The Middle Way of Mediocrity "One is wealthy in direct proportion to one's contentment with what one already has.

One is in poverty in direct proportion to what one feels one lacks." A few years ago I told a wise monk, a Burmese sayadaw named U Jotika (or in Burmese, Mahamyaing U Zawtika), about some experiences I had had, and he advised me to share the story with others. Also, I have a strange tendency to make embarrassing confessions to people I hardly know, or in this case even to total strangers. So, bearing this in mind, I would like to describe a counterintuitive development in my spiritual progress that occurred several years ago. I suspect that the introductory story leading up to this development will be somewhat long in telling. Since the time of my ordination I have had a reputation for being very strict in my practice. I studied the rules of monastic discipline intensively and extensively, inside and out; and there was a time when I could go for weeks without being aware of breaking any rules or having anything to confess, except perhaps for looking into a mirror when I shaved. (A monk is not allowed to look into a mirror unless he is inspecting a sore on his face; although a famous Thai book on monastic discipline says looking into one for shaving should be allowable.) I held a dim view of lax monks and of commentarial loopholes in the rules. (For example, a monk is not allowed to eat sugar in the afternoon unless he is unwell---but the commentary says that being hungry is a kind of unwellness. Another example: a monk is not allowed to keep more than one set of robes, but later tradition says that if a monk calls them "accessory cloth" (parikkhra-cola) he may keep as many robes as he likes. Because of these loopholes, which even some strict monks exploit, there is a Burmese saying, "If one is skillful in the rules one may kill a chicken.") I also practiced some of the optional ascetic practices called dhutaga. I used to be accused of being overly strict, a fundamentalist, and even "Hassidic." I would read ancient Buddhist texts like the Sutta Nipta and, comparing myself with the iron monks described therein, despise myself for being so wimpy and lax---sleeping too much, reading too much, living in an almost comfortable monastery, knowing exactly where I would sleep that night and exactly where I would receive my next meal. So, trying to live up to a lofty ideal, I eventually started living alone in Burmese forests, and once during the year 2000 went approximately ten months without entering a building. I slept on the ground under a rock ledge, bathed in a creek, and crapped under the open sky like an animal. It was possibly, all in all, the most miserable year of my life. I would go out and wrestle with the devil in the wilderness, so to speak, and the devil usually cleaned my clocks. He mopped the floor with me. I felt as though my conscious mind had become a battlefield, with the opponents being, in Christian terms, flesh and spirit, or in Freudian terms, id and superego;

although the terminology of J. Krishnamurti may be more apposite: the real and the ideal. It seemed that all the easy spiritual gains had been made, and that the situation had degenerated into World War One style trench warfare, with tremendous efforts expended for barely noticeable results. I was frustrated, hysterical, and unhappy much of the time. It seemed that the best I could realistically hope for was the third individual described in a text called the Cadhammasamdna Sutta (M45): And what, monks, is a Way taken upon oneself that is uneasy in the present but has the fruition of ease in the future? Here, monks, someone by nature is very prone to desire, and continually experiences unease and unhappiness borne of desire; he is by nature very prone to aversion, and continually experiences unease and unhappiness borne of aversion; he is by nature very prone to delusion, and continually experiences unease and unhappiness borne of delusion. Yet with unease and with unhappiness, crying and with tearful face, he lives the Holy Life complete and pure. He, at the breaking up of the body, after death, arises in a Higher Realm, in a heavenly world. Visions of gorgeous, voluptuous celestial nymphs in a paradisical Buddhist afterlife fueled my strivings for a while. I became a follower of the Rocky Balboa school of Buddhism: not so much trying to win the contest as just refusing to throw in the towel and endeavoring to stay on my feet the full twelve rounds. Then, late in 2002, I became ill with what the local villagers called "seasonal fever," a malady apparently caused by violent swings of temperature, humidity, and barometric pressure at the tail end of the monsoon season knocking one's metabolism out of kilter. It deprived me of the few pleasures still allowed to a Theravada Buddhist monk---eating, sleeping, bathing, and of course meditation. Food revolted me (it wasn't all that great even when I was well); I lay awake nights with insomnia and cold sweats; due to the fever I was exhorted by a doctor to bathe as little as possible; and my meditation was absolutely on the rocks. To make matters worse, the situation arose at the beginning of a blazing tropical heat wave and a streak of karmic bad luck. Almost the only joy I experienced was inspired by visits from a relatively attractive young Burmese village woman who brought me medicine, fruit juice, and kind words; but that is a rather troubling sort of joy for a celibate monk. I began falling in love with her. It occurred to me that if after so many years of diligent Dhamma practice I could still hit rock bottom like this, that I could still be deprived of virtually all contentment and consolation in life, then my efforts to liberate myself from suffering and delusion were probably in vain. I brooded upon this continually and became depressed. The fever lasted a month or so, and the depression lasted a few months longer, but for more than a year there was a lingering sense of futility and hopelessness in what I was doing with my life. It seemed that I could not properly live the Holy Life complete and pure and could not be a good monk. I developed a deep sympathy for certain passages that I would find in books, like this one by Martin Luther:

I remember that Staupitz was wont to say, "I have vowed unto God above a thousand times that I would become a better man: but I never performed that which I vowed. Hereafter I will make no such vow: for I have now learned by experience that I am not able to perform it. Unless, therefore, God be favorable and merciful unto me for Christ's sake, I shall not be able, with all my vows and all my good deeds, to stand before him." This (of Staupitz's) was not only a true, but also a godly and a holy desperation (--quoted in The Varieties of Religious Experience, by William James) Or this somewhat less optimistic one by Schopenhauer: Hence we get the strange fact that everyone considers himself to be a priori quite free, even in his individual actions, and imagines he can at any moment enter upon a different way of life, which is equivalent to saying that he can become a different person. But a posteriori, through experience, he finds to his astonishment that he is not free, but liable to necessity; that notwithstanding all his resolutions and reflections he does not change his conduct, and that from the beginning to the end of his life he must bear the same character that he himself condemns, and, as it were, must play to the end the part he has taken upon himself. And so, with all this weighing heavily in my mind, I finally threw up my hands in despair and gave up. I wrote a letter to my teacher and great benefactor ven. Taungpulu Kyauk Sin Tawya Sayadaw telling him I had given up, that I was apparently unable to eradicate my imperfections in this life and had reconciled myself to being a mediocre monk. I had no intention of dropping out of the monkhood, as I deeply resonated with the simple, quiet, and rough lifestyle, but I just wanted to stop struggling and to have some relative peace of mind. I wrote a letter to my father saying essentially the same thing. Then, about two days after finishing the letters, mainly to give myself an excuse not to sleep all day long, I began writing an essay on the Three Marks of Existence---inconstancy, unease, and no self---an intuitive, experiential understanding of which is considered to be the essence of true insight in Theravada Buddhist philosophy. And within a few days of beginning the essay, something remarkable happened: I began spontaneously entering mild trance states, so that I would be walking around with my eyes wide open and my feet barely touching the ground. Furthermore, I began experiencing some really lovely, lucid mindfulness intermittently throughout the day, which was also spontaneous and seemingly effortless. For example, while drawing water at the well I would experience very clearly the feelings of the well rope in my hands, the movements and sensations of my muscles as I pulled the rope, the heaviness of the bucket, the feel of the breeze on my skin, and on and on. Also, my meditative practice became drastically improved, so that I was able to sit with my mind wide awake, silent, and clear like glass every day for several months, which for me is unprecedented. I do not often meditate very well. Also during this time valuable insights arose. A strange one occurred one afternoon when I was descending a stone stairway on my way to the well to

