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After departing Chiang Mai, Ãcariya Mun stayed two rains retreats at Wat Non Niwet monastery in Udon Thani. Following the second retreat, a group of lay devotees from Sakon Nakhon, headed by a longtime disciple, Khun Mae Num Chuwanon, came and invited him to return with them for the spiritual benefit of people there. When he readily agreed, all concerned were delighted, and arrangements were made to escort him there. Upon arriving in Sakon Nakhon in late 1941, Ãcariya Mun first resided at Wat Suddhawat monastery. Soon monks and laity were arriving daily to pay their respects and seek his advice.

While at Wat Suddhawat, somebody came with a camera and asked permission to take his photograph to keep as an object of worship. In all, Ãcariya Mun allowed his picture to be taken three times: on this occasion in Sakon Nakhon; previously, when he was staying in Nakhon Ratchasima; and later, at Ban Fang Daeng in That Phanom district of Nakhon Phanom province on his return from Ãcariya Sao’s funeral.1 The photographic prints that his devotees collect as objects of worship today are reproductions of pictures taken on these three occasions. But for these, there would be no photographic images to remind us what he looked like. It was not easy to get permission to take Ãcariya Mun’s picture. Those who tried were on pins and needles, fidgeting nervously as they waited drenched in sweat, looking for a good opportunity to broach the subject with him. Well aware that he rarely gave permission for such activities, they were afraid that if they did not handle the situation properly, then he might simply dismiss them with a curt retort.

Ãcariya Mun stayed at Wat Suddhawat monastery for awhile before moving to a small forest monastery near the village of Ban Na Mon which, being very quiet and secluded both day and night, suited him perfectly. The monks and novices living with him were an impressive sight – they said very little, but packed quite a punch. That is to say, instead of chatting among themselves, they preferred to put effort into their practice, each monk sitting in his own hut or walking meditation out in the forest. At four o’clock in the afternoon they all emerged from their living quarters to sweep the grounds together. With the whole area swept clean, they drew water from the well and carried it around to fill up the water barrels used for cleaning their feet and washing their alms bowls. These chores completed, everyone bathed together at the well in an admirably quiet, composed manner. They performed each daily chore with a remarkable self-control, always applying mindfulness and wisdom to analyze the nature of the tasks at hand – no one absentmindedly engaged in idle conversation. As soon as the day’s duties were finished they separated, each monk returning to his hut to sit or walk in meditation as he saw fit.

When the monks returned to their huts, the monastery appeared deserted. A visitor happening to arrive then would not have seen a single monk simply standing around or sitting idly. Had the visitor ventured into the surrounding forest, he would have discovered some of the monks pacing back and forth on their meditation tracks, and others sitting peacefully in their small huts, all preferring to practice quietly, in solitude. They came together for almsround and the morning meal, or when there was an evening meeting, and only occasionally for other required duties. Even on almsround, each monk walked to and from the village with cautious restraint, mindfully intent on his meditation practice. They were not negligent, walking along casually gazing here and there, chatting with anyone who chanced to pass by. His monks truly were an inspirational sight to see as they walked for alms with such dignified composure.

Back in the monastery, the monks sat together investigating the food in their alms bowls as they prepared to eat. They reflected on the dangers inherent in attachment to food. Remaining mindful as they ate, they gave no indication that they were enjoying the food. With their attention focused on the contents of their alms bowls, they refrained from talking and did not allow their gaze to stray from the task of eating. They chewed their food carefully to avoid making loud, impolite noises that could disturb the others. The meal over, they helped each other put everything neatly away and swept the place clean. Each monk washed his alms bowl, dried it with a cloth, and carefully placed it in the sun for a few minutes. Only then did he put his alms bowl away in the appropriate place.

These duties completed, each monk returned to the seclusion of his own living quarters, turning his full attention to training his heart and mind in the manner of practice best suited to him. Sometimes a monk exerted himself to the limit; at other times, less so. In either case, he concentrated solely on his practice, unconcerned about how many hours passed or how much energy he expended. Basically, his objective was to make sure his mind remained focused on the meditation subject he had chosen to control it until that focus of attention became a mental object he could rely on to direct his heart toward peace and calm. Such calm, in turn, helped him to concentrate his mental focus on the cause and effect relationships inherent within whichever phenomena his wisdom then chose to investigate, allowing him to gradually attain increasingly more subtle levels of Dhamma as he progressed toward the ultimate goal. While applying himself assiduously, he always tried to make sure that his mode of practice was correct for the level of Dhamma he was working on.

