About Ajahn Chah

The Buddho is "the one who knows in accordance with the truth." Renowned master Ajahn Chah (1918-1992) of the Thai Forest Tradition says this knowing frees us from the deception and suffering of untrained mind. There are two ways to support Buddhism. One is known as amisapuja, supporting through material offerings. These are the four supports of food, clothing, shelter and medicine. The act of amisapuja supports Buddhism by giving material offerings to the sangha of monks and nuns, enabling them to live in reasonable comfort for the practice of dhamma. This fosters the direct realization of the Buddha's teaching, in turn bringing continued prosperity to the Buddhist religion. Buddhism can be likened to a tree. A tree has roots, a trunk, branches, twigs, and leaves. The leaves and branches depend on the roots to absorb nutriment from the soil. The words we speak are like branches and leaves, which depend on a root—the mind—to absorb nutriment and send it out to them. These limbs in turn carry the fruit as our speech and actions. Whatever state the mind is in, skillful or unskillful, it expresses that quality outwardly through our actions and speech. Therefore the support of Buddhism through the practical application of the teachings is the most important kind of support. For example, in the ceremony of taking the precepts on observance days, the teacher describes those unskillful actions that should be avoided. But if you simply go through the ceremony of taking the precepts without reflecting on their meaning, progress is difficult. You will be unable to find the true practice. The real support of Buddhism must therefore be done through patipattipuja, the "offering" of practice, cultivating true restraint, concentration and wisdom. Then you will know what Buddhism is all about. If you don't understand through practice, you'll never know, even if you learn the whole Tipitaka. In the time of the Buddha there was a monk known as Tuccho Pothila. This monk was one of the Buddha's most learned disciples, thoroughly versed in the scriptures and texts. He was so famous that he was revered by people everywhere and had eighteen monasteries under his care. When people heard the name " Tuccho Pothila" they were awestruck, and nobody would dare question anything he taught, so much did they revere his command of the teachings. One day he went to pay respects to the Buddha. As he was paying his respects, the Buddha said, "Ah, hello, Venerable Empty Scripture!" Just like that! They conversed for a while until it was time to go, and then, as he was taking leave of the Buddha, the Buddha said, "Oh, leaving now, Venerable Empty Scripture?" That was what the Buddha said. On arriving, "Oh, hello, Venerable Empty Scripture." When it was time to go, "Ah, leaving now, Venerable Empty Scripture?" That was the teaching the Buddha gave. Tuccho Pothila was puzzled, "Why did the Buddha say that? What did he mean?" He thought and thought, turning over everything he had learned, until eventually he realized, "It's true ! 'Venerable Empty Scripture'—that's me, a monk who studies but doesn't practice." When he looked into his heart he saw that really he was no different from lay people. Whatever they aspired to, he also aspired to; whatever they enjoyed, he also enjoyed. There was no real samana within him, no truly profound quality capable of firmly establishing him in the Noble Way and providing true peace. So he decided to practice. But there was nowhere for him to go to. All the teachers around were his own students. No one would dare accept him. Usually when people meet their teacher they become timid and deferential, and so no one would dare to become his teacher. Finally he went to see a certain young novice who was enlightened and asked to practice under him. The novice said, "Yes, sure you can practice with me, but only if you're sincere. If you're not sincere then I won't accept you." Tuccho Pothila pledged himself as a student of the novice. The novice then told him to put on all his robes. Now there happened to be a muddy bog nearby. When Tuccho Pothila had carefully put on all his robes—expensive ones they were, too—the novice said, "Okay, now run down into that bog. If I don't tell you to stop, don't stop. If I don't tell you to come out, don't come out. Okay...run!" Tuccho Pothila, neatly robed, plunged into the bog. The novice didn't tell him to stop until he was completely covered in mud. Finally the novice said, "You can stop now." So he stopped. "Okay, come on up!" And he came out. Clearly Tuccho Pothila had given up his pride. He was ready to accept the teaching. If he hadn't been ready to learn, he wouldn't have run into the bog like that, being such a famous teacher. The young novice, seeing this, knew that Tuccho Pothila was sincerely determined to practice. So he gave him a teaching. He taught him to observe sense objects, using the simile of a man catching a lizard hiding in a termite mound. If the mound has six holes in it, how can he catch