take my daily bath. As I walked down the steps I suddenly began experiencing rather severe abdominal cramps. This was not very unusual, as the weather is hot and the villagers who fed me have no refrigerators; so it was pretty likely that I had eaten some curry that was a bit "off" that morning. Anyway, I was doubled over in pain, and anyone who saw my face might have thought I was dying. I considered that in all likelihood I'd be making around three emergency trips to the outhouse that night. Right about that same time it also started raining unexpectedly; and because I own only one set of robes and had not brought an umbrella I was also considering that I'd be wearing a wet robe the following day. Then, as I slowly walked down the steps doubled over in pain and getting soaked in the downpour, a spontaneous shift in perspective occurred: It seemed as though all the commotion---the pain, the expectations of midnight trots to the outhouse, and the gratuitous drench in the rain---was like waves at the surface of a body of water, but that "I," the center of awareness, was deeper down where it was quiet and still, looking up and noticing the waves at the surface, but not being moved by them. I was still doubled over in pain, and anyone who saw me might still think I was dying, but the experience was so beautiful and so profound that I nearly wept for joy; just the knowledge that such a blissful, detached state is possible, even in the midst of trouble, was and is an indescribable blessing. Another insight arose more gradually, as I meditated day after day: I had long considered that suffering is essentially a matter of refusing to accept the way things are, of struggling against What Is---but it finally dawned on me that this applies not only to external circumstances like weather, bad food, and bad company, but to one's own internal mental states as well. In other words, if I wish to be enlightened I should patiently, consciously, compassionately, and whole-heartedly accept my own "defilements." This doesn't mean that I should wallow in them or reinforce them, but it does mean that I shouldn't struggle against them either. Wallowing in ("taking up") is one extreme, and struggling against ("putting down") is the other; the Middle Way goes between these two. And if out of weakness or foolishness I do wallow in unskillful mental states or struggle against them, well, then I should whole-heartedly accept that too, without struggling against it. As the teacher Paul Lowe says, don't be against your own againstness. Conscious, aware acceptance is key, with control being largely if not wholly irrelevant. There is absolutely nothing wrong with yogic effort, of course, but if we strive spiritually it should be out of love for spiritual striving, not out of aversion for our own supposed imperfections. And if you who is reading this are able to be a perfectly virtuous saint, then by all means be one, with my sincere blessings upon you; but if you are not able, then don't. It may not really matter. A saint and an enlightened sage are not necessarily the same person. It may be that one logical conclusion of Schopenhauer's quote above is this statement by Krishnamurti: You have a concept of what you should be and how you should act, and all the time you are in fact acting quite differently; so you see that principles,

beliefs and ideals must inevitably lead to hypocrisy and a dishonest life. It is the ideal that creates the opposite to what is, so if you know how to be with "what is," then the opposite is not necessary. (---from Freedom from the Known) Or consider the following verses from the Mahviyha Sutta, a very ancient discourse from the Sutta Nipta: If he is fallen away from his morality and observances He is agitated, having failed in his action; He prays for and aspires to pure freedom from wrong Like one who has lost his caravan and is far from home. But having abandoned all morality and observances And that action that is criticized or uncriticized, Not aspiring to "purity" or "non-purity," He would live refraining, not taking hold even of peace. Or in the words of the Devil (alias William Blake), "Prisons are built with stones of Law, Brothels with bricks of Religion." As some of you may recall, it was the knowledge of Good and Evil that got Adam and Eve kicked out of Paradise. Compassion is heavenly, but judgements of right or wrong are hell. Yet hell isn't necessarily right or wrong; it's just hell. Incidentally, after the expansive experiences described above I considered the possibility that I had seen a glimpse of enlightenment and was consequently, in Buddhist terms, an Ariya; but, like anything else that has a beginning, the expanded states also had an end, and eventually passed. It is interesting that these experiences began while I was working on an article on the Three Marks (now included on the website nippapanca.org), as a knowledge of these marks is considered by orthodox tradition to lead to liberating insight. More interestingly, it began very shortly after I threw up my hands and gave up. Much of the spiritual literature of the world endorses the idea that simply letting go of the struggle is often a key factor in significant spiritual growth, or even in full awakening---especially if the letting go occurs when the tension of the struggle has approached the breaking point. Mere laxness, or giving up almost as soon as one has begun striving, tends not to work so well. The insightful experience of the winter and spring of 2004 resulted in a great experiment. The experiment was essentially to continue living a monk's life, but within a context of unrepentant mediocrity. My years of strictness established some pretty good habits, so I haven't gone entirely to seed, plus my temperament remains pretty much the same as before, although I certainly am not quite as strict as I used to be, and am less frustrated and "uptight." After the experience, even while still living in caves in Burma I would look deeply into the eyes of pretty girls, work off frustrations by occasionally drawing erotic pictures (I can draw well), and slap the occasional mosquito, to mention just a few of my lapses of virtue.

Since my return to the USA I've gone even wilder---I've listened to music, watched movies, consumed a few mind-altering chemicals, and have even enjoyed the physical touch of a female, although I have willingly undergone the required penance for such breaches of the rules. I suspect that next year I'll be somewhat more restrained in my behavior, although I really can't say I regret my relative relaxation of restraint, and make no apologies. I have called it my Great Experiment in Mediocrity.

