One day, shortly after my arrival – during a time when I was extremely wary of Ãcariya Mun – I laid down in the middle of the day and dozed off. As I slept, Ãcariya Mun appeared in my dream to scold me: “Why are you sleeping like a pig? This is no pig farm! I won’t tolerate monks coming here to learn the art of being a pig. You’ll turn this place into a pigsty!” His voice bellowed, fierce and menacing, frightening me and causing me to wake with a start. Dazed and trembling, I stuck my head out the door expecting to see him. I was generally very frightened of him anyway; but, I had forced myself to stay with him despite that. The reason was simple: it was the right thing to do. Besides, he had an effective antidote for pigs like me. So, I was in a panic. I stuck my head out, looking around in all directions, but I didn’t see him anywhere. Only then did I begin to breathe a bit easier. Later when I had a chance, I told Ãcariya Mun what happened. He very cleverly explained my dream in a way that relieved my discomfort – a tolerant approach that I don’t always agree with, since soothing words can easily promote carelessness and complacency. He explained my dream like this:

“You’ve just recently come to live with a teacher and you are really determined to do well. Your dream simply mirrored your state of mind. That scolding you heard, reproaching you for acting like a pig, was the Dhamma warning you not to bring pig-like tendencies into the monkhood and the religion. Most people do only what they feel like doing, failing to take into account the value of their human birth and the consequences of their actions. This makes it difficult for them to fully realize their human potential. There’s an old saying that someone is ‘not all there’. It refers to a basic lack of human potential arising from callous insensitivity to the fact that human beings possess intrinsic qualities that are superior to those of animals. This attitude promotes such degrading behavior that some people end up damaged almost beyond repair – an empty human shell lacking all intrinsic goodness. Even then, they are unaware of what has happened to them, or why.

“If we possess sufficient mindfulness and wisdom, Dhamma can guide us in investigating this matter for ourselves. Your dream was a good, timely warning – learn from it. From now on, whenever you’re feeling lazy you can use it as a means of stirring up the mindfulness necessary to overcome your indolence. This type of dream is exceptionally potent. Not everyone has a dream like this. I appreciate such dreams for they effectively stimulate mindfulness, keeping it constantly vigilant. This in turn accelerates progress in meditation, allowing the heart to attain calm with relative ease. If you take this lesson that Dhamma has provided and put it consistently into practice, you can expect to quickly achieve meditative calm. Who knows, you may even penetrate the true nature of Dhamma ahead of those who have been practicing meditation for many years. That dream of yours was very worthwhile. It wasn’t a bad omen by any means.

“Don’t be excessively frightened of your teacher – it will only cause you to feel uncomfortable all the time. Nothing of benefit can be gained from unreasonable fear of the teacher. He has a moral obligation to educate his students, using every means available to him. It’s not your teacher you should fear, but evil, for evil leads directly to suffering. I don’t accept monks as my students just so I can castigate them for no good reason. The training a monk undertakes is a stringent one, following principles laid down by the Buddha. A teacher’s guidance must follow the strict logic of these principles. If he deviates from this path, neither he nor the student benefits in any way.

“So put your mind at ease and work hard at your practice. Effort is key – don’t become discouraged and ease up. Dhamma belongs to everyone who truly desires it. The Buddha did not limit the possession of Dhamma to a particular individual. Everyone who practices in the right way enjoys the same right of ownership. Don’t forget that auspicious dream. Reflect on it often, and all pig-like tendencies will fade into the background – as magga, phala, and Nibbãna draw ever closer. Then it’s only a matter of time before the domain beyond dukkha appears. It’s inevitable. I’m truly pleased about your dream. I have trained myself with a similar fiery intensity and I’ve always had good results. I found it imperative to use such methods throughout my years of practice, and now occasionally I must use similar methods to train my students.”

