usual for forfeiting, but this time I definitely felt very, very bad physically. After a couple of stops, one where I was so sick I managed to lose my rolling paper somehow, it got worse. At first I thought it was car sickness, but that went away. Then, I thought it was dehydration, so I bought a 15 baht bottle of water and drained it in less than 8 minutes, and that went away again, but I still felt sick. By the time we startled climbing the mountain I felt like throwing up. Talking to Ted, we came up with the most logical, and, as it turned out, correct conclusion: caffeine withdrawal. So, as Ted was checking to get his rabies shot I ran like a mad man desperate to find a store, any store that had coffee.
The merchant must’ve been very surprised, maybe even a little disturbed, when a sweating young man busted into her shop yelling, “Coffee! Caffeine! Kaffae!”
Nevertheless, she got me a can of coffee when I drained in one go after I got back to the van. “Ahhh… that hit the spot!” Terrell and Robin looked up from their chess game, which had been going on for more than 3 hours.
We finally arrived at Wat Pa Mahawan near evening time, and, just in time for dinner. We were met by Phra Paisal himself, who I recognized immediately from photographs Ted showed in the class. I wondered how he was so fair skinned, living a monastic life. After setting up our mosquito nets, we had some free time. I smoked some cigarettes near the vans, watching the butterflies—some people wandered off to smoke some weed. After dinner, and evening chanting, Phra Paisal told us about the forest.
Plu—loung, as the forest was called, is a 1,000 acre forest, one of the only mountains with forests left. There was a logging concession 30 years ago, after which the villagers followed, cutting down more trees for homes and fuel. Surprisingly, the temple was startled only one year before, 1969, the logging concession. I was interested to hear that he was doing forest conservation efforts here, and that there were only 2 monks here besides him, and 2 lay people at this temple.
I wrote down everything he said, finishing off my two already almost filled notebooks…
One the reason why forest temples are good for meditation is fear. When you fear, for example, a tiger or an elephant, the mind tends to look inwards. It tries to not to think about, or focus on the tiger. It focuses on something else, like bowel movements and the breath. It makes it easier then to develop concentration, provided that, unlike most people, you do not run away.
I asked a question, the last one of the night, about conflict. Isn’t some conflict needed to spur development? If there was forever peace, wouldn’t that lead to stagnation? But the ultimate Buddhist goal, then, is peace, therefore, isn’t that counterproductive to development?
Conflict is not bad in itself, but it needs to be transformed conflict. Then it can create positive—good things—and also bring progress. Democracy is a system to transform conflict of ideas into creative dynamisms. Do not suppress conflicting idea—[but] create the third way of synthesis. In Buddhism we learn a lot about suffering—in [and through] suffering we [are] lead to achieve peace. The aim of Buddhism is to learn about suffering…
Unfortunately the questions had to end there, as time was up. Due to having ended my notebook, I forgot to later ask, since he mentioned synthesis, if Phra Paisal had read Hegel. And if he did, what he thought about Hegel’s statement that the mind, mental perception, consciousness, was a negative process. You see only little of the whole reality. However, I did remember to resume the question that begged to be asked: Isn’t conflict the opposite of peace?
The first night sleeping in the big Sala was an experience. I had set up the biggest individual mosquito net that needed readjustment because I had hung it up to high. I had no problem with the hardwood floor; in fact, I thought it was good for my back, seeing as how I have really bad posture. The sound of nature, as well as the open air, helped me fall into a comfortable sleep. Watching the white light from below reflect on the moving mosquito net was like watching a show of silver lights dancing in front of me. All was going good until… I had an unforgettably BAD nightmare.
I woke up sweating like a fiend. The details of the nightmare are too personal to retell, but later on, as I reflect on it, it had an interesting message. It was a message about beauty. As one of my favorite punk songs goes:
Channel surf a sea of static
See the prize
But you can’t have it!
There’s some empty
In a wish…
Fulfilled.
