​

Upon leaving the province of Ubon Ratchathani, Ãcariya Mun spent the next rainy season retreat at the village of Ban Nong Lat in the Warichabhum district of Sakon Nakhon province accompanied by the many monks and novices under his guidance. The lay men and women there reacted as if a truly auspicious person had arrived. They were all very excited – not in a frenzied way, but in an anticipatory way – at the prospect of doing good and abandoning evil. They abandoned their worship of spirits and ghosts to pay homage to the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha. At the end of the rains, Ãcariya Mun went wandering again until he arrived in the province of Udon Thani where he traveled to the districts of Nong Bua Lamphu and Ban Pheu. He stayed at the village of Ban Kho for the rains retreat while spending the following rains in the Tha Bo district of Nong Khai province. He remained practicing for some time in both these provinces.

As mentioned previously, Ãcariya Mun lived mostly in wilderness areas where villages were spaced far apart. Since the countryside was relatively unpopulated then, he could easily put the teaching into practice. Virgin forests abounded, full of great, tall trees which were still uncut. Wild animals were everywhere. As soon as night fell, their myriad calls could be heard echoing through the forest. Listening to such sounds, one is carried away by a sense of camaraderie and friendliness. The natural sounds of wild animals are not a hindrance to meditation practice, for they carry no specific meaning. The same cannot be said for human sounds. Be it chatting, singing, shouting, or laughing, the specific meaning is immediately obvious; and it is this significance that makes human sounds a hindrance to meditation practice. Monks are especially vulnerable to the sounds of the opposite sex. If their samãdhi is not strong enough, concentration can easily be destroyed. I must apologize to women everywhere because my intention here is not to criticize women in any way. It is the unsuccessful meditator that I am addressing here so that he may arouse mindfulness as an antidote to counter these influences and not merely surrender meekly to them. It’s possible that one reason monks prefer to live in mountains and forests is that it allows them to avoid such things in order to relentlessly pursue the perfection of spiritual qualities until they reach the ultimate goal of the holy life.25 Ãcariya Mun enjoyed living in forests and mountains right up until the day he passed away, a preference which helped him to attain the Dhamma he has so generously shared with all of us.

Ãcariya Mun said that if his meditation practice were compared to an illness, it would be a near-fatal one, since the training he undertook resembled physical and mental torture. There was hardly a single day when he could just relax, look around, and enjoy himself as other monks seemed to do. This was because the kilesas became tangled up with his heart so quickly that he barely had a chance to catch them. Should his mind wander for only a moment, the kilesas immediately gave him trouble. Once they had established a hold on his heart, their grip became ever tighter until he found it difficult to dislodge them. Consequently, he could never let his guard down. He had to remain totally alert, always ready to pounce on the kilesas, so they couldn’t gain the strength to bind him into submission. He practiced diligently in this manner until he had gained sufficient contentment to be able to relax somewhat. Only then did he develop the strength of heart and ease of body necessary to teach others. From that time forward – monks, novices, and lay people from all over the Northeast sought him out. Ãcariya Mun understood their situation and was very sympathetic toward them all. At certain times, so many people came to see him that there wasn’t enough room for them to stay. He also had to consider the safety of others, such as the women and nuns who came to visit him. For in those days, many tigers and other wild animals were in the outlying areas, but there were very few people.

Ãcariya Mun once stayed in a cave near Ban Namee Nayung village in the Ban Pheu district of Udon Thani province. Since many large tigers frequented the area around the cave, it was definitely not a safe place for visitors to remain overnight. When visitors came, Ãcariya Mun had the villagers build a very high bamboo platform – high enough to be beyond the reach of any hungry tiger which might try to pounce upon the sleeping person. Ãcariya Mun forbade the visitors to come down to the ground after dark, fearing that a tiger would carry them off and devour them. He told them to carry up containers for their toilet needs during the night. With so many vicious tigers there at night, Ãcariya Mun refused to allow visitors to stay long. He sent them away after a few days. These tigers were not afraid of people – especially not of women – and would attack if given the opportunity. On some nights when Ãcariya Mun was walking in meditation by the light of candle lanterns, he saw a large tiger boldly stalk a buffalo herd as it went past his area. The tiger had no fear of Ãcariya Mun as he paced back and forth. Sensing the tiger, the buffaloes instinctively headed for the village. Nevertheless, the tiger was still bold enough that it continued to follow them, even while a monk walked close by.