Ãcariya Mun used this interpretation of my dream to console a youngster who was new to the training. He was concerned this kid might lose heart and give up trying to make an effort, thus rejoining the fraternity of pigs. That’s why he resorted to this method of teaching. His teaching methods always displayed an unparalleled ingenuity. I often went to speak with him during that early period when my mental state was fluctuating between periods of progress and periods of decline – a time of particular stress and uneasiness for me – and he advised me in the same comforting manner. As soon as I paid my respect to him, he asked me how my citta was doing. If it happened to be a time when my meditation was progressing nicely, I told him so. He then voiced his approval and encouraged me to keep up the good work so that I could quickly transcend dukkha. If my meditation was deteriorating, I replied that my mind was so bad it seemed all traces of happiness had gone. He then adopted a sympathetic attitude:

“That’s too bad. Where’s it gone? Well, don’t be discouraged. Just put maximum effort into your practice and it will reappear for sure. It has simply wandered off somewhere. If you accelerate your efforts it will come back on its own. The citta is like a dog: it inevitably follows its owner wherever he goes. It won’t just run away. Intensify your practice and the citta is bound to return on its own. Don’t waste time thinking about where it’s gone to. Wherever it’s gone, it can’t possibly run away. If you want it to return quickly, concentrate your efforts. Any discouragement will only boost the citta’s ego. Thinking you really miss it so much, it will play hard-to-get. So stop thinking about the citta you’ve lost. Instead, think “buddho”, repeating it continuously, over and over again. Once the word “buddho” has been mentally established by repeating it continuously in rapid succession, the citta will hurry back of its own accord. Even then, don’t let go of buddho. Buddho is the citta’s food – as long as there is food, it will always come running back. So repeat “buddho” constantly until the citta has eaten its fill, then it will have to take a rest. You too will feel satisfied while the citta rests calmly. When it’s calm, it ceases to run madly about looking to cause you trouble. Keep this practice up until you cannot chase it away, even if you want to. This is the perfect method to use with a mind whose ravenous appetite is never satiated. As long as it has enough food, it will not leave even if you try to drive it away. Follow my advice and the state of your citta will never again deteriorate. Buddho is the key. So long as its food is there, it won’t stray. Do as I say and you’ll never again experience the disappointment of seeing your citta get worse time and time again.”

This was yet another technique employed by Ãcariya Mun to teach those of us who were really stupid. But at least I believed him – in my own stupid way. Otherwise, I would probably still be chasing after a mind in perpetual decline without any chance of ever catching it. I’ve written about this matter for the sake of those readers who may glean some useful ideas from the way a clever person teaches a stupid one. It is not my intention to glorify my own stupidity or the lenient treatment that I received from Ãcariya Mun at that time.

FOLLOWING THE RAINS RETREAT, Ãcariya Mun returned briefly to Ban Na Mon and then moved on to Ban Huay Kaen, settling in the nearby forest for awhile. From there he moved to an abandoned monastery at the base of a mountain near the village of Ban Na Sinuan, remaining there for several months. While he was there, he came down with a fever which lasted for days, curing himself as usual with the ‘therapeutic power of Dhamma’.

In April 1942 he traveled to Ubon Ratchathani to attend the funeral of his teacher, Ãcariya Sao. Once the cremation ceremony was completed, he returned to Ban Na Mon for the rains retreat. During that retreat Ãcariya Mun employed a wide variety of methods to press his students to maximize their efforts, exhorting them to be diligent in their practice. He called a meeting once every four days throughout the entire rains period, helping many monks to develop in Dhamma and attain inner strength. Many experienced unusual insights which they reported to Ãcariya Mun. I had the privilege of listening to those experiences, although I was not as accomplished in my practice as many of the others. Many memorable things occurred during that rains retreat – things that I have never forgotten. I will remember those outstanding experiences for the rest of my life.