Buddhism Meets Skepticism Being a stereotypical Westerner who thinks too much, I lack the sort of faith that is richly possessed by the majority of people born and raised in a system like Buddhism. I look at Buddhism from the outside as well as the inside, and do not take the truth of the scriptures for granted (the taking for granted of which being practically required in more faith-based traditions). I attempt to use critical thought, compare Buddhism with other traditions, and indulge in some Devil's-Advocate-style skepticism from time to time. Although some conservatives might consider me to be a heretic, possibly not even a Buddhist, I consider a hard look at one's own philosophy of life to be vital for avoiding the unnecessary gambles of blind dogmatic belief; and the following paragraphs are a rather extreme hard look at something which, believe it or not, I consider to be sacred.

* * * Please consider that nobody on this planet can logically, demonstratively prove the following four points: 1. That a great Indian sage called Gotama Buddha ever really existed; 2. Even if he did exist, that he was a fully enlightened being; 3. Even if he did exist and was a fully enlightened being, that he always spoke the truth (or that any fully enlightened being necessarily always speaks the truth); and 4. Even if Gotama Buddha really, historically existed, and was a fully enlightened being, and always spoke the truth, that the Pali Buddhist texts accurately, reliably represent what he said. As I say, nobody on this planet can really prove ANY of the above four points---yet most Theravada Buddhists, and of course most Asian Theravada Buddhist scholar-monks, take for granted the truth of all of them, and even most Western monks stubbornly persist in insisting on at least the first three. (A similar state of affairs is found in other traditions, like Christianity---for example, who can really prove that an ancient Galilean carpenter's son named Yeshua was the only begotten Son of God Almighty, or that he was borne of a virgin, or that he died for our sins?) With regard to the first of the four points, I do consider it very likely that from the point of view of conventional truth (as opposed to Ultimate Truth) Gotama Buddha was a real historical personage. It does seem pretty darn likely. But a hardheaded skeptic could easily retort that even DNA analysis of the Buddha's relics, like pieces of charred bone dug out of a reliquary pagoda, would not really prove his existence. We cannot demonstratively prove even the existence of Abraham Lincoln or Winston Churchill, despite mountains of historical evidence, and in Churchill's case people old enough to have known him. As the philosopher Bertrand Russell once pointed out, for all we know some deity with a strange sense of humor could have created this universe half an hour ago, and created us with memories implanted in our heads of events which never actually took place, along with bogus scars, a fossil record, etc. It sounds pretty far-fetched, but there is really no way to prove that it isn't so. As for the second point, I admit that I use the Buddha's enlightenment as a very convenient working hypothesis; but I also admit that there is no way to prove it. Even if the Buddha were alive today and standing in front of a panel of experts they couldn't really prove that he was fully enlightened. How could anyone prove such a thing? Perhaps enlightened sages could clairvoyantly look into the past and clearly see that the Buddha really was a Buddha, but how could the sages prove it to anyone else? We couldn't safely take their word for it, partly because we couldn't prove that they were enlightened either.

The third point is more problematic. For example, in the Pali texts themselves there is some evidence which suggests that fully enlightened beings may occasionally be mistaken. For example in the canonical history of the First Council the members of the Council, who reportedly were all enlightened, did not agree on what constituted lesser, minor rules of discipline (and they presumably couldn't all be right); and in the rules of discipline themselves there is a story in which the Buddha allowed certain medicines for sick monks, but that these medicines, taken in the way the Buddha allowed, only made them sicker. The Buddha is also portrayed as endorsing ancient Indian cosmology with a flat earth floating on waterand so on, and so on. One may argue that with the cessation of delusion one would always know the truth; but perhaps the truth that is realized is largely irrelevant to the phenomenal world of delusion in which we are wallowing. Would an enlightened being necessarily know how to repair a carburetor? How to speak fluent Swahili? How to work out equations in integral calculus? Then again on the other hand, could an enlightened being deliberately tell a lie? The Pali texts say that one cannot, but the reliability of those texts is also at issue. One possible example of a "dishonest" enlightened being in modern times is Neem Karoli Baba, who, according to his own devotees, could not be trusted to keep his promises---yet who was extremely highly advanced spiritually. It would seem that an enlightened being absolutely incapable of lying would be thereby limited, and thus not entirely free. Or so it would seem. The fourth point is not all that controversial outside of very Theravadin countries like Burma, where faith far outweighs critical thought on such matters as Religion. Most Western Theravada Buddhists, including most Western Theravada monks, consider the texts not to be 100% reliable. However, many of these who have already renounced a fundamentalist belief in the infallibility of the texts as a whole fall back on a semifundamentalist belief in the near-infallibility of the so-called "core texts" which compose roughly one half of the Pali Canon. These core texts, though, also cannot be proved by anyone on this planet to be authentic teachings of a fully enlightened being. A belief in their reliability is essentially a convenient guess. My guess is that they are nowhere near to being 100% reliable. The reasons for this guess will be explained in a different place at a different time, as they are not necessary here. All that is necessary here is room for skeptical doubt, and of that there is plenty. * * * So, a reasonable question to ask at this point is, If everything that can be reasonably doubted by a devout Skeptic is set aside, what remains of Buddhism? What aspects of Dharma are reliably true even without Dogma authoritatively backing them up? Well, for starters, we could consider the Four Noble Truths. The Truth of Suffering is pretty obvious, at least from a practical, conventional point of view. Even if there is some real pleasure and happiness too, the presence of some degree of chronic unhappiness in everybody's life is pretty obvious,