Monks who trained under Ãcariya Mun had to be prepared for anything, including the possibility of death, for danger was all around the various places where they practiced. They also had to give up any pride in their own self-worth and any sense of superiority regarding their fellow monks, thus allowing for a harmonious living situation as if they were different limbs on the same body. Their hearts then experienced a measure of contentment and, untroubled by mental hindrances, their samãdhi quickly developed. When a monk is constrained by living under certain restrictions – for example, living in a frightening place where the food is limited and the basic requisites are scarce – his mental activity tends to be supervised by mindfulness, which continuously restricts the thinking processes to the matter at hand. The citta is usually able to attain samãdhi faster than would normally be expected. Outside there is danger and hardship; inside mindfulness is firmly in control. In such circumstances the citta might be compared to a prisoner who submits willingly to his fate. In addition to these factors, the teacher is also there to straighten him out should he go astray. The monk who practices while hemmed in by hardship on all sides will see an improvement in his citta that exceeds all expectations.

Nighttime in the forest is a frightening time, so a monk forces himself to go out and do walking meditation to fight that fear. Who will win and who will lose? If fear loses, then the citta becomes courageous and ‘converges’ into a state of calm. If the heart loses, then the only thing that emerges is intense fear. The effect of intense fear in such a situation is a sensation of simultaneously being both hot and cold, of needing to urinate and defecate, of feeling breathless and being on the verge of death. The thing that encourages fear is the sound of a tiger’s roar. The sound of roaring may come from anywhere – from the foot of the mountain, from up on the ridge, or from out on the plains – but the monk will pay no attention to the direction. He will think only: “A tiger is coming here to devour me!” Walking all alone in meditation and so afraid that he’s shaking and useless, he is sure that it’s coming specifically for him. Not considering the broad terrain, it doesn’t occur to him that the tiger has four feet and might just be going somewhere else. His only thought is that the tiger is coming straight for his tiny plot of land – straight for this cowardly monk who is shaken by fear. Having completely forgotten his meditation practice, he has only one thought in mind which he repeats over and over again like a mantra: “The tiger’s coming here, the tiger’s coming here.” This negative train of thought merely intensifies his fear. The Dhamma in his heart is ready to disintegrate, and if, perchance, the tiger really were to wander accidentally into that place, he’d stand there mindlessly scared stiff at best; and at worst, something very unfortunate could happen.

It’s wrong to establish the citta with such a negative attitude. The ensuing results are bound to be harmful in some way. The correct approach is to focus the citta firmly on some aspects of Dhamma, either the recollection of death or some other Dhamma theme. Under such circumstances, one should never allow the mind to focus outward to imagined external threats and then bring those notions back in to deceive oneself. Whatever happens, life or death, one’s attention must be kept squarely on the meditation subject that one normally uses. A citta having Dhamma as its mainstay doesn’t lose its balance. Moreover, despite experiencing intense fear the citta is clearly strengthened, becoming courageous in a way that’s amazing beyond description.

Ãcariya Mun taught his disciples that becoming firmly established in the practice means putting everything on the line – both body and mind. Everything must be sacrificed except that aspect of Dhamma which is the fundamental object of attention. Whatever occurs, allow nature to take its course. Everyone who is born must die – such is the nature of this world. There’s no point in trying to resist it. Truth can not be found by denying the natural order of things. Ãcariya Mun taught that a monk must be resolute and brave in the face of death. He was particularly interested in having his disciples live in isolated wilderness areas infested with wild animals so that they could discover the virtues of meditation. Such places encourage the development of samãdhi and intuitive wisdom. Tigers can definitely help to stimulate Dhamma in our hearts – especially if we don’t stand in awe of the Lord Buddha because we fail to trust his teaching, but we do stand in awe of tigers because we are convinced how vicious they can be. This conviction is a very effective aid for corralling the mind and focusing it on Dhamma, using fear as an incentive to meditate until Dhamma arises within. Consequently, when that inner Dhamma is finally realized, belief in the Lord Buddha and the Dhamma he taught will arise naturally. At that critical moment, when one is alone in the wilderness, dormant faculties of samãdhi and wisdom will be stirred into action. If there is nothing to put pressure on the citta, it tends to become lazy and amass kilesas until it can barely function. A tiger can help to remove those kilesas which foster such a lazy and easy-going attitude that we forget ourselves and our own mortality. Once those insidious defilements disappear, we feel a sense of genuine relief whatever we do, for our hearts no longer shoulder that heavy burden.