It is extremely important that a monk have mindfulness at every stage of his practice. It is also essential that a monk use wisdom when his practice reaches those levels of Dhamma where wisdom is indispensable. Mindfulness, however, is always indispensabled – at all times, in all activities. Whenever mindfulness is missing, effort also is missing. Lacking mindfulness, walking and sitting meditation are just empty postures void of anything that could be called “right effort”. For this very reason, Ãcariya Mun stressed mindfulness more than any other aspect of a monk’s practice. In fact, mindfulness is the principal foundation supporting every aspect on every level of meditation practice. Practiced continuously, it eventually develops into the kind of supreme-mindfulness that fosters the highest levels of wisdom. Mindfulness must be used intensively at the preliminary level of developing meditative calm and concentration. In all succeeding levels of practice, mindfulness and wisdom must be developed in tandem, working as a team.

Ãcariya Mun taught his monks to be very resolute and courageous in their practice. Anyone who was not earnestly committed to the practice was unlikely to remain with him for long. About once a week he called a meeting and gave a talk; on other nights he expected the monks to expedite their efforts on their own. Those with doubts or questions about their practice could consult him without having to wait for the next meeting. An aura of Dhamma pervaded the atmosphere around him, giving his students the feeling that magga, phala, and Nibbãna were truly within their reach. His reassuring presence gave them the determination and courage necessary to pursue their practice to the limit, conducting themselves in a manner that suggested they had the highest attainments in their sights. When meditating, they made little distinction between day and night; each monk strived in earnest regardless of the hour. On moonless nights, candle lanterns illuminated meditation tracks around the whole area. On moonlit nights, monks walked meditation by the light of the moon, each practicing with a sense of urgency that allowed him very little time for sleep.

ÃCARIYA MUN ’ S  PROFICIENCY in chanting the suttas was unrivaled. He chanted suttas alone for many hours every night without fail. He would chant long discourses, like the Dhamma-cakka-pavat-tana Sutta and the Mahã Samãya Sutta, nearly every night. Occasionally, he translated the meaning of the suttas for our benefit, translations based on his own personal experience. He spoke directly to their essential meaning, often bypassing the strict rules of Pãli grammar normally used to maintain uniformity in translations. The undeniable clarity of his translations allowed his audience to glimpse the fundamental message of the ancient texts he quoted. Amazingly, he translated Pãli better than the accomplished scholars, though he had never studied Pãli in any formal way. No sooner had he mentioned a Pãli phrase than, without even a pause, he had translated it as well in a quick, fluent style that defied belief. For instance, when citing passages from the Dhamma-cakka-pavattana Sutta or the Mahã Samãya Sutta during the course of his talks, he gave fast, simultaneous translations worthy of a tenth grade Pãli scholar. 2 I say the tenth grade because I have heard ninth grade Pãli scholars translate and they tend to be slow and plodding. They deliberate quite a long time over each passage and even then they are not very sure of their translations.

Not only was Ãcariya Mun quick, he also was boldly confident of the truth of his words. Having clearly experienced the truth of their essential meaning himself, he was certain of his translations. Pãli verses arose spontaneously in his heart, which he then elaborated on in a way that differed somewhat from classical interpretations. For example, vãtã rukkhã na pabbato, which he translated as: “gale force winds can uproot whole trees, yet they can’t move a mountain of stone.” This is an example of one Dhamma verse that arose spontaneously in his heart, along with the translation, while he was giving a talk to the monks.

What I just wrote about the ninth and tenth grades of Pãli scholarship shouldn’t be taken too seriously. It is merely a figure of speech used by monks in the forest tradition – no offense is intended. We forest monks tend to act a bit like monkeys that have grown accustomed to living in the wild: even if they are caught and raised as pets, they still retain their old habits. They can never really adapt to human behavior. Please excuse me for presuming to compare Ãcariya Mun’s translations with those of Pãli scholars. Some readers may feel that I have overstepped the mark here.

IN DUE TIME ÃCARIYA MUN left Ban Na Mon and moved to Ban Khok, just over a mile away, where he spent the rainy season retreat. Since it was difficult to find a better location, the monastery was located only half a mile from the village. Still, the place was very quiet. Not more than eleven or twelve monks stayed with him at any one time in either of those places due to the limited number of available huts. It was while he resided at Ban Khok that I arrived. He was kind enough to accept me as a student, although I was about as useful as an old log. I lived there like a ladle in a pot of stew. I feel ashamed just thinking about it now: this useless log of a monk staying with an absolutely brilliant sage of such universal renown.