and becomes more obvious the more mindfully the mind is observed. Nobody, except for maybe a hypothetical fully enlightened sage, is always completely satisfied. Furthermore, the Truth of the Origin of Suffering is obvious to anyone who carefully examines his or her own mind---we suffer when things aren't the way we want them to be, or when we worry that before long they won't be the way we want them to be. Even the suffering of a toothache is not directly caused by the pain itself, but by the desire for the pain to stop. This can be seen clearly for oneself. And the Noble Truth of the Cessation of Suffering logically follows from the Truth of its Origin: If desire causes all unhappiness, then the cessation of desire would cause the cessation of unhappiness. If the second Truth is true, then the third Truth is also true. It is really only the fourth Noble Truth, the Truth of the Path Leading to the Cessation of Suffering, that can easily be doubted by one who carefully observes the facts. We won't know if Right View and all the rest will enlighten us until we reach the end of the Path, if we ever do reach it. (Let us trust that we will.) Buta clever Skeptic may doubt such "truths" by appealing to mysticism and the limitations of human understanding, or some such. Another self-evident teaching of Buddhism is Dependent Co-arising---so long as one's interpretation of it goes no farther than the idea that one's psychological, phenomenal world consists of states that are only relative, not absolute in and of themselves. "This being, that is; in the arising of this, that arises. This not being, that is not; in the ceasing of this, that ceases. " This can be seen through deep mindfulness, and also can be demonstrated logically (as I tried to do in my article "On the Three Marks of Existence," readable on the nippapanca.org website). If we interpret Dependent Coarising in terms of causation, which is the more orthodox way of interpreting it, we run into the wall built by David Hume, who showed that causation is merely an assumption and cannot directly, really be known. But perhaps determined skeptics could doubt the validity of any interpretation of Dependent Co-arising, for example by comparing them to some possible monistic Absolute Truth. Yet there is one aspect of Buddhism that stands up to the most vehement skepticism, and that is Consciousness. No amount of doubting can make it go away. And this Consciousness is really the essence of Buddhism, and also its ultimate goal; so long as we have not achieved Bodhi, Awakening, then we are still to some degree unawakened, unconscious. It is the full awareness of our Consciousness that is the highest state attainable. I hypothesize that the Buddha (assuming that he existed) was a kind of Skeptic himself, but it wasn't that he was an agnostic, that he didn't know the Truth; he knew that real Truth cannot be expressed in words, but must be experienced directly. And that, my friends, is mysticism. So Buddhism may have begun as a radical, yogic, relatively pure form of "mystical skepticism" before it was converted into a scholastic system and a popular faith. But one problem with mysticism, as William James pointed out in his classic The Varieties of Religious Experience, is that it has no persuasive

power over anyone who has not experienced it. It cannot be demonstrated to anybody. So the essence of Dharma/Dhamma may not be demonstrable, but it can be experienced directly in this very life, if we set our heart on it. A full experience of Consciousness is the ultimate Goal of Buddhism, which can be known more and more fully by those who cultivate it skillfully; and all the methods and theories found in the texts and elsewhere are hypotheses that presumably have worked for others in the past, and may work for us also. If they don't, we may skillfully seek out others that do.

Dear Anonymous, Well, there certainly was a time when I would have been in complete agreement with you. It seems to me that "seeing danger in the slightest fault," as exhorted in the texts, may stray into the realm of silabbataparamasa, adhering to morality and observances, which is considered to be a hindrance to spiritual development. The commentaries limit this adherence to the obviously absurd practices of imitating the behavior of dogs or cattle, but even rigid adherence to monastic discipline (depending upon the volitions of the monk) may qualify as silabbata-paramasa. One possible example given in the commentaries is the case of a forest monk who was tied up with living vines by robbers. As they left they started a forest fire, and the monk preferred burning to death to damaging a living plant in order to escape his bonds. The commentary justifies this monk's behavior by saying that he became enlightened at the moment of death (how could anyone know that?), but his rigidity in following a relatively amoral rule strikes me as rather extreme. Another more extreme case might be a monk letting a young girl drown rather than risk breaking a rule by rescuing her. There is a rule of discipline which states that a monk is not allowed to open (or close) a door with his alms bowl in his hand. So, I used to go through the following ritual: I would approach a door, put my bowl down, open the door, pick the bowl back up, go through the doorway, put the bowl down again, close the door, pick the bowl back up, and continue on my way. I performed this ritual for 17 or 18 years. But, the rule was formulated because in very ancient times alms bowls were mostly made of clay, not iron like mine, and might break if knocked against the door; also, in Burma there are plenty of mosquitoes, including anopheles ones, that one would prefer not

to enter an open doorway. So, I finally decided that following the rule "just because," seeing danger in the slightest lapse, was not serving me all that well. I break that rule almost every time now. Whether you are a monk or not I don't know, but you are very welcome to follow the rules as strictly as you like, with my blessings upon you. I admit that some rules are more important to follow than others, and any monk who breaks one of the 4 parajika rules is simply no longer a monk. Handling money is also a messy one, because technically a monk cannot even make confession for it until after he has forfeited all his money and all that he had bought with it. And if he doesn't forfeit his loot, then if he listens to the patimokkha recitation with other monks he's also technically guilty of lying, and lying is a lapse from fundamental virtue. As for the issue of my disrobing, it is always a possibility, but I'm not planning on it anytime soon.

Disentangling Ancient India from Buddhism

India ceased being a Buddhist country after centuries of rivalry with unfriendly Brahmins, with the final collapse evidently being caused by Turkic invasions during the middle ages, in which the conquering invaders sacked and destroyed monasteries, shrines, and Buddhist universities. The Hindus, being somewhat less pacifistic than the Buddhists in those days, were more inclined to fight back against the Muslims and often won, but Buddhism was almost completely wiped out. The majority of Buddhists who were not killed either converted to another religious system or fled to nearby Buddhist countries like Tibet and Burma. However, all schools of Buddhism that have not abandoned the historical Gotama Buddha are still deeply conditioned by ancient Indian culture. It is sometimes said that the Buddha was a Hindu, and that Buddhism was essentially a reform movement of Hinduism, much as Jesus, a devout Jew, began a reform movement of Judaism. From a historical point of view this is not a very accurate statement however, partly because it is anachronistic; Hinduism as it exists today simply did not exist in the Buddha's time. The Brahmanism that was the prevalent religion in Vedic Indian culture in many ways more closely resembled the paganism of ancient Greece than it does