(“Million”, Jawbreaker)
Beauty, as result of desire, of want, of craving, is such an ephemeral thing. Holding on to its evanescence is a very ugly and disturbing thing. The reality behind that grasping onto something that must change, that melts away, is like holding onto liquid lava, it burns you, slipping through your fingers, taking away a part of you. The solids don’t hold. Do they ever?
Waking up the next day, slightly more refreshed, we began the day at 4:30 am with morning chanting. It was before dawn, and surprisingly, I was only slightly sleepy, and my back only felt like I’d fallen off a bike at 25 km/h; versus falling off one, literally, at 80 km/h, last time. Morning chanting brought back memories of elementary school when I used to fall asleep at our Friday afternoon chanting—I was expecting to get whacked on the back of my skull by a sick at any moment. It never came. Meditation came next. For some reason—could it be the darkness the giant candles pillaring a statue of the meditating Buddha, the chanting that came just before, or even the money I had to pay to be there?—the situation seemed appropriate, so I put my effort into following the instructions. Sitting in the cross-legged lotus position like the statue, I first tried without closing my eyes. It was too difficult; the flickering flames of the candles brought into my mind the interplay of light and darkness upon the golden statue, so I closed my eyes. Thoughts floated by, but I was starting to hear the wind, the creaking of the trees, the sounds became more important, thinking was coming to a rest. Then I could feel my chest, breath coming in and out of my nostrils. It was two circular motions on each side of my face; two circular motions in my chest, spiraling into and outside of my space. I felt calm, peaceful even, something akin to the moment of semi or sub-consciousness before you drift to sleep. I started seeing things happening, but always had the image of closing or ending it, and realizing that I was here, sitting, breathing, and meditating. That realization was slightly frightening—it was so empty, and the thought lingered “What am I suppose to do now?” After a while, I started to feel pain in my legs and knees. I tried to suppress it, it didn’t go away, I tried to acknowledge and feel it, but it only became worse, so, as usual I tried to resist it. Resisting it made me wish for the time to meditation to end, I kept thinking “Almost there, just a bit longer.” But I was now constantly aware again, of minutes passing by and counting the time marching forward. I was waiting, waiting for what I want, the “meditation” to end. It didn’t, or not, as fast as I wanted it, so I broke out of the position, feeling the blood flowing back into my feet; a chilling sensation that ruined any thought of concentration in my end. The chilling was almost gone when the lights were switched on again, signaling the end of meditation “time.”
It was time for the alms rounds. As we were putting the straw mats away, some people were talking of sleeping in. I went down for a cup of coffee, fearing another episode of caffeine withdrawal, but wondering how the villagers would react to a caffeine junkie maniac running around. When I got to the meeting point, everyone was there, except Brian. I got handed a one-strap bag, and we started to walk. I was at the very end, at first, because my pants kept falling off due to lack of a good belt. After I fixed the problem, I could focus more on our immediate surroundings. A couple of people in front of me were chanting away, a little quietly at first, but then, seeing how no one was going to punish them, got slightly louder. While conversation was tempting, the natural surroundings caught my attention.
The land felt like my home to the north; the temperature was cool with constantly icy breezes that howl in the hollow of my ears. But the differences very were very clear to me. There were no sounds of animals, except the occasional crow of a chicken, or the mooing of a cow. The mountains seemed desolate, whereas back home they were green and forested. This is not the say that they were clear-cut stubs, they were green, but with grass and sparsely populated by trees, and definitely not forested. It was dryer, as no frogs jumped on our path, even though the dew made things deceptively damp. It was also obvious in the lack of mist, in Chiang Mai at such a temperature, mist was everywhere, fog hung low, and in the city there was often that smog, the rusty smell you cringe to like every time car exhaust blows in your face. The first half of the round was very quite, encouraging thoughts to wander, with only two or three villagers on the path to give the monks some sticky rice. As I child when I used to give alms to the monks with my mother—who is now a Christian—on weekends, we’d have a giant tray, and some people beside us would even have a table set up. People would give many things besides food, like flowers, a candle, and incense, wrapped in a big green leaf, which my mother took pride in growing both the flowers and the leaves, whereas others bought them in the nearby market. Some people would even give leis, powder, or holy water.
