At such times I’m content to sit and listen. And this is what I was doing last week when Ajahn Sudanto looked right at me and asked, “How’s your practice going, Paul? Do you have any questions?”

I replied that even though I may have questions that arise during the week, they never come to mind when I have an opportunity to ask.

Then he said, “I have a question for you. Why are you still suffering?”

Instantly the thought arose: Who let you in my head? But I realized it was question he could have asked of anyone in the room, so I didn’t take it personally. Yet he did ask the question. I did not dare speak the answer forming in my mind. Instead I rambled on about my practice, how last week it seemed as though I’d reached some new level of understanding, but this week I’d had a big setback. It seemed, I’d said, that I go through these cycles of progress and setbacks. Only in retrospect did I realize how evasive I’d been, trying to be philosophical rather than truthful. I’m good at that. Or so I think.

The simple answer to the question “Why are you still suffering?” is this: It’s because of all those other people out there! Those people who don’t understand me, who are inconsiderate, who are irresponsible, who think my ways of doing things are inferior to theirs, who don’t appreciate me, who expect more of me than I’m able to provide, who cannot see the obvious truth about things, who send text messages while driving, who think Sarah Palin is a great American, who think Barak Obama is a Muslim, who… stop. That’s enough. You wouldn’t understand, anyway.

I try to avoid using words like “believe” and “belief.” It’s not easy, though, especially in making statements like: “I believe that…” It’s the same as saying “I think that…” or “It’s my opinion that…” or “I have faith that…” They all mean the same thing. Troublesome to me are statements like: “I believe in…”

Not too long before my mother died we were talking about my Buddhist practice. “What about the faith you were raised with?” she asked. By faith she meant Catholicism. I told her it didn’t hold much for me and hadn’t for many years. Then came the kicker: “Do you believe in God?”

I simply could not be as blunt as I am capable. I went off on a tangent about how belief in something does not make it true, nor does disbelief in something make it false. I was evasive.

The Catholic Church contends that the sole purpose of humanity – what the Baltimore Catechism referred to (if my memory of first grade is correct) as the “end of man” – is to “know, love, and serve God.” Human beings are different from other creatures, the nuns explained, because they are endowed (by God) with the capacity to carry out those injunctions. This presupposes there is a god named God who made the demand some 5,000 years ago, give or take. I’ve heard the many arguments for and against the existence of God, and I really don’t want to get into that fray.

What I’m talking about here is belief. Some would argue that God exists whether I believe it or not (and woe be unto me if I don’t!). But as I told my mother, belief is irrelevant to truth.

But it isn’t irrelevant to life. What we believe in defines who we are, influences our behavior, and binds us into groups. However we acquired it, humans have the capacity to think, to wonder, to question. We also have the capacity – and the need – to explain things and find answers to our questions. I don’t know where this need comes from, but I do know it’s strong. Historically (pre-historically, too) answers and explanations came in the form of stories handed down through generations. Stories became truths, and truths are what religions are made of. Religions require that stories-as-truth be believed.

Coming up with explanations of why things are the way they are – whether it’s today or 10,000 years ago – is one thing. But another question lurks in the dank shadows of the human mind. What happens when I die?

Although it sounds simplistic, the purpose of religion is to prepare one for death. Religion regulates our behavior in part by establishing a set of beliefs about how things are now in relationship with how things will be then. The law of cause and effect is as much at the core of Christianity as it is is Buddhism. Make God mad today, burn in hell tomorrow. Make God happy today, come to the banquet tomorrow. So be good for goodness’ sake!

Buddhism is not a theistic religion. It’s not an atheistic religion either. The existence or non-existence of God does not factor into the equation. But cause and effect is at the core of the teaching. Good actions bring good results, bad actions bring bad results. This is demonstrable in the here and now and can be extrapolated into the future. Also at the core is conditionality. Everything that happens in the here and now does so as the result of the causes and conditions that preceded it. And – most important – everything that comes into existence passes out of existence as a result of the causes and conditions that precede it. Everything. This, too, is demonstrable in the here and now and can be extrapolated into the future. I don’t need to believe this for it to be true. Denying it does not make it false, either.