modern Indian religion: it was a relatively world-oriented system in which men sacrificed animals to the gods for the purpose of receiving worldly benefits such as increased livestock, more sons, and victory over enemies. Even a few of the gods were shared with the Greeks; for example the Rig Veda mentions a sky god named Dyaus Pitar, equivalent to the Greek Zeus Pater, the Roman Ju-piter, and Ziu or Tiu of the ancient Germans (in whose honor Tuesday is named). To say that the Buddha was a Hindu is somewhat like declaring that Jesus was a Muslim. The Muslims might accept that statement as true, since they consider Jesus to have been a genuine prophet of Allah; in a similar way, Hindus may consider the Buddha to have been a Hindu. The Hindu tradition that Buddha was an avatar of the god Vishnu further complicates the issue. But it would be inaccurate even to assert that the Buddha was a faithful member of the Brahmanistic Vedic religion, despite the fact that he participated in a clearly Vedic culture. Buddhism uses many Vedic terms and ideas, but it is more the product of an indigenous subculture than of Vedic tradition. I suppose this requires some explanation. Before the Indo-Aryan speakers of Vedic Sanskrit invaded in the second millennium BCE, northern India was dominated by what is called the Indus Valley Civilization, one of the five great prehistoric civilizations known to archeologists. It was apparently an intensely spiritual culture, although very different from what many modern people would associate with religion; the spirituality of the prehistoric Indus Valley evidently was characterized by atheism, materialism, and what may be called, for the sake of convenience, austere pessimism. It was atheistic for the simple reason that a God was not seen as the creator or lord of the cosmos. Much like modern science, the prehistoric Indus Valley "religion" emphasized impersonal Law as the governor of the Universe. Gods and goddesses apparently were acknowledged to exist, but, like the gods of the Greek and Roman Epicureans, they themselves were subject to this Law, and had relatively little influence over the destinies of human beings. They had their own lives to live, their own business to mind. It was materialistic in that physical matter was deemed ultimately real, not an illusion or the manifestation of some kind of Divine Thought, as later mystical traditions have seen it. It may be that even their philosophical equivalent of karma was seen as a material substance.

And it was "pessimistic" in that it saw this world as a bad place to be; existence here was considered to be, in plain language, icky, and something to be escaped from. A spiritual life was thus seen as a process of disentangling oneself from all defilements that keep our spirits burdened and weighed down on this plane of existence, and this generally involved yogic practice, including some rather extreme asceticism for those who were really dedicated. After the Indo-Aryans conquered the land many of the conquered people presumably continued following their ancient traditions. These traditions certainly affected the Vedic culture of the Buddha's time; for example the superhuman beings called yakkha in Pali may have originally been deities or nature spirits revered by the earlier inhabitants, which were granted a status lower than the Vedic gods but still respected (to be on the safe side) by the Sanskrit-speaking conquerors. More importantly, the aforementioned atheistic, materialistic, and pessimistic spiritual tradition was kept alive. It may have held a fascination for many, as it was of a deeper and more philosophical nature than the paganism practiced by the Vedic mainstream. It is likely that the yogic practices and many of the beliefs of the older system influenced the trend toward more unworldly spirituality among the Brahmins, culminating for example in the Upanishadic literature. Some of the older Upanishads probably existed in the time of the Buddha, although it is difficult to say how familiar the Buddha was with these still esoteric, even secret, texts. In the Pali literature there is much mention of samaas and brhmaas, "philosophers and priests," with the priests of course being the Brahmins, members of the priestly caste and intermediaries between men and the Vedic gods. The philosophers, on the other hand, were more a product of the older tradition. Possibly the purest representatives of this tradition nowadays would be Jainism, of which there are still a few million followers, and Sankhya, the primary philosophical basis of Yoga. The Buddha was not a Brahmin, and was apparently born and raised on the very outskirts of Brahmanistic culture. So it should be no surprise that Buddhism is more of an Indus Valley phenomenon than a Vedic one, even though the Buddha did translate his terms into the language of the mainstream. Thus Buddhism began with some basic, very ancient assumptions that most people can't relate to very well in the modern West. The absence of a supreme God looking over us, as well as a somewhat materialistic orientation, have been readily accepted; but the idea of the world being a

place to escape from, and even more importantly the idea that it is escaped from through renunciation of society and rigorous, even ruthless austerity, are hardly likely to be appreciated by a large percentage of Westerners any time in the foreseeable future---unless some huge crisis turns our view of the world upside down, which, I suppose, is possible. The prehistoric assumptions on which the Buddha-dhamma was largely based, and which were added to it even more as the philosophy developed, effective as they are for those who can relate to them and accept them, may ensure that Theravada Buddhism especially, which is the most conservative and Indian of the surviving sects, will never become more than a fringe movement in the West. This may be seen in the radical transformation Theravada has undergone upon its arrival here. Aside from a scattering of monasteries (following Asian traditions and being mainly supported by Asian communities), almost all that remains of Theravada after the migration is a few elementary meditation techniques, plus some philosophy for those who have the time for it. Even the traditional minimum requirements of the Three Refuges and Five Precepts are often ignored. This sort of degeneration of tradition, of practice, and of the results of practice may be inevitable if Dhamma remains so deeply conditioned by the ancient foreign culture in which it arose. Western scholars point out that the Pali texts are not reliable authorities on what the Buddha actually taught---the texts evolved over a period of centuries, and even the so-called "core texts" shared by all the ancient Indian schools evolved over the course of a century or so (and as the history of early Christianity shows, a great deal of change may occur in one century). Yet even if we could analyze the Pali Canon and determine with certainty what the Buddha really taught, which is a virtual impossibility, still we have this matter of ancient Indian assumptions taken as axiomatic, which modern Westerners do not consider to be self-evident at all, but which are thoroughly mixed up with essential Dhamma. That the Buddha apparently took for granted some of the assumptions of his culture, or subculture, does not mean that he was not enlightened; an investigation of the spiritual literature of the world shows that the greatest sages have gone along with their cultural conditioning, if only for the sake of convenience. But by this same token, if the people of the West are to be guided effectively in their spiritual seeking, they should be guided in a way that they