During that retreat period Ãcariya Mun began to use tough, coercive measures with us, treating us more like old footrags. Until then, he had used relatively gentle methods, turning a blind eye to our shortcomings. He probably decided that the time was right to get tough with us. If he continued to tolerate our lapses indefinitely, he would feel burdened all the time and his students would never awake from their slumber long enough to open their eyes and see the earth, the sky, the moon and the stars. As a result, all the monks were eager to do meditation practice and excited about the insights they gained from their efforts. Monks routinely described their inner experiences to Ãcariya Mun so that he could help them to further their understanding. At the same time, he would point out how they could perfect those aspects of their practice that still needed improvement. He did his best to answer every question that was put to him. Those question-and-answer sessions, when he gave advice to specific individuals, were engrossing expositions on the practical aspects of Dhamma. His responses to the monks who approached him about their meditative experiences were never predictable, being dictated by the specific nature of the experience or the question under discussion. He always answered in the manner best suited to the individual student, elucidating points of practice and recommending techniques appropriate for his specific level of practice. Those of us, who had the privilege of listening in, especially enjoyed hearing about the meditation experiences and questions posed by monks whose practice had reached an advanced stage. We were truly captivated then, wishing for those discussions never to end. We were keen to hear such exchanges very often and so this Dhamma to our heart’s content.

ÃCARIYA MUN ADDRESSED many different topics during the course of a meeting. He told us about his past lives. He recounted the initial stages of his own practice, including insights into various phenomena arising in his meditation. He elaborated on the methods he used in his struggle to extricate himself from the quagmire of saÿsãra to the point where he verged on transcending the world of conventional reality, and how that final transcendence actually occurred. Talk of his supreme attainment made those of us, who yearned for this transcendent Dhamma, eager to attain it ourselves. This prompted some of us to feel a bit dejected, wondering if we really had enough inherent potential to successfully reach that sphere of Dhamma that he had realized to perfection. Perhaps we would remain stuck in this quagmire forever, unable to escape from the deep pit of saÿsãra. How is it he can attain freedom, yet we still cannot arouse ourselves from sleep? When will we be able to realize the same transcendent freedom he has? This sort of thinking had the advantage of awakening a persistent determination in us to tolerate the difficulties and press ahead with our efforts. This in turn facilitated every aspect of the practice. We were so inspired and energized by the Dhamma he so kindly elucidated for us that all sense of weariness and fatigue vanished. Our faith in him gave us the necessary strength to willingly shoulder the heaviest burdens.

The Lord Buddha taught us to associate with the wise. The truth of this is obvious to students living in the presence of a good teacher, listening day in and day out to his uplifting instructions. Their enthusiasm gains momentum as his teaching gradually permeates deep into the fabric of their being, and his virtuous qualities eventually infuse their characters. Although they cannot hope to match him in every respect, at least they exemplify their teacher’s virtues. The opposite also holds true: the more we associate with fools, the worse off we are. These two teachings of the Buddha are equally valid: we can become good through association with good people, or we can suffer harm through association with bad people. If we observe someone who has spent a long time training under a good teacher, it is evident that he has gained some steadfast principles from that relationship. Conversely, it’s obvious that those who get mixed up with fools will eventually display the same foolish characteristics – or perhaps worse ones.

Here I am referring to the external fools we meet in society. But you should understand that there are still other, internal fools buried deep within the personalities of each and every one of us – even well-mannered people like monks and nuns who wear the sacred Buddhist robes, openly proclaiming themselves to be disciples of the Lord Buddha. By inner fool, I mean the craven stupidity and timidness that makes us shrink from facing up to the mind’s baser instincts, which are just waiting to express themselves in ignoble, degrading ways. Many people are unaware of the repugnant forces buried within their minds. But even people who are aware of them tend to believe that as long as those things remain hidden inside and do not express themselves in speech or actions, then their repugnance is not really an issue. In truth, all bad things, regardless of where they exist, are intrinsically repugnant by nature. It’s not necessary for bad instincts to express themselves externally to be considered repugnant. They are already frightfully repugnant in and of themselves and must be dealt with as such.