Even though God is not a factor in Buddhism, belief in a life after this one seems to be as much a part of Buddhism as it is in Christianity. It’s not uncommon to hear sentiments  such as: “If I can’t become enlightened in this lifetime then I’ll just work hard to make a lot of merit now so I can achieve enlightenment in a future lifetime.” This strategy requires a belief not only in the concept of a constant cycle of rebirths, but that there will be a continuing “I” who can accomplish the goal even eons from now. The bodhisattva vow would not be feasible without this belief. True, doing good works pays off now, but it is not demonstrable that it pays off in one’s own future lifetime (except through stories). One must take it on faith and faith alone. One must believe it to be true.

I’m not even close to being well versed on the Pali Canon, but I know there are passages where the Buddha says that worrying over metaphysical events is a futile path that leads only to more suffering. Instead, he said, focus on the physical and palpable events occurring within the body right now. There is nothing magical or mystical about it. Do this with diligence and you’ll see for yourself the truth of life for what it is: a stream of events.

If I must believe something to be true in order to make it true, then I am just taking a placebo. The placebo effect is demonstrably real. So too is its opposite, the nocebo effect. I’m not knocking it, but a placebo is not the real thing. The Buddha compared himself to a doctor. And his four noble truths are at once the diagnosis and prognosis of disease and the prescription for the cure. Did the Buddha teach placebo? I don’t think (believe?) so. He taught conditionality and mindfulness. He taught suffering and end of suffering.

Buddhist beliefs come from the same place Christian beliefs do – from the stories we tell, stories that eventually become truths to be accepted on faith. But Buddhist truth contradicts Christian truth, which contradicts Jewish truth, which contradicts Muslim truth, which… So what is true? What am I supposed to believe? It all depends on what group I belong to.

And yet, I am not supposed to believe anything. If a am supposed to believe one thing or another, it would mean there is some entity that would demand I do so (e.g., God or the Buddha). Buddhism – as far as I know – doesn’t have such and entity. Nor does it have something akin to the Apostles’ Creed, which lays out a specific set of Christian beliefs. I am free to believe anything I want without recrimination from a supernatural being.

To believe is to perform an act of intention. It is kamma. And every action of intention has a result. We all live in this huge river of causes and conditions. And each one of us is a stream unto itself of causes and conditions. Some of them we have no control over. But many of them we do, because they begin deep within the mind with the stories we tell. Be can believe them or not.

This I believe.

“You’re a Buddhist, right?” George asked in his unmistakable but unidentifiable accent. We were on a break last week during a meeting of the Northwest Association of Book Publishers, of which we are members.

I nodded.

“What does ‘roshi’ mean?”

I told George it was a title used in Zen Buddhism, but I wasn’t sure what it meant.

He then explained the reason for his question. The explanation here requires some background, which centers on George’s experiences during World War II.

George Sidline is the younger of two sons born to East European Jews. His story, though, has nothing to do with what one may think when European Jew and WW II are mentioned together. George was born in Kobe, Japan, where his father owned a small store. He was seven years old when Japanese Navy planes bombed Pearl Harbor in 1941. In 1945 George’s own house was firebombed by allied forces – with him and his family inside. He’s alive to tell about it because the incendiary bomb that crashed through his roof didn’t detonate. He tells the whole story in his book Somehow, We’ll Survive: Life in Japan During World War II Through the Eyes of a Young Caucasian Boy.

George’s modest home in Kobe – before the bombing – was next door to a mansion called Marks House. During the war, it’s American owner, Mr. Marks, was deported and the house confiscated. The mansion was used as an internment camp for prisoners of war – American prisoners of war – which is getting to the  point of this story.

As George explains in his book, the guards were fairly lax in their duties, and the prisoners would often climb the fence during the night and cut through the Sidlines’ yard on their way into town. Sometimes George and his brother would chat with the prisoners from atop a shed built against the fence.

Asking about the meaning of “roshi” was not the only reason George had brought up the subject. Knowing that I had read his book he wanted to tell me he had learned that one of his former neighbors of Marks House is a roshi and is very ill.