Ãcariya Mun emphasized that monks should go to practice meditation in places that arouse fear and avoid places that do not; otherwise, they were unlikely to achieve any strange and marvelous results. More than that, the kilesas might well lead them so far astray that they end up losing sight of the spiritual path, which would be regrettable. He assured his monks that unless they lived in an environment which forced them to focus internally on themselves they would find it difficult to attain a stable state of calm and their meditation practice would suffer accordingly. On the other hand, the results were bound to be good in places where they were always alert to the possibility of danger, since mindfulness – the skillful means for directing the effort – was inevitably close at hand. No one who genuinely hopes to transcend dukkha should succumb to the fear of death while living in what are imagined to be frightening places – like remote wilderness areas. When faced with a real crisis situation, the focus of attention should be kept on Dhamma and not sent outside of the sphere of one’s own body and mind, which are the dwelling-place of Dhamma. Then the meditator can expect to experience a pervading sense of security and an inspired mental fortitude that are incontrovertible. In any case, unless that person’s kamma dictates that his time is up, he will not die at that time – no matter what he thinks.

Ãcariya Mun said that his inspiration for meditation was derived almost exclusively from living in dangerous environments, which is why he liked to teach his disciples to be resolute in threatening situations. Instead of merely relying on something vague like ‘inherent virtuous tendencies’ – which are usually more a convenient fiction than a reality– in this way, they had a chance to realize their aspirations in the shortest possible time. Relying on the rather vague concept of virtuous tendencies from the past is usually a sign of weakness and resignation– an attitude more likely to suppress mindfulness and wisdom than to promote them.26

To say a monk has confidence that Dhamma is the basic guarantor of his life and practice means that he sincerely hopes to live and die by Dhamma. It is imperative that he not panic under any circumstance. He must be brave enough to accept death while practicing diligently in fearful places. When a crisis looms – no matter how serious it seems– mindfulness should be in continuous control of his heart so that it stays steadfastly firm and fully integrated with the object of meditation. Suppose an elephant, a tiger, or a snake threatens him: if he sincerely resolves to sacrifice his life for the sake of Dhamma those things won’t dare to cause him any harm. Having no fear of death, he will experience the courageous feeling that he can walk right up to those animals. Instead of feeling threatened, he will feel deep within his heart a profound friendship toward them which dispels any sense of danger. As human beings we possess Dhamma in our hearts, in a way that animals do not. For this reason, our hearts exert a powerful influence over animals of all types. It makes no difference that animals are incapable of knowing this fact; there exists in our hearts a mysterious quality that has a soothing effect on them. This quality is the potent, protective power of Dhamma which softens their hearts to the point where they don’t dare act threateningly. This mysterious power of the heart is something experienced internally by the individual. Others can be aware of it only if they have special intuitive knowledge. Even though Dhamma is taught and studied all over the world, it still remains a mystery if the heart has yet to attain any level of understanding in Dhamma. When the heart and Dhamma truly become one, all doubts concerning the heart and Dhamma disappear on their own because the nature of the heart and the nature of Dhamma share the same exquisite, subtle qualities. Once that state is reached, it is correct to say that the heart is Dhamma and Dhamma is the heart. In other words, all contradictions cease once the kilesas have been eliminated.

