About Ajahn Jayasaro

Whether you’re learning to meditate or ride a bike, says Ajahn Jayasaro, it’s not about how good you are or how far you get. The point is simply to practice with a sincere and consistent effort. As I remember, the majority of the teachings that Ajahn Chah gave were not startlingly profound. They didn’t consist of things that you’d never heard of before, where you would say, “Wow, esoteric Buddhist teachings in the forest! If I hadn’t come here I would never have had the opportunity for this kind of initiation, or this kind of unheard revelation of the dhamma.” Instead, it was more that every single word he said struck home. It was as if we were hearing those teachings for the first time, but at the same time, it wasn’t new information needing an extensive vocabulary. Often he was able to express himself in very simple terms, and they struck home because of the relationship, the feelings of devotion and faith in him that we felt. So he was able to create a situation in which learning took place. Through his own example and his personal presence and power, we felt this great sense of chanda in practice. I don’t know how many people are familiar with this word, but it’s a vital word to understand. Western presentations of Buddhist teachings have often led to the misconception that because suffering arises out of desire, you shouldn’t desire anything. In fact, the Buddha spoke of two kinds of desire: desire that arises from ignorance and delusion, which is called tanha, craving, and desire that arises from wisdom and intelligence, which is called kusala-chanda, or dhamma-chanda, or most simply chanda. Chanda has a range of meanings, but in this case I’m using it to mean wise and intelligent desire and motivation, which the Buddha stressed as being absolutely fundamental to any progress on the eightfold path. We say, “Why are we putting forth this effort?” Well, we do it in order to be someone who knows how to put forth effort consistently and in an appropriate way, whatever the surrounding conditions are or obstacles might be. This ability to put forth unremitting effort is the goal itself. Of the four iddhipadas—the four paths to power—chanda is the first. In the presence of chanda, effort, or viriya, arises. Effort is in many ways the characteristic dhamma of this whole school of buddhism. In fact, the Buddha referred to his teachings not as Theravada but as viriyavada. It is a teaching of effort, a teaching that there is such a thing as effort, that effort can be put forth, effort should be put forth, and that effort is what is needed for progress on the path. When we lived with Ajahn Chah at Wat Pah Pong, he was able to create around him, and within the hearts of his students, this sense of chanda. One way that we can talk about chanda is by distinguishing it from the unwholesome kind of desire, or tanha. One of the most observable differences is that tanha is focused on the result of an action, while chanda is focused on the action itself. So tanha wants to get, wants to be, wants to become, wants to get rid of, wants to be separated from something. Chanda wants to do. As I recall, in those days after evening chanting, Ajahn Chah would often say, “Now is the time to go back to your kutis and put forth effort.” He didn’t say, “Go back and meditate.” So our practice was conceived in terms of effort, and it was the putting forth of effort that was important. The willingness and interest to do that came through chanda. I’ve very rarely taught meditation in the West, but in Thailand a common problem among lay meditators is that they take up meditation practice in order to become peaceful. When people meditate and they don’t become peaceful, or they don’t achieve the kind of peace they imagined they should be achieving, they become frustrated and discouraged, and even assume that they don’t have sufficient spiritual aptitude. In many ways we can say that following the path is the fruit; this is something that I find myself talking about a lot. To make a comparison, let’s say a small child is learning to walk. You could say, “Well, where did the child walk to today? How far did she get?” but that’s not the point. The child wasn’t standing up, walking a few steps, falling down, and getting up in order to get somewhere. She didn’t fail because she didn’t get to a particular place. Similarly, if you’re learning to ride a bicycle, it’s not important where exactly you go. The question is, can you balance on a bicycle? Can you control a bicycle? Can you ride a bicycle? The goal is not to ride to a particular destination. I suggest that we look at meditation practice in the same way. We say, “Why are we putting forth this effort?” Well, we do it in order to be someone who knows how to put forth effort consistently and in an appropriate way, whatever the surrounding conditions are or obstacles might be. This ability to put forth unremitting effort is the goal itself. That’s not to say that there’s no interest in samadhi. But samadhi