Two days later I came upon this blog post, which in part says:

Robert Aitken Roshi is one of the earliest Western teachers of Zen still alive today. He was exposed to Zen while in a Japanese internment camp in Kobe, Japan after being captured as a worker in Guam.

I’m not a Zen follower, but this name is a familiar one in Western Buddhist circles. Knowing George and having read his book, I felt an interesting connection with two people, one of whom I do not know. And the coincidence of my encounter with George followed quickly by my reading about Aitken Roshi was just too uncanny.

Click here for a photograph of the Marks House prisoners. According to a comment in a string of email correspondence with Aitken Roshi and others that George shared with me, Robert Aitken is third from the right.

To say my recent win is a big deal is grossly overstated, but only because the story I wrote is exceedingly small.

Ali McCart is owner of Indigo Editing & Publications. She was the featured speaker at the monthly meeting of the Northwest Association of Book Publishers, of which I am a member. Indigo also is a sponsor of the Sledgehammer writing contest, which combines teams of writers, writing prompts, a scavenger hunt, and a 36-hour time limit.

But this contest didn’t involve teams or scavenger hunts. During her presentation, Ali challenged the 40 or so people in the audience to write a short story of no more than 36 words. The prompt was: “The first time you learned of your book topic.”

I wrote about the first time I had used mindfulness and clear comprehension (without knowing that’s what I was doing) to change my future. It was the first time I’d fully grasped the meaning and importance of the law of karma. The story takes place 14 years ago.

In 36 words, it goes like this:

I held the mug under the spigot poking out of the bladder-filled box. What would happen if I sloshed wine into the cup? It would not be the day I stopped drinking. I didn’t. It was.

Maybe I’ll post the longer version another day.

The sutta begins as the Kalamas, a group of people who live in Kesaputta, approach the Buddha and say:

Lord, there are some priests & contemplatives who come to Kesaputta. They expound & glorify their own doctrines, but as for the doctrines of others, they deprecate them, revile them, show contempt for them, & disparage them. And then other priests & contemplatives come to Kesaputta. They expound & glorify their own doctrines, but as for the doctrines of others, they deprecate them, revile them, show contempt for them, & disparage them. They leave us absolutely uncertain & in doubt: Which of these venerable priests & contemplatives are speaking the truth, and which ones are lying?

The Buddha replies, “Of course you are uncertain, Kalamas. Of course you are in doubt. When there are reasons for doubt, uncertainty is born.”

The Buddha proceeds with a lengthy answer that begins with a series of questions focusing on greed, hatred, and delusion. Is this teacher or that one governed by these three ignoble motivators? Does what they teach lead to harm or long-lasting happiness? The Buddha ends with some good advice on what qualities to look for in a good and noble teacher or disciple.

With this as background, I travel now from the small world of Kesaputta to the infinitely larger World Wide Web. It’s not a physical place, but a place nonetheless. Many of its inhabitants are like the Kalamas, full of questions and confusion. Many others are like the priests and contemplatives, full of knowledge and opinions and ideas about everything. Some of these “priests and contemplatives” are worth following, others, well…

Anyone with a net-connected computer has access to this world of seekers and sages and charlatans and crooks. Fifteen years ago – when the Web was not more than a few threads – I wanted to learn about meditation. I’d read that meditation may be helpful with managing depression. I wanted to find out if it were true. But I didn’t want to mess around with too much experimenting. I didn’t want to go down any blind alleys. I wanted to know the right way to meditate right now. I discovered, though, that there was a lot of nonsense out there and many blind alleys. A particular bit of nonsense involved sitting with my eyes closed, but moving my eyeballs up, down, right, left over and over and over. I tried it. Really. What did I know? Maybe it was the right way. It wasn’t.

I realized I was not going to find what I was looking through my explorations of the Web. I went to a bookstore and bought Mindfulness in Plain English instead. Even then I worried about getting the right advice.