People here would only afford to give sticky rice, or maybe a bit of meat, vegetable, fruit, or candy. Yet, since what they were offering, I noticed, is precisely from their own meal, I was impressed they could sacrifice that much—and how much they believed in the protection and good fortune they were to get in return, or if they believe it at all? On our walk back there were more villagers. I was so lost in my own thoughts that I failed to notice at first that the monks were handing Ted whatever they couldn’t carry, and Ted was handing them to us. Those in our groups were busy snapping pictures now of this strange custom to them. I suspect the villagers were use to it by now—one old man was even surprised Terrell could say “Sa-wat-dee, krap.”
As the sun kept on rising, and people started the business of living, the sounds of talk drifted over along with familiar smells (roasted chicken, and burning charcoal, being my preferred things to dwell on) to my senses. I felt myself automatically relaxing. It was comforting to hear a northern dialect, even Loa, spoken again—and I long to be home. The sun reflected on mossy rocks in the distance, and I thought it might look a little like the English country side, from descriptions of it, a long time ago.
Near the last houses before the empty road back to the wat, I little girl was doing the alms for her old grandmother. As everyone was impressed, and touched in that instance, I quietly wondered where her mother was… and hoping it wasn’t what my cynical mind was suggesting to me. The monks, and some of us, took a black truck back to the wat. I decided instantly that I wanted to walk. As we walked, chilling thoughts dawned on me. If we weren’t as fortunate, could my province, my home town, be just like this? If our forests weren’t protected, and our farmers protected, would it be that much harder for people to make enough, to be educated, and protect it? A lot of people come to Chiang Mai for the culture, and the nature; those same people who are responsible for destroying this forest…
Day 2:
For those who walked, we got back just in time for breakfast. After the monks blessed our food, we ate heartily. Every meal had to be made special for Dennis as he could not eat any peanuts. After breakfast we had free-time before we met Phra Paisal again for another Q&A session. I spent some time catching up on some readings as others took a nap or played chess. The butterflies surrounded me. They were little white ones, yellow ones, and white and blue ones. Humorously, I thought of them as like the monks. Refined from wherever they are born, and though metamorphism a caterpillar turns into a butterfly, do caterpillars know they’ll be butterflies? Butterflies can only exist here, in forests, in nature, in only certain conditions. Outside of this temple, there are no butterflies. For anything to exist there has to be the conditions for it to exist—causality. What caused to be a certain way, we are finding out through history, but what are conditions are we forcing to happen? What will be the child of our generation?
At the second round of questions, I asked what had been bothering me from the first found of questions: Isn’t peace and conflict two opposite things? And if the Buddhist goal is to seek complete peace wouldn’t that be detrimental to [creative conflict]? His answer was surprising again.
Yes, Buddhist seeks peace. [It goes against this force] but the first truth of Buddhism is suffering. Both exists, and have to exist… a balance between discipline and creativity—freedom. We need balance between faith and wisdom. Even arahats have conflict; they have different ideas about how the scriptures can be kept, after the Buddha died. It wasn’t about egoism, but about judgment. The Buddha allowed them to drop minor rules. But what are minor rules? In the end, they kept all the rules…
We left in the afternoon into the forest, ascending a long path of jagged stone steps to the hill. Getting deeper and deeper into the forest, the sounds of animals, of wind bending tree branches, and the silent murmur of water, as well as the relentless mosquito attacks, perked at my senses. I got ahead of the line to witness it all, my curiosity famished. A black dog followed us. The monks and the lay people showed us some interesting plants in the forest. The two most curious plants was a spiky large vine, like looked like a crocodile tail. A tea made out of such a plant could cure back pain, as well as act like a Viagra. It was apparently why a lot of people wandered to get into this forest… hmmm, a curious motive. Terrell made up a tune about “the Viagra plant” that made everyone laugh. The other most interesting plant was actually a hair off of a plant. It was said to make women fall obsessively in love with you, and another main reason people come into this forest. A reason for such belief, one person was telling me, was how the hair looked familiar to pubic hair, and the effect of the hair could also be a reason why this hill was called “lost hill”, women might lose themselves here. Even ancient and local people feel sexually dysfunctional, something I wasn’t too surprised to hear; however, I wonder if any of these plants aren’t dangerous, you don’t seem them at the apothecary.