the lizard? He must seal off five of the holes and leave just one open. Then he simply has to wait and watch, guarding that one hole. When the lizard comes out he can catch it. Observing the mind is like this. Closing off the eyes, ears, nose, tongue and body, we leave only the mind. To "close off" the senses means to restrain and compose them. Meditation is like catching the lizard. We use sati to note the breath. Sati is the quality of mindfulness, as in asking yourself, "What am I doing?" Sampajanna is the awareness that "now I am doing such and such." We observe the in and out breathing with sati and sampajanna. Closing off the eyes, ears, nose, tongue and body, we leave only the mind. This quality of mindfulness is something that arises from practice. It's not something that can be learned from books. Know the feelings that arise. The mind may be fairly inactive for a while and then a feeling arises. Sati works in conjunction with these feelings, recollecting them. There is sati—the mindfulness that "I will speak," "I will go," "I will sit," and so on—and then there is sampajanna—the awareness that "now I am walking," "I am lying down," "I am experiencing such and such a mood." With these two things, sati and sampajanna, we can know our minds in the present moment. We will know how the mind reacts to sense impressions. That which is aware of sense objects is called "mind." Sense objects wander into the mind. A sound, for instance, enters through the ear and travels inward to the mind, which acknowledges that it is the sound of a bird, a car, or whatever. Now this mind that acknowledges the sound is still quite basic. It's just the average mind. Perhaps annoyance arises within this one who acknowledges. We must further train "the one who acknowledges" to become "the one who knows in accordance with the truth"—known as Buddho. If we don't clearly know in accordance with the truth, then we get annoyed by the sounds of people, cars, machinery, and so on. The ordinary, untrained mind acknowledges the sound with annoyance. It knows in accordance with its preferences, not in accordance with the truth. We must further train it to know with vision and insight, or nanadassana, the power of the refined mind, so that it knows the sound as simply sound. If we don't cling to a sound, there is no annoyance. The sound arises and we simply note it. This is called truly knowing the arising of sense objects. If we develop the Buddho, clearly realizing the sound as sound, then it doesn't annoy us. It arises according to conditions; it is not a being, an individual, a self, an "us" or "them." It's just sound. The mind lets go. This clear and penetrating knowing is called Buddho. With it we can let the sound simply be sound. It doesn't disturb us unless we disturb it by thinking, "I don't want to hear that sound, it's annoying." Suffering arises because of this attitude. Right here is the cause of suffering: we don't know the truth of this matter; we haven't developed the Buddho. We are not yet clear, not yet awake, not yet aware. Such is the raw, untrained mind, a mind that is not yet truly useful. We must develop the mind, just as we develop the body. To develop the body we must exercise it, jogging in the morning and evening and so on. Soon the body becomes more agile, stronger; the respiratory and nervous systems become more efficient. Exercising the mind is different. Instead of moving it around, we bring it to a halt, bring it to rest. For instance, when practicing meditation we take an object such as the in- and out-breaths as our foundation. This becomes the focus of our attention and reflection. We note the breathing, which means that we follow the breathing with awareness, noting its rhythm, its coming and going, and let go of all else. As a result of staying on one object of awareness, our mind becomes refreshed. If we let the mind wander to this or that, however, it cannot unify itself or come to a place of rest. To say the mind "stops" means that it feels as if it's stopped: it doesn't go running here and there. It's like having a sharp knife. If we use the knife to cut at things indiscriminately, such as stones, bricks and grass, our knife will quickly become blunt. We should use it for cutting only the things it was meant for. Similarly, if we let the mind wander after thoughts and feelings that have no value or use, the mind becomes tired and weak. If the mind has no energy, wisdom will not arise, because a mind without energy is a mind without samadhi. If the mind hasn't stopped you can't clearly see the sense objects for what they are. The knowledge that the mind is the mind, and sense objects are merely sense objects, is the root from which Buddhism has grown and developed. This is the heart of Buddhism. When we look at ourselves and the way we behave, we are just like little children. A child doesn't know anything. To an adult observing the behavior of a child, the way it...

About Ajahn Chah

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