But this is not about me or my practice. This is about information – particularly information about Buddhism that can be found on the Web. If I’m new to Buddhism, and I’m searching for information and answers about it, how do I know what’s reliable and what isn’t? Being ignorant of all things Buddhist, and I find myself on this blog or that website, for example, how do I know “Which of these venerable priests & contemplatives are speaking the truth, and which ones are lying?” How do I separate fact from truth from opinion from…

The answer, of course, is the same as the Buddha gave the Kalamas: study the teacher and the message in terms of greed, hatred, and delusion. But it’s not so easy, and may take a long time. Patience, after all, is an aspect of Buddhist practice. When the Buddha addressed the Kalamas he was talking about discernment. That is, seeing the difference between what is good and what is not, what is skillful and what is not, what is truth and what is not. Discernment is yet another important aspect of Buddhist practice. But I wouldn’t know that until I was well into it. It’s a quality worth cultivating, because without it wisdom is impossible.

Maybe this topic has been discussed, debated, and deconstructed more than any other in Buddhism – who knows? But I feel compelled to add my own thoughts.

The Hindu idea of reincarnation and the Buddhist idea of rebirth are different. What’s more, the various Buddhist schools seem to disagree on what it’s all about, which adds to the confusion.

Reincarnation, as I understand it, is the transmigration of a soul (Sanskrit: atman) from one lifetime to another as it inhabits a different body each time. Over and over and over – the same “person” ends up in a different body and life circumstance according to deeds performed in the prior lifetime. An analogy is where a person passes through an infinitely long series of dressing rooms, changing from one costume to another. Same person, different costume.

Rebirth, as I understand it (from the Theravada position, anyway), is that at the moment of death one’s actions (i.e., thoughts) propel a particular kind of consciousness forward in a continuum of cause and effect called samsara, and a new being comes into existence. This consciousness is not one’s soul – there is none, according to the doctrine of anatta (Sanskrit: anatman): no-self, not-self, no-soul. So there is this perennial question: If there is no soul, then what goes from one life to the next?

This is a good point to suggest a mind-game. I present here a scenario, but only to stimulate your own imagination. As you may see, the possibilities are endless.

You are in a hospital room. You’ve had surgery to correct a progressive illness. But something went wrong, and you and your family have been informed you have only a day or two to live. Your family has gathered around – spouse, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews. Your mind is flooded with thoughts and conflicted emotions. One of your older grandchildren comes to the bedside with a fat photo album. And there is your life before you. The birthdays, graduations, weddings, and dozens of other joyful events.

There is the picture of your first child at age three, playing in the backyard with the puppy. And your heart breaks again as you remember the day a year later when the dog returned but the child did not. The grief, the sorrow, the blame and self-recrimination, and arguments about who left the gate open.

Your wedding pictures show the two of you so obviously happy and in love, and now you can feel in your brittle bones that longing, that craving you had for one another. Especially the craving that seemed you couldn’t satisfy. Farther and farther back you turn the pages, viewing scenes from your own childhood. Your parents’ wedding picture. Isn’t it striking how much you look like them? You wonder about your father and why he left when you were seven. You wonder how your life would be different had he not slammed out of the house that night, leaving your mother crying in despair on the kitchen floor.

Your grandparents, too, are pictured in the album. You don’t remember much about them, but you know their lives were difficult. Again you are struck by how much you resemble them. And, as you look around the room, you see how much your children and grandchildren resemble them too.

It feels as though you can run your fingers over that coiled thread of DNA that links them with you and with your parents and grandparents and great grandparents – back and back. You see how that thread will go on and on into the future – without you. You understand how the specific actions of your forebears helped bring you to this very place. And you understand with frightening clarity how your own actions contributed to the lives of these people you love.

As you scan the faces around you can feel the quiet suffering. You know the lives of  your children are marked by one trial or another – divorce, debt, illness, trouble with the law, and of course your own imminent death. You wish there is something you can do to ease their pain. But you feel helpless.

And now something comes to mind and you realize you are not helpless. There is much you can do and there is plenty of time to do it. You open your heart to everyone gathered around you and tell them through quiet example that the secret to living well is knowing how to die well, without clinging, without remorse. And that’s just what you do.

Do I believe in rebirth? Do I believe in an afterlife? Does it matter? Try this statement on for size and see how it feels: “I don’t believe in DNA.” Of course you don’t have to believe in DNA for an aspect of your life to go on and on with infinite moments of joy and suffering. Belief in rebirth is not required either. That’s one of the interesting things about Buddhism. You don’t have to believe anything. There is no Creed and no judge to condemn you for not believing.