As we went deeper and deeper into the forest, following a rough trail, we passed by several wooden huts. The monks explained that they were shelters for people who decide to meditate in the woods. Would anyone like to stay in one? Only Chelsea and I were interested; she was excited, I was just plainly curious. As I walked through the forest, I found myself getting more and more distant from the people around me. I wasn’t interested in all the petty talk about things here and there from wherever they were from anymore… this forest, and this experience was interesting, and I was slightly annoyed people weren’t contemplating these things. I needed to get away… needed some time to think.
We walked out of the forest into a trail leading towards the top of the hill. It was sparsely forested, but now that we were so close, some of the trees were dauntingly tall. Some forest workers were nearby in a truck. One of them was smoking a roll our own, I got some papers from him. There was a black bird that they had apparently rescued, and now it thinks we are its family. It decided to grab onto Dennis’s jeans, making for a quick photo-op. Thung had cut his foot somehow, so he had to go on the truck, along with a couple of others who didn’t want to walk. As we continued to march up the trail, Phra Paisal, who decided to walk with us, asked me questions in Thai about Chiang Mai, and Webster. I told him the truth: it’s drinking and drugs, at least for me, and those I hang with.
We arrived at a cabin, next to a beautiful natural lake. There, as we seated ourselves at a long wooden table, Phra Paisal started to tell us about the National Reconciliation Commission (NRC) and the Buddhist Sangha. We planted trees afterwards. For some, this peaceful work might’ve caused a feeling of satisfaction, of having done some good for the world. I felt futile. This tree will take 50 years to grow, and then, it can be brought down in less than an hour. And, if Phra Paisal was right about the domino effect of bring down trees, all these others around it will be down within an hour, or two. We must stop people who’ll destroy first, before we build… but I guess both needs to be happening, we might only be able to get them to stop, once it is too late.
Coming back, I was unusually quite. A sense of foreboding of the future ahead, there’s too many of those that would love to destroy the trees we’d just planted, and all it stood for, and the things that it is holding up by standing there, like the banyan tree that grew from the top down, and with it came a sense of dread. Instead of taking the truck with most of the people, I and a couple of others decided to take the forest path back. I decided to run, while others walked, and quickly I was alone. After a distance I was tired, and rested on a log, staring up at the canopy, deep in thought.
2,500 people were killed in 2 months in “The War on Drugs”, more than the total American casualties in Iraq. I couple of my friends, some were drug dealers, some weren’t, are in that statistic.
The root of the conflict in the south is discrimination and human-rights violations. In the south the proper judicial procedures are ignored, but the worse is the injustice of officials, due to differences in ethic, language, and religion, 200 years of history of this! When Bangkok conquered the Patani kingdom, they did a lot of damage to that state and not improved it much. In the north, we could care less about the south. When bad things happen, it is somewhere in the south, or the northeast, or in Bangkok, but not to us. Thaksin is from the north, we come from the same home-town. [Thaksin] said publicly that if this province does not choose me than you will get less funding. He said that publicly!
In ancient times there are limitations to how much they [the rich] can show off status to material wealth. They showed their status through generosity. Nowadays they show off their wealth in consuming more…The Buddhist Sangha has lost its dynamism; it lacks the intelligence and wisdom to make people do good…
I arrived back at the wat just as the others arrived by truck. The mae-che was making pineapple shakes; I went out to roll a cigarette. People talked of a bonfire, so I helped gathered firewood. Some people from Bangkok came to inquire about staying at the temple. I smoked and watched them; maybe the message is getting through… The girls had to switch lodgings because ants have spread all over their shelter.