can relate to and accept. Telling them that they should renounce the world, become wandering ascetics, and cultivate very deep and subtle contemplative states isn't likely to be very effective. True Dhamma is alive, and cannot be contained in words, especially in dogmatic words, and especially especially in the dogmatic words of an extinct foreign culture. So, the natural question is, how is Dhamma to be most effective in the West? How does one take what is essential to true Dhamma, disentangle it from ancient Indian culture (not to mention the culture of South Asia, whence Theravada has come to us), and inoculate it into a cultural system dominated by scientific materialism, consumerism, lukewarmness, selfimportance, artificiality, and pervasive stress? To give a very simple, basic, and obvious example of the issue: If the Buddha were alive today in the West it is hardly likely that he would have his most dedicated disciples dressed in yellow, brown, or orange robes. The original monk robes were just a shabbier version of what laypeople wore at the time. Nowadays they might be wearing secondhand grey sweatpants and a sweatshirt. It also seems unlikely that he would set up multimillion-dollar luxury Dharma resorts. I suspect that wandering asceticism is pretty much out, but that the Western habit of avoiding discomfort and pandering to our own fussiness and weakness simply is not going to work either. Avoiding what we like may not catch on very well, but consistently trying to avoid what we dislike is bound to keep us asleep. It is mainly through emotional discomfort, not physical discomfort, that we see what our attachments are ("Attachment is the cause of all suffering"), and we can thus gain insight into how to transcend those attachments. I won't presume to prescribe what an effective Western Buddhism would be like here, but I feel that "emotional asceticism" would be part of it---looking at what makes us uncomfortable and not blaming whatever it is, but seeing the attachments, the preferences, the ego issues behind it that require protection and feeding to keep them alive. For this sort of practice, living a life full of unsettling, challenging interactions, possibly in a community of more or less like-minded people, may work better than meditating and chanting alone in a forest. Another very likely element of modern Dhamma would be a minimum of theory or dogma, with what little theory there is not insisted upon, but received as a working hypothesis. There would be no "Only this is true!

Anything otherwise is wrong!" with regard to Buddhism, the secular world, or anything else. Another one, naturally, is being present in the present moment, being mindfully aware, which includes a non-judging awareness of arising mental states, including icky, negative ones. There would also probably be more emphasis on love. Whatever form (or formlessness) an effective Western Dhamma would have, it would have to include whatever it takes to jostle or jolt us out of the ruts of our habit-driven stupor. It may not conform to any of the recognized schools, however, and traditional Buddhists may not even recognize it as Dhamma. Despite the more psychological and less physical nature of a probably successful Western Dhamma, some physical austerity also is called for, if not for the sake of spiritual development, then for the sake of not ruining the world with our waste. A cooler house in winter, fewer luxuries, less travel, etc. may be a real necessity on a planet inhabited by more than 7,000,000,000 people, not to mention countless other beings sharing the space. In the Buddha's time there was no danger of the human race wrecking the earth's ecological balance and turning it into a desert, which may be one reason why solitary renunciation was the ideal; but now the idea of worldwide cooperation, harmony, and peace is pretty much mandatory. A feeling of us---not me, not us versus them---may be essential to the success of this. As the saying goes, we are all in the same boat.

A Sample of Modern Burmese Buddhist Poetry

Several years ago in Rangoon I came across a little yellow booklet which poetically describes a Burmese man's experiences as a newly ordained monk (probably a temporary one) at a monastery/meditation center in Burma, alias Myanmar. The booklet appeared to be privately printed and published, and had no copyright information that I can remember. What it contained moved and inspired me, because it conveys the feel of being a newly ordained monk---the idealism, the gratitude, the reverence for the profundity of Dhamma---better than anything else I have ever read. Even the nervousness of the postulant waiting outside the congregation hall before his ordination ceremony is suggested by the verse beginning "jasmine and gardenia drench the walk," and the very next verse contains a poetic rendering of part of the upasampad kammavc, the formal act of ordination, chanted in Pali at the creation of every bhikkhu since ancient times. I'm not nearly so starry-eyed as I was at my ordination, although I feel that I am wiser and more content nowadays. Still, I liked the little booklet and transcribed its contents into a notebook, and I think it's good enough to share with you who are reading this. I don't know who U Win Pe is, although, like very many Burmese laypeople, he obviously knows his Buddhism: the following lines are embellished with plenty of philosophical allusions

and symbols that a beginner in Dhamma may not notice. I don't know who he is, but I am grateful to him. Here is what he wrote: The Yellow Robe: A Travel Diary by U Win Pe Self did not make me, nor self nor any other. Yet the notion of Self or self or some other made me. And with a body and mind caused this body and mind which will cause another body and mind so long as there remains the notion. from the ambulatory I can see beyond the tops of mango doorian and mangosteen the shoulder of a hill in the morning it is dim with ground mist in the afternoon it is blurred with haze walking beside the jasmine bush the mynahs do not heed me they cluck and whistle and flutter and hop and one flying in low from somewhere alights with a whirr of wings tea-dust swirl in the cup dark brown specks in amber liquid slowly drop to the bottom there they stay Travelling the round of births of Samsara. Treading the Eightfold Path. Winning the Stream. Metaphors of Wayfaring. Incessant movement, there is no standing still. For one is not doing nothing at any time, one is always doing. And to do is to impel. So one goes -- going on or getting out. jasmine and gardenia drench the walk with their delicate flavours I take 31 steps up this way and 31 steps down that way and 31 steps this way again let the assembly, revered brothers, hear me to whatever venerable it seems good let him remain silent to whomsoever it does not seem good let him speak to the assembly it seems good silent it remains take it so

head shaven carrying only the eight requisites the heavy robe somehow seems light as I take the first steps slowly from the Ordination Hall onto the path salted boiled peas and plain hot tea to help this body get out of the low round table seating five body, sensation, and so on a small cloud passes quickly across the sky in the refectory window a round face in an aged head a low voice beneath soft words standing beside the coconut palm talking of pain and the end of pain wayfaring The life lived without awareness is the tainted life: tainted with wanting, tainted with not wanting, tainted with not knowing about the notion of Self and self. Awareness should be of each doing every moment. Mindfulness is the watching and warding of awareness. 4a.m. the stream of breath 216 cycles per minute in-breathing, out-breathing, in-breathing watching the touch aware of sensation as it is airflow at the nostril tip the morning is noisy with birdtalk koels, jays, mynahs, sparrows, bulbuls I follow each song and twitter not koel shout, jay song, sparrow twitter but each note as it falls upon my ear the wind rises in the afternoon it ruffles the topmost branches of the doorian then it shakes it thoroughly raises a flurry in the almond tree flutters the window curtain and comes to me 9p.m. mindful of sensation when sensation is full with mind