Normally the heart has become such an extension of the kilesas that we are unaware of its intrinsic value. This happens because the heart is so thoroughly impregnated with kilesas that the two become indistinguishable. The heart’s real value is then obscured from view. If we allow this condition to continue indefinitely because we are indifferent about finding a solution, neither our hearts nor Dhamma will have any actual value for us. Even were we to be born and die hundreds of times, it would simply be a matter of exchanging one set of dirty clothes for another set of dirty clothes. No matter how many times we change in and out of dirty clothes we cannot escape the fact that we remain filthy. Which is certainly very different from someone who takes off his dirty clothes and exchanges them for nice clean ones. Similarly, the interchange between good and evil within the heart is an important problem that each of us should take personal responsibility for and investigate within ourselves. No one else can carry this burden for us and so give us peace of mind. It’s extremely important that each and every one of us be aware that, in both the present and the future, we alone are responsible always for our own progress. The only exceptions are those, like the Lord Buddha and the Arahant disciples, who carefully developed themselves spiritually until they attained a state of total security. For them the job is completed, the ultimate goal secure. These are the Noble individuals that the rest of us take as our refuge, providing us hope for the future. Even miscreants who still understand the difference between right and wrong will take the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha as their refuge. They at least have enough sense to feel some remorse. Just as good people and bad people alike feel a natural dependence on their parents, so people of all kinds instinctively look to the Buddha as a dependable refuge.

ÃCARIYA MUN EMPLOYED many training methods with his monks to ensure that they saw clear results in their practice. Those who practiced with unwavering faith in his instructions were able to achieve such results to their own satisfaction. By following the power of his example, they became knowledgeable, respected teachers themselves. They in turn have passed on these training methods to their own disciples, so that they too can witness for themselves, through their own efforts, that the paths and fruits of the Buddha’s teaching are still attainable today; that they have not completely disappeared. When looking at the life he lived and the methods he employed in training others, it is fair to say that Ãcariya Mun followed a practice of deprivation. He and his disciples lived in conditions of virtual poverty in places where even the basic necessities were lacking. The simple daily requisites they depended on were usually in short supply. Encountering such an uncertain existence, those accustomed to living in carefree abundance would probably be utterly dismayed. There being nothing in this difficult lifestyle to attract them, they would surely find it most disagreeable. But the monks themselves, though they lived like prison inmates, did so voluntarily for the sake of Dhamma. They lived for Dhamma, and accepted the inconvenience and hardship associated with its practice. These conditions, which are seen as torture by people who have never submitted to them, were actually a convenient spiritual training ground for the monks who practiced in this way. Due to their determination to endure hardship and poverty it is appropriate to call this the practice of deprivation; for such living conditions naturally go against the grain. Monks had to literally force themselves to live in this way. During all their normal daily activities, they were required to resist the physical and mental pressure to simply follow their natural inclinations.

Sometimes it was necessary to endure days of fasting and hunger for the purpose of accelerating the practice of meditation. These periods, when monks abstain from food altogether despite their hunger, are days of uninterrupted dedication to the practice. The physical discomfort at such times is obvious, but the purpose of enduring hunger is to increase mental vigilance. In truth, fasting is a very suitable method for certain temperaments. Some types of people find that if they eat food every day their bodies tend to be vigorous but the mental endeavor – meditation– fails to progress. Their minds remain sluggish, dull and timid, so a solution is needed. One solution is to try either reducing the intake of food each day or going without food altogether, fasting – sometimes for a few days, sometimes for a longer period – and carefully observing all the while the method that gives the best results. Once it becomes apparent that a certain method is suitable, that method should be pursued intensively. For instance, should a monk discover that fasting for many days at a stretch is suitable to his temperament, then it’s imperative that he accept the necessity of following that path. Though it may well be difficult, he must put up with it because he inevitably wants to gain the appropriate knowledge and skill to go beyond dukkha.

A person whose temperament is suited to long-term fasting will notice that the more he fasts the more prominent and courageous his heart is in confronting the various objects of the senses that were once its enemies. His mental attitude is bold, his focus sharp. While sitting in samãdhi his heart can become so absorbed in Dhamma that it forgets the time of day; for when the heart contacts Dhamma there is no longer any concern with the passage of time or pangs of hunger. At that time, he is aware only of the delight experienced at that level of Dhamma which he has achieved. In this frame of mind, the conditions are right for catching up with kilesas, such as laziness, complacency, and restlessness, since they are inactive enough then for the meditator to get the better of them for the time being. If we hesitate, waiting around for a more auspicious time to tackle them, the kilesas will awaken first and give us more trouble. It’s quite likely we’d be unable to handle them then. We could easily end up being ‘elephants’ for the kilesas, as they mount us, straddle our necks, and beat us – our hearts – into submission. For in truth our hearts have been the ‘elephants’ and the kilesas the ‘mahouts’ for an infinitely long time. A deep-rooted fear of this master makes us so apprehensive that we never really dare to fight back with the best of our abilities.