After dinner, evening chanting, and meditation, Chelsea, a monk (who I regretfully forgot his name), and I gathered our stuff and headed for the hill. We arrived at Chelsea’s first, half way up the hill, and I was to stay at a nearby shelter. However, as I walked there with the monk, a tree had fallen over our path, making it impossible for me to stay there. I had to relocate deep within the forest, in the hill.
“Come grab me before you go down, ok?” asked Chelsea, as I left with my pile of mosquito net, pillow, and straw mat.
“Sure.”
It was dark now and all we had to guide our way were our tiny flashlights. The bugs were out, and the wind constantly made the branches creak and moan. One particularly dry, thorny tree on the climb sounded like a roulette wheel with thorns and cones instead of balls. As we were walking, all of a sudden I felt as if I was grabbed by a sharp hand. I couldn’t pull free; I lost my flashlight. The monk came back to help unshackle a giant thorny branch that had grabbed on to my mosquito net, shirt, pants, pockets, and arm. I picked up my flash-light, my senses more sensitive, or more delusional, than before.
After a long walk, almost half way into the forest, we arrived at where I was to stay for the night. I tried to remember the vine-like branches that marked the divergence of the path towards the shelter, and the path deeper into the forest. The shelter obviously hasn’t been used in a while; the floor was littered with things that had blown in. The monk helped sweep the floor for me. I thanked him, and he left. I lit two candles, and began setting up my mosquito net. Just as I shinned my light to the ceiling, my heart missed a beat; wasps! I counted it, one, two, three nests! Deciding what to do, sweat that poured from the trek up here seemed to resume trickling.
I’m not moving. I grabbed some pillows on a stand, but quickly let go, a bunch of bugs were on me, and something squishy was on the pillow! I shined my light on it; winged ants. Good, I thought, nothing poisonous. Finally it was time to hang the last string, the one nearest to the wasp’s nests. I hesitated; then reached up for the fixture. As soon as I poked through, a buzzing sound surrounded me. Two or three wasps surrounded me, one wasp landed on my upper shoulder. I’ve never been bitten by a bee or wasp before, am I allergic? I had a picture of people finding me on the forest path somewhere, cold. I stared at the little tiny large yellow and black stinger, for what must’ve been two minutes; I brushed it aside. Mosquito net finished, I left to go grab Chelsea, and make it to the bonfire.
I parted the door, and let it ajar, hoping nothing will crawl in before the time I get back. The difference in temperature it me fast; faster than the realization that now, I was alone. Instead of being able to think, as I thought I would, I was instead focused upon not thinking about whatever the hell was out there. The wind seemed to have picked up, and the boards on my shelter creaked every so lightly. I retrieved my flash-light, and, after literally falling off the first step, headed for the trail back to Chelsea’s shelter. I judged from my place to hers’ was about twenty minutes in daylight. In the dark, alone, time seemed to move unceasingly slow. My light was small, and I had to keep trying to see where I was going, as well were I was stepping. I kept falling over, and scrapping my feet on the rocks. The noises came from all around me, making me dizzy. The wind howled through the trees, and, once in a while, when my light reflected a plant that was too close, I quickly turned, thinking some one was behind me. It was automatic, my heart pounded. Once in a while, I flashed the light all around, the plants and trees that looked so familiar in the day-light, looked uniform and sickly straggly. I kept walking forward for what seemed like forever—or, twenty minutes—to find that I was completely lost. Where the hell is Chelsea’s shelter? Where am I?
Walking, when you don’t know where you’re going, where you are, but have an idea of where you want to be—where you’d rather be—is an experience. Add the darkness, the animals, the trees, and the creaking of the door of the empty shelter in the front of you, and then you’d be close to where I was at that moment; before I fell over yet another rock, and there goes the light. This isn’t good.