and mind is full with sensation the bright green world beneath the waves at Set-se beach the sea is permeated with one taste Colours seen with the eyes closed are brighter than colours seen with open eyes. Brighter than these are the colours seen when the mind is brought to a point. But colours, lights, and images are distractions. mango tree, sky, monastery wall sun brings out the green the blue, the white and sunlight all bright yellow on monk's robe hanging out to dry lights are a curtain hiding Light lights are a turn-off to delight lights are bright colours not hot but cool lights are a pleasant quiet pool lights do not light the way to ardour lights are a curtain hiding Light The end of the world is not reached by travelling. Within this fathom-length body with its sense-impressions, thoughts and pains, is the world, the making of the world, the ceasing and the way to the ceasing. inside this cell sleeping, sitting, walking reading, thinking, praying meditating better to look inside this body several fields west of the monastery wall one under paddy, one under melon one under peas a speckled bull grazes there during the day this body my grazing-ground it goes from field to field feeding indiscriminately on straw, duckwort, poisonweed browsing here or lying there chased by men with sticks in the field beside the road pelted by boys with stones in the water-meadow

rope it with in- and out-breathing tie it to the hitch-post pain No pain, no gain. This banal expression describes what is so but we would take it metaphorically. There is no path that has no pain. Pain is the stumbling-block or the steppingstone. the aching inner muscle of the thigh is pain the thin thread of sharpness along the bone is pain the burning hands is pain pain is the general tone of discomfort only pain is or that which we have named pain it is not the hardness of the floor plank which hurts it is the softness of my foot pain is not in the wind it is in the bones the bands pain is in the mind discomfort from sitting too long on the floor the bother of setting out in the sun to retrieve the robe vexation from holding the book too long displeasure from thinking about the task to be done pain from the meditation exercise unease is the common element We err by naming that which is itself. We err by clothing the world in concepts. Knowing happens in time present and not by reaching before and after. Knowing happens in its own way. I say this robe this mat this razor this alms bowl this water-strainer this needle and thread this over-robe but pain is a jay sits daily on the almond tree it whistles several phrases whom is it telling all that to how to watch the pain in my ankle as it is without saying in present pain is birdsong and jasmine in present pain is the cup of hot tea in present pain is the wind in the afternoon

in present pain is the shoulder of the hill in present pain is the path through the orchard in present pain the cup of tea is smashed drawing water the well is wide and shallow I draw a bucketful and put it in the tub another bucketful and put it in the tub 14 buckets and the tub is filled getting to know is not filling a tub Joy does not come through pleasure, joy comes through pain. Agitation accompanies pleasure. The way to stillness accompanies pain. The end of pleasure is dissatisfaction. The end of pain is joy. Then comes whatever has to come in its own way. a set of sharp knives turning and turning in the ball of my ankle five days now suddenly it went away this morning joy this flesh hung on these bones and knit with nerves I have seen shredded and dropping like great cliffs falling flesh is not solid sunbursts burn at every pore no arms no thighs no legs only the play of electricity vanishing in small flashes the monk on my left the coming does not make him glad is the monk on my right the going does not make him sad gruel is food, boiled peas is food hot tea is food pain comes and goes, joy comes and goes sun in the morning, stars and moon at night unattached novices planting a jackfruit tree 9 years before the first fruit they laugh and quarrel and banter

to them the world is trees and food and walking the world is trees and food and walking One sets out to arrive. One fares as one should. Arrival is in accordance with its own nature and in its own way. One sets out and goes on faring. not a garden of roses and junipers nor a valley of lilies not a palace with cool drinks in the windows nor a moon and a finger pointing not the path through an orchard to the shoulder of a hill but a journey across hot sands to a river a small cloud moves in the southern sky the morning breeze carries a wetness of river water namo Buddhassa

Fast, Big Lessons in America

My experiences on coming back to the USA after many years alone in Burmese forests have often been amazing and invaluable, and sometimes rather painfullargely due to forgetting how to be an American. I was originally ordained in California (at Taungpulu Kaba-Aye Monastery in Boulder Creek, near Santa Cruz), but during my almost two years there the interactions were primarily with Burmese monks (I was the only American-born monk there) and Burmese supporters of the monastery, as relatively few Westerners came to the place. Over the years I visited my parents in Aberdeen, Washington on a few occasions, but I stayed in my father's house pretty much the whole time, and made few forays out into the Western World; in fact I felt very self-conscious and somewhat intimidated walking down an American sidewalk with my brown monk's robes and bare feet. So when I finally left Burma and went out on the limb of Being the Only Bhikkhu in Bellingham, I found myself plunged into a brave new world that I was not entirely prepared for as a monk. For starters, Theravada Buddhism originated in ancient India, and the canonical texts caution monks not to be too friendly with laypeople (although at the same time to be compassionate), always to have downcast eyes and behave in a very detached, restrained manner in public, and generally not to act like "householders who enjoy pleasures of the senses." The spiritual ideal of the world that the Buddha lived in involved radical introversion and detachment from worldly affairs---while of course the ideal of a Good Person in the modern West is very much more directed toward extraversion and being outwardly helpful to others. Thus a conscientious, strictly-practicing monk who follows the ancient texts could be seen by many in this part of the world as cold and unfriendly, and possibly useless besides. Although at the time I showed up in Bellingham I was not 100% strict in my following of the texts, still I was rather too serious to play well with others.