From the Buddha’s perspective, the kilesas are the enemies of Dhamma; yet, from the vantage point of the world, the kilesas are considered our hearts’ inseparable companions. It is incumbent upon us, who practice the Buddha’s teaching, to battle the thoughts and deeds that are known to be our enemies, so that we can survive their onslaught, and thus become free of their insidious control. On the other hand, those who are satisfied to follow the kilesas have no choice but to pamper them, dutifully obeying their every command. The repercussions of such slavery are all too obvious in the mental and emotional agitation affecting those people and everyone around them. Inevitably, the kilesas cause people to suffer in a multitude of harmful ways, making it imperative for someone sincerely caring about his own well-being to fight back diligently using every available means. If this means abstaining from eating food and suffering accordingly, then so be it; one has no regrets. If necessary, even life itself will be sacrificed to honor the Buddha’s teaching, and the kilesas will have no share in the triumph.

In his teachings, Ãcariya Mun encouraged his monks to be courageous in their efforts to transcend the dukkha oppressing their hearts. He himself had thoroughly investigated the kilesas and Dhamma, testing both in a most comprehensive fashion before he finally saw the results emerge clearly in his own heart. Only after this attainment did he return to the Northeast to teach the incomparable Dhamma that he then understood so well.

ONE PROMINENT ASPECT of Ãcariya Mun’s teaching, which he stressed continuously during his career, was the Dhamma of the five powers: faith, diligent effort, mindfulness, concentration, and wisdom. He said the reason for emphasizing these five factors was that a person who possessed them would always have something worthwhile to count on, no matter where he went; and, therefore, he could always expect to make steady progress in his practice. Ãcariya Mun separated them according to their specific functions, using them to inspire an indomitable spirit in his disciples. He gave them his own heartfelt interpretation as follows: Saddhã is faith in the Dhamma that the Lord Buddha presented to the world. There’s no doubt that each of us in this world is perfectly capable of receiving the light of Dhamma – provided we practice the way in earnest. We all accept the fact that we will have to die some day. The key issue is: will we die defeated by the cycle of kilesas and the cycle of kamma and its results? Or, will we overcome them, defeating them all before we die? No one wants to be defeated. Even children who compete at sports are keen on winning. So we should rouse ourselves and not act as if defeated already. The defeated must always endure suffering and anguish, accumulating so much dukkha that they cannot find a way out. When they do seek escape from their misery, the only viable solution seems to be: It’s better to die. Death under those conditions is precisely defeat at the hands of one’s enemy. It is a result of piling up so much dukkha inside that there’s no room for anything else. Positive results cannot be gained from abject defeat.

If we are to die victorious, like the Lord Buddha and the Arahants, then we must practice with the same faith, effort, and forbearance as they did. We must be mindful in all our bodily and mental activities, as they were. We must take our task very seriously and not waver uncertainly like someone facing a crisis without mindfulness to anchor him. We should establish our hearts firmly in those causes that give rise to the satisfactory results that the Buddha himself attained. The sãsana is the teaching of a great sage who taught people that they too can develop wisdom in all its many aspects. So we should reflect on what he taught. We should not wallow in stupidity, living our whole lives in ignorance. No one considers the word ‘stupid’ to be a compliment. Stupid people are no use. Adults, children, even animals – if they are stupid, they are hardly any use at all. So if we remain stupid, who’s going to admire us for it? We should all analyze this matter thoroughly to avoid remaining bogged down in ignorance. Wallowing in ignorance is not the way to overcome dukkha, and it is definitely not becoming for a dhutanga monk– who is expected to skillfully analyze everything.

This was Ãcariya Mun’s own personal interpretation of the five powers. He used it effectively in his own practice and taught it to his disciples as well. It is excellent instruction for inspiring mindfulness and wisdom, and an uncompromising attitude towards practice. It is highly suitable for dhutanga monks who are fully prepared to compete for the ultimate victory in the contest between Dhamma and the kilesas. This ultimate attainment is the freedom of Nibbãna, the long-wished-for supreme victory.27