The noises magnified, as my vision stopped. The smell of rotting leaves was a thick fog surrounding me. Luckily a clearing in the trees was behind me, and I could at least see some trees around me, though they looked even bigger, and craggier now than before.
“Fear is good for concentration,” I remembered Phra Paisal telling us the first night, “the mind turns inwards, trying not to think of the source of the fear, it concentrates on something else, like the breath…it is good for developing concentration.” I looked straight down to the tips of my toes; scratched and slightly bruised from stumbling around on the rocky path. That is what I should be focused on, I told myself. Instead of worrying about the endless path ahead, or making sure I wasn’t followed, I should be making sure I wasn’t constantly tripping over.
So, with that in mind, I got down on all fours looking for the flash-light. I was, luckily, caught in some leaves. I switched it back on, a small beam of white, cutting through the path before me… and directed it, down, seeing the jagged rocks in my path, but paying attention, full attention, to them for the first time.
After that, I could suddenly walk better, faster. My attention was no longer scattered in all directions. The forest, unwilling to submit, howled and groaned, but eventually learned to quite as the rocks got bigger, and bolder. I saw a flame light through a screen of tress. The feeling of being lost melted into a hope of finding another person. It’s comforting to have another with you, even when, or especially when, you’re lost. At least the boundary between the two persons are clear, some solid assuredity—a barrier to boundlessness. Scratched off signs hug loosely from trees, their floating in the wind a sigh; epitaphs to what it once said. I continued on the path till a divergence path in the direction of the light opened up.
The light was a way back in the direction I had come. After about another five minutes of walking I arrived at a clearing occupied by a two story wooden house. I removed my shoes, and went up to the second floor. A mixture of curiosity, and fright assured me this wasn’t the right house.
I knocked on the door anyways, “Hello? Chelsea?”
After a moment of silence, and then some scuffling sound, a man in, what I judge to be his thirties, answered in Thai, “Yes, who is it?”
“
Sorry wrong house,” I said apologetically, wondering why I even bothered. Maybe I was looking for trouble, I’d thought such a house, isolated in forest might have something shady going on… but at the same time too frightened, and too tried to fight, if things got into a mess.
Retracing my steps, I wasn’t sure which path to take. Finally, after what seemed like another eternity lost, I saw something. A weight dissolved from my tense body as I recognized the roof of the main sala! I ran for it, and tripped over the edge separating the cement from the forest; separating me from everyone else.
The bon-fire was dying down as I arrived. Everyone was there, including Chelsea. “I decided to go down myself, when you didn’t come back. Where did you go?”
I sat down, and started to roll a cigarette, my hands were shaking. “I got lost…” People started telling ghost stories. I was already took spooked by my experiences—knowing full well I might repeat it, going back there to sleep. I had to wake up at 3:30 AM, judging now that my lodgings are about half-an-hour’s trek from here, longer in the dark…
The hike back up was a lot easier, with my focus on the trail…
Day 3:
3:30 AM—my alarm clock rang. The wind shook my mosquito net, swirling around me; I could hear the slight buzzing of wasps. Luckily, they were still in their nests. It was freezing cold, and having brought only a towel, I was covering myself with my jeans. The black sleep of exhaustion felt all too short. It was too cold to stay in bed, so I made haste to get and back to the warmth of company. I had to cover myself with the towel, as I walked, to keep warm on my trek down. The morning air reminded me of weekends camping in the mountains back home. It would be misty at this time back home. There was no mist here, but you could smell the morning dew, it wetness on the earth, and decomposing leaves. The ants were out, relocating in a massive line.