But there is the law of cause and effect, the law of kamma. Good actions bring good results, bad actions bring bad results. It’s inescapable. With a true understanding of the law of kamma and skillful action you can have a positive effect on the future – even if your not around to see it.

Ajahn Sudanto in front of Pacific Hermitage.

It was my good fortune Sunday to spend the day with two monks from Abhayagiri Buddhist Monastery and several lay followers who are eager for the establishment of a regional hermitage. Ajahns Sudanto and Karunadhammo and a steward spent the night at Pacific Hermitage, a log house on five mostly forested acres in the hills high above White Salmon, Washington, overlooking the Columbia Gorge.

Their stay is only a brief one, though, as the monks will not take up full-time residency until early July. Ajahn Sudanto, who will be the senior monk at the hermitage, has duties and projects to complete at Abhayagiri before it will be possible for him to relocate. Also, there is much to do yet to prepare the property for occupancy.

Still, it seemed an auspicious day as the monks approached the make-shift altar, lit candles and incense, bowed three times, and chanted a blessing for the first time in Abhayagiri’s branch monastery.

Ajahn Karunadhammo accepts meal offering at the home of a lay follower prior to his first visit to Pacific Hermitage.

The monks of Abhayagiri are of what is known as the Thai Forest Tradition of Theravada Buddhism. They are strict followers of the Vinaya, the monastic code of 227 precepts and training rules established by the Buddha. The code is very demanding, describing the precise ways monks are to behave within their own community as well as how they can relate to and interact with the lay community. It’s purpose is not to restrict and control, however. The monastic code provides an unambiguous structure in which a monk can live a holy and blameless life, keeping the Dhamma in mind every moment of the day.

The life of a forest monk is one of seclusion and contemplation. After all, the Buddha instructed his monks to seek solitude at the root of a tree, a cave, or an abandoned hut where they can focus their minds without the distractions of the worldly life. But the Buddha never intended for the sangha to be apart from the rest of humanity. Instead, he established a system whereby the monastic sangha is in complete dependence on the lay community.

Like everyone else, monks require four things: food, clothing, shelter, and medicine. But, because monks may not handle money, they cannot buy anything for themselves. Nor can they ask for anything. Everything a monk has must be offered. Every meal, every length of cloth for the robes, every shelter, every ibuprophen tablet must be offered (there are some exceptions surrounding severe medical needs).

If the community is providing all this support, what then does it get in return? On the surface it would appear that monks have it made, having everything just plopped in front of them. They do not have it made. Very few people can get up at 3:00 AM, chant and meditate for hours, work for several more hours, eat only one meal (even if it’s only a dollop of rice and beans) before noon, then meditate and teach and chant and meditate some more before laying on the floor or a wooden platform for a few hours of sleep. Why anyone would do this is understandable only to a relative few.

Ajahns consult with a lay supporter regarding needs for the hermitage.

But again the question is, what’s in it for the lay community? Two things come to my own mind. One is that I’m providing support to a group of individuals who are living an enviable life. Enviable? Really? Yes. As restrictive as it may seem, a monk’s life is free of just about everything that causes suffering and strife for the rest of us. A pleasurable life really is nothing but an illusion.

The other reason – and for me the more important one – is one of proximity to exemplary teachers. I can’t say too much about this. We’ve all heard the term “practice what you preach.” Anyone who has had a teacher who doesn’t practice what he preaches can appreciate the value in having one who does. So, in exchange for support, forest monks make themselves available to teach the Dhamma – not only through their words, but through the way they live their lives.

I should mention also that the current location is on a yearly lease and is only temporary. There is an ongoing quest for a larger piece of property that will meet more of the criteria of this small community of contemplative monks. Follow this link to another window in the happenings of Pacific Hermitage.

The diaphragm is the membrane separating the thoracic and abdominal cavities.