That wisest of sages, the Lord Buddha, taught us to renounce all bad things and root them out, completely eradicating them from our hearts. The Lord Buddha and his Arahant disciples were perfect examples of this: Both their hearts and their conduct were free from blemish. Wherever they lived they always remained unperturbed and sublimely contented. In my opinion, based on personal observation, Ãcariya Mun was another monk free from blemish. I say this with complete confidence, accepting full responsibility, for I am certain that it is true. Any skepticism should be directed at me, not Ãcariya Mun – his escape from the snares of Mãra is already well completed.

AFTER THERAINS RETREAT, Ãcariya Mun continued living at Ban Na Mon for many months. Just prior to the next retreat he moved back to Ban Khok, but not to the same forest monastery where he previously lived. He stayed in a new monastery, built and offered to him by Ãcariya Kongma Chirapuñño. He found the location quite suitable, comfortably spending the rains retreat there in good health. As usual, he held regular meetings to instruct the monks.

In summary, Ãcariya Mun stayed continuously in the area around Ban Huay Kaen, Ban Na Sinuan, Ban Khok, and Ban Na Mon in the Tong Khop district of Sakon Nakhon province for three successive years, including three rainy season retreats. As usual he taught the nonphysical beings who contacted him, though fewer devas came in Sakon Nakhon and their visits were far less frequent than those of devas in Chiang Mai. It was probably because the region was less remote, and thus less secluded. They tended to come only on religious festival days, such as Mãgha Pýjã, Visãkha Pýjã and the observance days at the beginning, the middle, and the end of the rains retreat. Other than that, relatively few devas came to visit him.

Only a small group of monks actually spent these rains retreats with him due to a limited number of available huts. He could not accept new arrivals unless there were vacancies. The situation was different outside of the retreat period. Then monks from many different places came to train under him. Following the retreat, a steady flow of monks came and went at his monastery, and he always very kindly made a special effort to instruct them in their practice.

In the dry season, following the third rains retreat, a group of lay people from the village of Ban Nong Pheu Na Nai went to see Ãcariya Mun, and invited him to return with them to live near their village. He accepted their offer, and was escorted to their village in the Na Nai sub-district of Phanna Nikhom in Sakon Nakhon province, where he spent the next rains retreat. He traveled the distance from Ban Khok to Ban Nong Pheu hiking through thick forest, camping out along the way each night. Making his way through rough, wooded terrain the entire way, he finally arrived several days later.

Soon after his arrival, he came down with a severe case of malaria. The symptoms of this strain of malaria alternate between bouts of very high fever and shivering cold chills. It’s a punishing affliction that lasts for months. Anyone falling victim to such severe malaria lives to dread it because the fever never quite seems to go away. It may last for years, the symptoms returning again and again after apparently having been cured. The fever can disappear for fifteen days, or maybe a month; and then, just when one thinks it’s finally cured, it resurfaces. Sometimes several months may elapse before it returns.

I previously described how malarial fever caused in-laws to lose patience with each other. If the son-in-law came down with it, his wife’s parents soon became fed up with him. If one of his wife’s parents had it, the son-in-law soon got fed up. The patient became a burden on the rest of the family because – although he couldn’t do any heavy work – he still ate a lot, slept constantly, and then complained bitterly no end. Malaria is a most tiresome illness which tries everyone’s patience. Its effect was compounded by the fact that in those days there were no effective medicines for curing malaria as there are today. A person contracting it just had to wait for it to disappear on its own. If it refused to go away, it could easily become a chronic condition, dragging on for years. Young children who became infected usually had swollen, distended bellies and pale, anemic complexions. Natives of the low-lying plains, who had moved to settle in forested areas, tended to be the worst victims of this strain of malaria. Indigenous forest inhabitants symptoms were seldom so severe as those of people who came from open, lowland areas.