I was the first to arrive that morning at the main sala. The first monk who appeared must’ve been surprised to see a towel covered figure playing Star Wars with his flash-light so early in the morning. The morning chanting was torturous as I struggled to keep awake during meditation. Trying to stay away while sitting still when you’re tired and sleepy is harder than doing physical labor
I decided to go on the morning alms round again. This time it was only Ted, Nayuki, Chelsea, and I who accompanied the monks; everyone else decided to sleep in. The walk gave me time to think again, with the backdrop of the desolate mountains my muse…
For a country to remain environmentally healthy, according to the UN, 15% of its forest has to be healthy. The method of farming in this area is not sustainable. Tapioca farming leads to soil erosion. After ten years the villagers now have to use chemical fertilizers, and pesticides. The government is now telling them to plant rubber trees; they only care for the short-term profit, but not for the long term, [sustainability]. For the ordinary villagers they have to earn income as wage-laborers in other provinces or in Bangkok to make a living. Tapioca farming is only about 60% of their income.
Villagers are under the materialistic values. When they make merit they only wish for good fortune for gain. So we try to revive the spiritual perspective—when they see the tree, the height, we want them to see the tree’s relationship to ecology, and reflect on the ideals of life. We do tree ordinations to show that the tree deserves respect. It is very important for religion. In the old times people believed that there were sprits in nature. I don’t think it is animism, but a symbol of respect of nature.
The Buddhist response to globalization is a response in term of world-view. In having a harmonious relationship with ourselves, nature, and religion. This holistic perspective is a good start to a grand change. The new world cannot be preached. It has to be integrated into living and society; in social structures of family, neighborhood or civic groups. I think civic groups can be an interesting organization. For example, culture groups, or sport groups. I find that many organizations, NGOs, and people’s groups help in encouraging people into this new world-view. However, social and political structures are the big question because they influence the society the most.
[Being a Buddhist monk helps my social activism by] Making me let of attachment to success. Failure and success are two sides of the same coin. I would’ve burned out without understanding meditation. By emersion into the world of action, my meditating helps me because I can see its impermanence. Sometimes the perpetrator and victim can be the same person.
The nature of a human-being is to have a sense of belonging. Nationalism enables people to find that in a community called nation. That something bigger can help people from being too selfish. If you think of the nation more than yourself, then you have more respect for nature, relationships, and less selfishness. When nationalism becomes exclusive (us vs. them), it becomes negative. Buddhism can remind us that nation is man-made. It is just temporary. This ‘brand’ comes later. We are born human first before are a brand.
I looked up from my thoughts to the children learning to give alms to the monks. I see the expensive plaque, Phra Paisal, explained to us on the second day, in front of the local school. Inside, I know children are rote learning written propaganda. I was convinced Buddhism could fit under Marxism somehow, but now I understood. Marxism, had no strong, or a wrong, idea of what human nature stood for. The ‘subject’ of ideology could only be maintained through closed-minds. Buddhism builds from the ground of its understanding of human-life. Marxism tears apart the system. Workers are alienated from their labor—and themselves, but what is this ‘Self’? In the end, it is the world-view, the Weltanschauung that drives people. People only do what is good, or good for them, and never what they perceive as bad, ultimately, for them, or their interests. It is in defining these values, in teaching them, in preserving them that we must act—in the short-term, as well as ultimately.
The forest is like green-gold. Protecting them can be dangerous. In that way, Phra Paisal’s, and the Wat Pa Mahawan monks’ most direct form of engaging in the suffering of people is by planting trees, and conserving the forest. These forests represent, more than just a watershed, the values of preserving nature. In their blind pursuit of profits, of material goods, people cannot see their effect on the wider scale. Money was invented as a system of measuring value of trade. It is a value system, in itself; not unlike ethics, or morality. For a long time, these value systems existed side-by-side, interacting, or one cutting down the other. Now, money is taking over, the value of worth of trade dominating people’s minds—a price tag on everything…
After the alms, I had to retrieve my stuff from the hill. That utterly drained me, and I was sleep-waking for the rest of the day, until we got back to VIP. As I step off the van, I miss the sound of the wind on the tree branches… and I feel dread.
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