A membrane is a sheet-like structure that forms a boundary between one space and another. In addition, some membranes allow for passage of some things through it while excluding others. The human body has several different kinds of membranes. On a microscopic level, the contents of each cell is surrounded by a membrane called a phospholipid bilayer. Built into the cell wall are molecular gateways that control the passage of materials in and out.

I doubt, though, that the Buddha, even in his infinite wisdom, understood the mechanics of cellular biology when he recommended his monks contemplate on the 32 parts of the body as a means of overcoming sensual desire and attachment to one’s own body.

On a macroscopic level, the grosser membranes are more easily discernible. The heart, for example, is surrounded by a thin, shiny double-walled membrane called the pericardium. The visceral organs are covered in peritoneum. It also has two layers, with the outer layer serving as the lining of the abdominal cavity. The mesentery is the portion of the peritoneum that anchors the small intestine to the rear abdominal wall. The mesentery has a rich blood supply, which picks up digested food for circulation throughout the body. It is the selective nature of the peritoneum that allows for peritoneal dialysis, a process that keeps alive many people whose kidneys have failed.

We also have synovial membranes that line joint capsules and produce a lubricant called synovial fluid, and mucous membranes that line passages that connect internal organs to the external environment. Mucus secreted by the membrane traps foreign particles and aids in expelling them.

The most obvious membrane in the human body is the diaphragm. Unlike the other membranes, which are thin layers of specialized cells, the diaphragm is a muscle that separates the thoracic cavity (chest) from the abdominal cavity. It has several openings that allow for the passage of the esophagus, the inferior vena cava, the abdominal aorta, and other structures. The principle function of the diaphragm is breathing. When this muscle contracts, it pulls down on itself, increasing the volume in the thoracic cavity, thereby reducing the air pressure, which allows for the intake of air into the lungs.

This change in air pressure, which is essential to breathing, would not be possible without another membrane, the pleura. Like the pericardium and peritoneum, the pleura has two layers, one that covers the lungs and the other that lines the thoracic cavity. The two layers slide against one another, reducing friction. There is also a negative air pressure between the air-tight layers, which keeps the lungs in contact with the chest wall. If the outer membrane is torn, air will get between the layers and the lung will collapse.

Through breathing, oxygen and carbon dioxide are exchanged within body tissues. The simple act of breathing is one of the mechanisms that keeps the body alive. Mindfulness of in and out breathing is the simplest form of Buddhist meditation practice. When you train the mind to observe the breath you see that each breath is a microcosm of all that happens in the universe. What comes into existence must, eventually, go out of existence. Everything that comes into existence sets the conditions for what comes next. Change the conditions, change the outcome.

Note: For background on this series, please read the Introduction to the 32-Parts Project.

NOAA photo courtesy WikiCommons

On Saturday, just a couple of days ago now, I was in a bad mood. Not my occasionally cranky self, but the worst mood I’d been in for perhaps 15 years. It had been building all week, like a storm on the horizon.

In contrast I had spent the previous weekend – Thursday evening through Monday morning – at Abhayagiri Monastery. It was not a retreat, per se, but an annual gathering called Upasika Renewal. It’s where individuals can formally renew their commitment to the Three Refuges and the Five Precepts. It was a positive experience with lots of meditation time as well as time for some physical labor, relaxation, and discussion.

I dreaded leaving for Abhayagiri, though, because of my work load. I’d spent the week prior trying to get as much accomplished as possible, but I never felt satisfied that I was actually ready to go. I dreaded coming home, too, because what awaited me were three full days packed with immediate day-long activities and responsibilities. I had no time for reintegration or to catch up on what I was unable to accomplish during the five days away.

It wasn’t until Friday that I had a chance to sit back and sort through the paperwork, as it were, and to begin to get caught up on what was actually eight days of “missed work,” so to speak. But there were a few things from the various compartments of my life that had been vexing me since my return – something someone said, a look someone gave. Just a few small things, but you know how the mind likes to jumble things up and slap on layers and then tug and pull and churn.

On Saturday, the first if the month, I did what I usually do: bookkeeping. Reconciling checking accounts and deciding which bills I can pay and which I can put aside until later have never been activities that lead to calm. Then throw in a software problem…

Frustration gathered into clouds of despair and hopelessness. I’d thought I’d left these story emotions long behind in the distant past, but here they were, ready to unleash a deluge.