All the same, I do feel easier about writing his story from this period onward. Up to this point in the story I have felt somewhat hampered, and not a little frustrated, by the fact that most of my information comes secondhand from senior disciples who lived with him in the early years. In preparation for writing this biography, I spent many years going around to meet those ãcariyas, interviewing them and writing down their memories, or taping my conversations with them. All this material then need to be carefully arranged in chronological order before it could be presented in a meaningful, readable format – a very demanding task. From now on I shall be writing about what I myself witnessed in the final years of Ãcariya Mun’s life. Although this part of the story may not impress the reader as much as what has gone before, as the author I feel relieved to be writing from personal experience.

ÃCARIYA MUN SPENT the rains retreat at the Ban Khok forest monastery with a small group of monks, all of whom remained healthy and contented throughout the three months. Ãcariya Mun called a meeting about once a week, both during the retreat period and after it was over. Although his discourses usually lasted for two to four hours, his audience was so completely absorbed in meditation practice that thoughts of weariness and fatigue never crossed their minds. For his part, Ãcariya Mun was completely absorbed in delivering the Dhamma, expounding the nature of cause and effect in a reasonable way that struck a chord with his listeners, all of whom were genuinely searching for Truth. The Dhamma he presented was delivered straight from a heart that had realized this Truth with absolute clarity – leaving no room for doubt. Only one doubt remained: Could the monks actually do the practice the way he described it.

He delivered his discourses in a manner reminiscent of times past when the Lord Buddha delivered a discourse to a gathering of monks. We can be sure that the Lord Buddha’s discourses were concerned solely with the great treasures of Dhamma; that is, he spoke only on subjects directly related to magga, phala, and Nibbãna. Thus, monks listening to him were able to attain magga, phala, and Nibbãna one after another, in steady succession, right up until the day of his final passing away. Because the Buddha’s teaching emanated directly from an absolutely pure heart, the Dhamma he delivered was incomparably superb. This was magga and phala, pure and simple, and his listeners were able to emulate his teaching to perfection.

The Dhamma that Ãcariya Mun delivered was spontaneous Dhamma of the present moment – refined and purified in his heart. He did not theorize or speculate when he spoke. His audience already had their own doubts and uncertainties about the practice, and further speculation would only have served to increase those doubts. Instead, as they listened, his Dhamma gradually dispelled their doubts. Those who heard his wonderful expositions were able to use them as a way to significantly reduce their kilesas. Beyond that, they could be used to conclusively eliminate all doubts.

ÃCARIYA MUN CHANTED suttas every night for several hours. On a night when no meeting was held, he left his meditation track at about eight o’clock and entered his hut to quietly chant suttas at length before resuming seated meditation until it was time to retire. On meeting nights, his chanting began later, after the meeting was over. This meant that his normal schedule was delayed when there was a meeting so that he retired later than usual, at midnight or one A. M.

One evening, hearing him softly chanting in his hut, I had the mischievous urge to sneak up and listen. I wanted to find out what suttas he chanted at such length every night. As soon as I crept up close enough to hear him clearly, however, he stopped chanting and remained silent. This did not look good, so I quickly backed away and stood listening from a distance. No sooner had I backed away than the low cadence of his chanting started up again, now too faint to be heard clearly. So again I sneaked forward– and again he went silent. In the end, I never did find out what suttas he was chanting. I was afraid that if I stubbornly insisted on standing there eavesdropping, a bolt of lightning might strike and a sharp rebuke thunder out. Meeting him the next morning I glanced away. I did not dare to look him in the face. But he looked directly at me with a sharp, menacing glare. I learned my lesson the hard way: never again did I dare to sneak up and try to listen in on his chanting. I was afraid I would receive something severe for my trouble. From what I had observed of him, if I persisted there was a real chance I’d get just what I was asking for.

It was only later, after long association with him, that I clearly understood just how well he perceived everything going on around him. Thinking about it now, how could he possibly have been unaware that I was standing there like an idiot and listening so intently. It’s obvious – he was fully aware. But before making any comment, he wanted first to wait and check out this stubborn, silly monk. Any further such behavior was bound to invoke a severe response. What amazed me was: each time I crept close to his hut he stopped chanting straight away. He obviously knew exactly what was going on.