More importantly, I had spent almost all of my monk life immersed in Burmese culture, which is possibly the most devoutly Buddhist culture on earth. In the Burmese language the word for "human being" is not used for monks; monastics are not considered to be human, but superhuman, and literally worshipping them is standard practice for a Burmese Buddhist. Furthermore, the Burmese are embarrassingly generous to monks and monasteries---partly because since childhood wise-guy monks have drilled it into their heads that for enthusiastically making offerings to the Bhikkhu Sangha they will skyrocket straight into Heaven, or at the very least they will be born into their next life rich and beautiful for it. Consequently, monks in Burma are exposed to the danger of being spoiled absolutely rotten. This is especially true of famous monks, and I was slightly famous in northwestern Burma for various reasons, not the least of which being that I was practically the only foreigner in the area. And to top it all off, I have a natural tendency toward arrogance anyway (not to mention faultfinding and occasional ingratitude), which was not kept well in bounds by reasonable feedback for many years. Simple-hearted people who are literally groveling on the ground before you tend not to be very critical in their comments to you. They are much more likely to agree with anything you say, plus maybe ask for some water you have blessed. In such a situation one tends not to be fully exposed to one's own blind spots and shortcomings, allowing one to drift in unskillful directions, and to become set in one's ways. Thus I came back to America with a selfimage of the Tough Forest Ascetic, and very used to being treated like a king, or at least a knight, with what should have been easily predictable results. I already knew that Americans in general have little use for shaven-headed fellows in brown robes, but one of my first surprises was that many if not most American Buddhists have little use for shaven-headed fellows in brown robes. I seem to have elicited straightaway a wide spectrum of responses among local Buddhist groups in Bellingham, from enthusiastic respect to scowls, with the mean being somewhere in the neighborhood of polite standoffishness. Much of this last was simple shyness around a rather strange stranger, I think, but I certainly wasn't expecting it, and my pride and spoiledness didn't like it much. But in addition to bruised pride at the lack of respect toward me personally, there was also a fair (or unfair) amount of indignation at lack of regard for monks in general. After all, Theravada is traditionally a system directed first and foremost toward monks! For more than 2000 years Theravada has been, so to speak, a spectator sport, with renunciants being the professional athletes and the laypeople being fans supporting their favorite team. The image of lay meditators living relatively unrestrained lives and calling themselves Sangha, which in Asia is a word referring to monks, or a layperson sitting on a chair teaching Dharma while a monk sits in silence on the floor, would have many Asian Buddhists gasping in horror, and doing the Buddhist equivalent of Roman Catholics crossing themselves, whatever that may be. From the traditional Burmese point of view it would be the road to Hell--and I had just spent most of my adult life in Burma. To make a long story medium length, rather than being respected on sight I was being judged by egalitarian American standards of whether or not I was a Good Person, and at that I didn't do very well. By American standards I was not all that Good of a Person. To tell you Good People the truth, it was probably the best thing that could have happened to me. All of a sudden I started being beaten over the head with the plain fact that I had to treat everyone as my equal and be not just polite, but positively friendly. I had to express gratitude, even though traditionally monks aren't supposed to say such things as Please and Thank You. I lost my social status and was required to be just another person---one dressed in weird clothing, but just another person nevertheless.

I had to start taking a crash course in Interpersonal Relationship; and although I learn rather quickly I had a long way to go just to catch up with the average teenager. I began seeing the vital importance of friendliness, humility, and gratitude in a world where I was not taken for granted as a superhuman being. I'm still working on that. The way I see it, in very ancient times monks were homeless wanderers living in a spiritual but not overwhelmingly Buddhist culture, not knowing where their next meal was coming from, and exposed to all sorts of experiences, some of them at the hands of cruel antagonists. In other words they had a great variety of experiences and had plenty of opportunity to be "triggered" in various ways. But the life of most monks nowadays tends to be rather isolated, usually in a cloistered, protected environment, so that monks often have few stimuli to try them, to test their mettle. Presumably many monks do not require such a challenge-rich environment, but I apparently did, especially since I didn't have an enlightened teacher looking into my mind and prodding me when needed. In Burma I lived a simple life and was assured of support; I had challenges like heat, rats, and malaria, but some trying experiences that I needed were much more available here in Bellingham, and I am grateful for them. Closely related to this is another great lesson I have learned, which was rather a heartening surprise. Because in Burma I was assured of support I was not required to have sufficient faith in Dharma (or as a Theist would say, in God) to really throw myself upon the mercy of the world--which, however, is fundamental to many spiritual systems, including Buddhism and Biblical Christianity. "Give no thought for tomorrow, what you will eat or where you will sleep," "Consider the lilies of the field," and all that. Strangely, it wasn't until I returned to rich, comfortable America that I really had the opportunity to put it to the test; and so far it has worked in a strange and beautiful way. In fact there is a feeling of freedom and exhilaration in just letting go and not worrying about how I will survive, even though I'm not sure how I will. "God will provide." For example, on the day that I write this I was informed that I will be required to find other shelter within five days, and I honestly don't know where I will go, but I trust that everything will work out. I feel strangely grateful for this. As the spiritual teacher Paul Lowe has said, gratitude will get you farther than indifference. Sometimes I get the feeling that all my years of sweating and meditating in tropical Asia were training to prepare me for the return to the West. It is now that I'm putting that training to the test. I feel that my years of practice have finally made me strong enough to exist in what essentially is a spiritually bankrupt materialist culture without being destroyed by it, so that perhaps I may even be able to contribute in some small way to helping America Wake Up. Life is interesting, and I'm happy to be back. After more than a year I'm still not sure how being a Theravadin monk in the West will work out---for the Sangha in general, not just for me. A Theravada Buddhist monk is supposed to follow a lifestyle designed for ancient India, and now, here, there seems to be some dissonance, as though bhikkhus are an awkward and anomalous addition to the culture, something on the verge of Politically Incorrect that makes for a strange fit. A Theravadin monk can be compared to a kind of tropical orchid: in Asia it can grow naturally, outdoors; but in a temperate-zone nonBuddhist country it must be grown in a protected environment with people having to take special care of it. (Thus it is appropriate that one of my first monastic residences in Bellingham was a greenhouse.) The other alternative for a monk is to stop following strictly the ancient rules of monastic discipline, for example by handling money and preparing his own meals. I must admit I'm not nearly as strict as I used to be. I still eat only once a day and don't handle money, but the rules concerning highly restricted interaction with women, for example, have gone out the

window. Which reminds me of another benefit of living here---one has more exposure to female wisdom, to the Divine Feminine. Or at least that is my experience. There is much to be said for living in a quiet, protected environment if one wishes to progress spiritually. It certainly helps to deepen one's meditation and strengthen one's understanding of how the mind works, and a healthy amount of it may continue to be necessary, at least sometimes. Yet there is also much to be said for embracing life and using the resultant turmoil as an invaluable way of bringing up "stuff" lying latent in the psyche, which otherwise might not come up at all. As the philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer once said, the Christian prayer "and lead us not into temptation" really means "let us not know who we are." May all of you out there find out who you really are, whether you choose solitude and introspection, whole-heartedly embracing the experiences of an outwardly active life, or some middle path between these two extremes. When you do find out who you really are, I bet you'll see that you are beautiful and perfect, and that you always were, but you just didn't notice. This mind, monks, is shining forth, but it is defiled by visiting defilements. The unlearned common person does not understand this as it really is. Therefore I say there is no development of mind for the unlearned common person. (---Anguttara Nikya, 1:6:1) By the way, today, the day after I wrote that part about having to move and not knowing where I would go, I received a message from a person generously inviting me to stay in his extra room for a few weeks. The First Noble Truth says that to exist is to suffer; but to exist is also an inscrutable mystery, and a miracle.