will come of itself. It’s a natural consequence of this precise, devoted, consistent, and wise effort. If you turn your focus toward your work itself, and not toward waiting for some pleasure or happiness that will arise in the future as a result of the work, it doesn’t mean you won’t get your reward; you’ll still get your wage. It just doesn’t have to be constantly on your mind. This can be your attitude toward meditation too. In working life, some people consider work a miserable imposition that you have to grit your teeth and get through so that you win the reward of a monthly or weekly wage. This can lead to a lot of unhappiness at work; if work is looked upon as merely a means to an end, it can easily be a cause of sloppiness and even corruption and dishonesty. If you can find an easier means to the same end, then why wouldn’t you? But if you turn your focus toward the work itself, and not toward waiting for some pleasure or happiness that will arise in the future as a result of the work, it doesn’t mean you won’t get your reward; you’ll still get your wage. It just doesn’t have to be constantly on your mind. This can be your attitude toward meditation too. so it’s not, “Oh, I’ve been meditating for so long and I still haven’t got this and haven’t reached and realized that...” The question is, are you someone who can put forth effort consistently? Can you find joy and interest in putting forth effort? For children, preferences are understood as a kind of moral imperative; for a child, it makes perfect sense to say, “because I like it, I will do it” or “I shouldn’t have to do it because I don’t like it.” We can garnish and camouflage it a bit as we get older, but in fact, this is often the rationale of the adult as well. We have things that we like and we find reasons to explain why we like them, while not really being honest enough to recognize that usually the sense of like or dislike comes first and the reasons come afterward. The very simple observation is that some things we really like are to our detriment in the long term; they can be harmful to us and others. similarly, some things we dislike can in the long term be for our benefit and happiness. Therefore we can’t assume that our sense of like and dislike is an adequate or reliable indication of whether or not we should spend time doing something or associating with particular people or things. So what we’re learning from meditation is the ability to stop and look and not be carried away by these fleeting feelings of liking and disliking. We’re learning to put forth effort. In Ajahn Chah’s words, “When you feel diligent and enthusiastic you meditate, and when you feel lazy you meditate.” You’re recognizing those feelings, but you’re not allowing them to condition your effort. As I mentioned, the ability to put forth effort depends a great deal on chanda. When you start any meditation period, it’s important to recognize that chanda is not always there. Even for monks and nuns, people who are giving their lives to this practice, the sense of chanda fluctuates. If you lack that sense of interest and chanda—that uplift and enthusiasm for practice—the meditation can very quickly grind to a halt or run into quicksand. You have serious problems. That’s why I think it’s worth checking the amount of interest at the beginning of a meditation, and if it’s lacking, you need to be willing to spend some time cultivating it, bringing it up. The more you apply yourself in this way, the more fluent you will be in cultivating chanda, and the more easily you can do it, until it becomes almost automatic. What we’re learning from meditation is the ability to stop and look and not be carried away by fleeting feelings of liking and disliking. One of the simplest ways of doing this is to reflect on two subjects. The first is the suffering inherent in the lack of mindfulness, inner peace, and wisdom. We can draw upon particular areas or events in our lives that have caused us great distress, or distress to others, and see very plainly their results, such as a lack of inner awareness, mindfulness, and inner discipline. We can also draw upon the experiences of the people we know and how they have particularly affected us. The second way of using the thinking mind is to reflect upon all the blessings of mindfulness, inner peace, wisdom, and compassion. Perhaps we can call to mind the examples of great monks, nuns, and teachers whom we admire, and how much we revere their peace, calm, kindness, compassion, and wisdom. We can remind ourselves that they are not the owners of these qualities, that they weren’t born with these qualities, but rather that these qualities manifested in them through effort and that great teachers are vessels for beautiful, noble qualities. And just as they are vessels, so too can we be vessels. Having been born as a human being, we have within us the capacity to manifest every noble quality and must try to do so. There are many...

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