Fortunately, I had a couple of hours to myself Saturday evening. Fortunately, too, I decided to give meditation one more chance. I focused on the first noble truth of suffering. Yep, this is it, all right. This is dukkha. And the cause. Yes, there is a cause, that pesky second noble truth: clinging. It was my inability to let go of the attachment to that which bothered me. “Letting go.” Such a trite phrase. Easy for you to say. You don’t have my grip of steel.

Suddenly, my mind went back to Abhayagiri. We had been treated to two documentaries about Ajahn Chah. I’d heard the virtues of Ajahn Chah extolled many times, but only then at the monastery did I get an idea of why he was – and still is – revered by those who spent any time with him.

Ajahn Pasanno, co-abbot (and soon to be sole abbot) of Abhayagiri, was one of Ajahn Chah’s long-time students and attendants. In his introductory remarks to the 1977 documentary “The Mindful Way,” he said Ajahn Chah had lots of doubt. I’ve heard too he’d had lots of anger and other mental trials as well. But, Ajahn Pasanno said, he had determined that he would live each day of his life as though it would be his last and each day he would practice Dhamma with every ounce of effort. As I understand it, for Ajahn Chah practicing Dhamma meant “letting go.” There must be something to this. Ajahn Amaro, the other co-abbot of Abhayagiri (and soon to be abbot of Amaravati in England) said that what he saw in Ajahn Chah those long years ago in Thailand was “the happiest man in the world,” and he wanted to be like that too.

I got up from my cushion and searched for the documentary on YouTube, where I found it in three parts. After watching it again, I went back to the cushion for 30 more minutes. The slight parting of the clouds was palpable, and I sensed of the possibility of sunshine – not immediately, but soon. Sunday was a good day. And I’m also getting of sense of ease at getting back into my routine.

The Buddha instructs his first disciples

While the Buddha was teaching in the world, the ordained monks and nuns who were his disciples were referred to as the Sangha. A different word, parisa, was used for the assembly of lay followers and benefactors who supported the Sangha. After the Buddha’s death, the Sangha continued to grow, initially without a leader. But before his death he had told them the Dhamma-Vinaya, his teachings and monastic code would be their guide.

The role of the Sangha is to keep the teaching alive for the benefit of all beings. As one of the Three Jewels, the Sangha as Refuge—strictly speaking—refers to the community of Noble Beings, past or present, who have attained or realized one of the four stages of the spiritual path.

The first stage is that of Stream-winner, one who is free of the first three of ten afflictions known as the Ten Fetters that bind one to the world: the misunderstanding that there is an individual, separate personality (self); skeptical doubt in the Dharma; and the belief that rites and rituals in and of themselves are means to spiritual attainment. The Stream-winner is so firmly established in the Dharma that full awakening is guaranteed within seven lifetimes and is no longer subject to rebirth in a lower realm.

The Once-returner, in addition to being free of the first three fetters, is nearly free of the next two—sensuous craving and ill-will—and is assured of only one more rebirth in a human or lower heavenly realm, during which lifetime suffering will end.

The Non-returner is fully free of the first five afflictions and will not return again to this world.

The Arahant is fully free of the five remaining fetters: craving for fine-material existence and immaterial existence, and conceit, restlessness, and ignorance. An Arahant is a fully awakened being whose realization of Nirvana is complete. An Arahant, however, is not a buddha.

Sometimes these beings are referred to as the Eight Pairs of Noble Beings, e.g., Stream-winners and those established on the path to Stream-winner, and so on.

To take refuge in the Sangha ultimately means to rely on those who have attained the highest levels of spiritual practice. Conventionally speaking, it refers to the community of fully ordained monks and nuns.

In contemporary Western usage Sangha has come to mean “community of practitioners,” including lay practitioners. Used as such it refers to groups who may gather regularly to practice meditation together. Although this unorthodox usage will likely stick, it should be understood that taking Refuge in the Sangha does not mean taking refuge in any group of practitioners.

From my book Mapping the Dharma: A Concise Guide to the Middle Way of the Buddha