Malaria was also common among dhutanga monks, as they normally liked to wander extensively through forested mountain areas. Were this dreaded disease something valuable, something to boast about, then I myself could boast with the best of them, having suffered its devastating effects many times. It scares me just thinking about it now. I was hit with a case of malaria my very first year at Ban Nong Pheu, an ordeal that severely chastened me. Fever plagued me the entire rainy season, then lingered on intermittently into the dry season, refusing to completely go away. How could I fail to be chastened? Being fully sensitive to pleasure and pain like everybody else, monks naturally dread the thought of pain and discomfort.

Once Ãcariya Mun became settled at Ban Nong Pheu, the number of monks coming to stay with him on a regular basis steadily increased. As many as twenty to thirty monks came each year to spend the rains retreat with him. In addition to the monks who lived in the monastery, many others stayed close by in the vicinity of other small villages. A few monks lived together in some locations, five or six in others, and occasionally nine or ten in some places. Each of these groups stayed in separate places, all within walking distance of Ãcariya Mun’s monastery. As many as thirty to forty monks from the surrounding area used to assemble at his monastery on uposatha observance days. Combined with resident monks, the total assembly easily reached fifty or sixty. Outside the retreat period, it sometimes exceeded that number, as monks continuously arrived at Ban Nong Pheu seeking Ãcariya Mun’s guidance. During the day they dispersed into the thick forest, surrounding the monastery grounds, to do their practice in solitude. The forest in this region was many tens of miles wide, while its length was almost unlimited as it extended along a series of overlapping mountain ranges that seemed to stretch on forever.

In those days, virtually the whole region from the district of Phanna Nikhom south to the province of Kalasin was blanketed by forests. For this reason, Ãcariya Mun’s monastery at Ban Nong Pheu proved to be an excellent central location for dhutanga monks of the kammaååhãna tradition who were obliged to attend regular recitations of the Pãåimokkha 3 and receive Dhamma instructions from their teacher. Those wanting to come with questions about their meditation practice could easily do so. During the dry season, his disciples wandered off into the surrounding mountains, living and practicing in the many caves and under the overhanging rocks scattered throughout the rugged terrain. Numerous small settlements of thatched huts dotted the mountain ridges where five or six families eked out a living, growing crops. Many dhutanga monks relied on those communities for their daily alms food. But they could live conveniently anywhere in the region’s thick forests since small village communities of ten to thirty houses were scattered throughout.

The village of Ban Nong Pheu was situated in a rather broad valley completely surrounded by mountains. The villagers made a living by farming the land they could clear. Beyond that, forested mountain ranges stretched in every direction, making it an ideal place for dhutanga monks who easily found the kinds of secluded sites they preferred.

Consequently, large numbers of dhutanga monks lived throughout the region, in the rainy and the dry seasons alike. Many went to see Ãcariya Mun regularly, and then wandered off again to practice in the mountains, walking down from there to hear his instructions, then returning to continue their practice. Some traveled from other provincial districts, or even other regions, to train with him at Ban Nong Pheu, especially in the dry season when travel was more convenient.

Lay people also made the arduous journey to pay their respects to him and hear his advice. They traveled by foot from locations all around the region, some, quite far away. Everyone came by foot, except for the elderly and women who, unaccustomed to hiking, hired ox carts to take them to the monastery. The dirt track extending from the main district of Phanna Nikhom to Ban Nong Pheu was about twelve miles long, following a path that cut straight up through the mountains. Following a more circuitous route around the base of the mountains, the distance was about fifteen miles. Those unaccustomed to hiking would never make it if they took the direct route, since there were no villages along the way where they could find food and shelter. The more circuitous route had only a few villages, spread far apart; so it wasn’t very convenient either. Monks traveling to see Ãcariya Mun went on foot, there being no road to Ban Nong Pheu that was suitable for motorized traffic. What public transport there was in those days went along the main provincial highways, and then only infrequently. Latecomers usually missed their ride and wasted a whole day waiting for the next one.

DHUTANGA MONKS PREFERRED  traveling by foot. They found riding in vehicles inconvenient, since they were usually crowded with people. A dhutanga monk considered hiking from place to place simply another aspect of his meditation practice. Once he determined which mountain range or forest he wanted to head for, he focused on his practice and started his journey as though he were walking in meditation and the forest trails were his track. He did not fret about where the next village might be or whether he would reach it before dark. He resolved to walk until dusk, then look for a place to rest for the night. The next morning he walked on until he reached the nearest village. There he collected alms food from the local inhabitants as he passed through. He was satisfied to eat whatever they offered. The quality of the food was usually poor, but that didn’t worry him – if it was sufficient to keep him going from one day to the next, he was contented. Having eaten his meal, he continued on his journey peacefully until he reached his destination. There he searched until he found a site in the forest that best suited his personal requirements. He paid special attention to the availability of water – a vital requisite when living in the wilds.

Having set up camp in a suitable location, the dhutanga monk turned his attention to the task of intensifying his efforts internally, alternating walking and sitting meditation around the clock, day and night. Bolstered by mindfulness and aided by the contemplative faculties of wisdom, he concentrated on a Dhamma theme that suited his temperament, thus inducing his heart to drop into the peaceful calm of samãdhi. Withdrawing from samãdhi, he focused on developing wisdom by investigating whichever phenomena arose in his field of awareness. Subjects included impressions from the external environment that constantly impinged on his sense faculties, and aspects of his internal environment, such as the physical elements and the sense organs, which continually fluctuate as they remain constantly in motion. He meditated on viparinãmadhamma: that all things perpetually come and go, subject to the instability of constant change. He could not afford to be apathetic toward anything that might entangle his heart. He used wisdom to thoroughly analyze his body and mind to clearly understand their true nature, gradually letting go of any attachment to them. Wisdom was the tool he used to excavate the entire root system of the kilesas, relentlessly destroying them trunk, roots, and all. His mind was fixed on a single purpose: investigating all arising phenomena. Everything that made contact with the mind was scrutinized in terms of the ti-lakkhaõa 4  to gain insight into its true nature, thus eliminating the kilesas associated with it. Any dhutanga monk who felt uncertain about his mode of practice returned to Ãcariya Mun as quickly as possible to ask him for clarification. As soon as his doubts were cleared up, he left, returning to the seclusion of the mountains to press ahead with his spiritual development.

Many dhutanga monks relied on Ãcariya Mun to give them guidance in meditation. There was not sufficient room in his monastery to accommodate them all. So, after receiving his instructions, they went to live in the surrounding hills and forests. Spreading out in different directions, either alone or in pairs, each monk looked for a secluded place to set up camp that was within walking distance of Ãcariya Mun’s monastery. In that way they could return to see him with minimum inconvenience. Depending on individual preferences, some monks lived three or four miles away, others between five to eight miles, while a few might have lived as far as twelve to fifteen miles from him. Monks traveling a distance of twelve miles or more to consult Ãcariya Mun remained overnight in his monastery before walking back to their respective locations.

The trails that connected forest and mountain hamlets then were very different from the provincial roads seen everywhere today. They were mere dirt tracks that those communities had used for ages to keep in touch with one another; and all the local people were familiar with the routes. Since the villagers seldom made long treks to visit one another, the trails were often overgrown and obscured by undergrowth. Anyone unfamiliar with this network of trails had to be very careful not to take a wrong fork and get lost in the densely forested terrain. One might well end up in an area where there were no settlements at all. The distance between some communities could be twelve to fifteen miles of uninterrupted jungle. Such lengthy trails required special caution, for any traveler who lost his way would almost surely end up spending the night in the wilderness without any food. Besides that, he might never safely find his way out unless he chanced upon a hunter who pointed him in the right direction or conducted him back to the main trail to his destination.

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