Thai Buddhist Quotes

The trains [in a country] contain the essential paraphernalia of the culture: Thai trains have the shower jar with the glazed dragon on its side, Ceylonese ones the car reserved for Buddhist monks, Indian ones a vegetarian kitchen and six classes, Iranian ones prayer mats, Malaysian ones a noodle stall, Vietnamese ones bulletproof glass on the locomotive, and on every carriage of a Russian train there is a samovar. The railway bazaar with its gadgets and passengers represented the society so completely that to board it was to be challenged by the national character. At times it was like a leisurely seminar, but I also felt on some occasions that it was like being jailed and then assaulted by the monstrously typical.

Don’t go searching for the Dhamma outside, for it lies within. Peace lies within, but we have to contemplate so that we’re aware all around—subtly, deep down.

Don’t think that you were born to gain this or that level of comfort. You were born to study pain and the causes of pain, and to follow the practice that frees you from pain. This is the most important thing there is. Everything else is trivial and unimportant. All that’s important lies with the practice.

The trains in any country contain the essential paraphernalia of the culture: Thai trains have the shower jar with the glazed dragon on its side, Singhalese ones the car reserved for Buddhist monks, Indian ones a vegetarian kitchen and six classes, Iranian ones prayer mats, Malaysian ones a noodle stall, Vietnamese ones bulletproof glass on the locomotive, and on every carriage of a Russian train there is a samovar. The railway bazaar, with its gadgets and passengers, represented the society so completely that to board it was to be challenged by the national character.

Pain is always present in this conglomerate of body and mind. It’s here for us to see with every moment. If we contemplate it till we know all its details, we can then make it our sport to see pain as a natural condition and not our pain. This is something we have to research so as to get to the details: that it’s not our pain, it’s the pain of the aggregates [form, feeling, perception, thought-fabrications, and consciousness]. Knowing in this way means that we can separate out the properties of physical form and mind—to see how they interact, how they change. It’s really fascinating

If the mind can stay with itself and not go out looking for things to criticize or latch onto, it can maintain a natural form of stillness. So this is something we have to try for in our every activity. Keep your conversations to a minimum, and there won’t be a whole lot of issues. Keep watch right at the mind. When you keep watch with continuous mindfulness, your senses stay restrained. Being mindful in this way is something you have to work at. Try it and see. Can you keep this sort of awareness continuous? What sort of things can still get the mind engaged? What sorts of thoughts and labels of good and bad, me and mine, does it think up? Then look to see if these things arise and disband.

I trace the lines of the tattoo on his chest---two tigers facing off with symbols and words. "I thought you didn't like cats. When did you get this?" "Oh, I love cats. Just not my mother's," he says. "As for the tattoo, I think I told you that I practice mixed martial arts. I got this one when my family lived in Thailand, setting up one of the resorts, when I was eighteen and practicing Muay Thai. This design has traditional symbols of Sak Yant---twin tigers, five lines, nine peaks, and eight directions, all deeply rooted in ancient Buddhist and Hindu practices and representing forces like power, strength, fearlessness, protection, and wealth." "You definitely have all those attributes," I say, enraptured by the design and the softness of his skin. Everything about him is so sensual---from his lips to his toes and whatever he's hiding under the towel.

TAKING A STANCE Normally the mind isn’t willing to stop and look, to stop and know itself, which is why we have to keep training it continually so that it will settle down from its restlessness and grow still. Let your desires and thought processes settle down. Let the mind take its stance in a state of normalcy, not liking or disliking anything. To reach a basic level of emptiness and freedom, you first have to take a stance. If you don’t have a stance against which to measure things, progress will be very difficult. If your practice is hit or miss—a bit of this, a little of that—you won’t get any results. So the mind first has to take a stance. When you take a stance that the mind can maintain in a state of normalcy, don’t go slipping off into the future. Have the mind know itself in the stance of the present: “Right now it’s in a state of normalcy. No likes or dislikes have arisen yet. It hasn’t created any issues. It’s not being disturbed by a desire for this or that.” Then look into the basic level of the mind to see if it’s as normal and empty. If you’re really looking inside, really aware inside, then that which is looking and knowing is mindfulness and discernment in and of itself. You don’t need to search for anything anywhere else to come and do your looking for you. As soon as you stop to see whether the mind is in a state of normalcy, then if it’s normal, you’ll know immediately that it’s normal. If it’s not, you’ll know immediately that it’s not. Take care to keep this awareness going. If you can keep knowing like this continuously, the mind will be able to keep its stance continuously as well. As soon as the thought occurs to you to check things out, you’ll immediately stop and look, without any need to go searching for knowledge anywhere else. You look, you know, right there at the mind, and you can tell whether or not it’s empty and still. Once you see that it is, then you investigate to see how it’s empty, how it’s still. It’s not the case that once it’s empty and still, that’s the end of the matter. That’s not the case at all. You have to keep watch; you have to investigate at all times. Only then will you see the changing—the arising and disbanding—occurring in that emptiness, that stillness, that state of normalcy.

This point was driven home for me for the first time when I was traveling in Asia in 1978 on a trip to a forest monastery in northeastern Thailand, Wat Ba Pong, on the Thai-Lao border. I was taken there by my meditation teacher, Jack Kornfield, who was escorting a group of us to meet the monk under whom he had studied at that forest hermitage. This man, Achaan Chaa, described himself as a “simple forest monk,” and he ran a hundred-acre forest monastery that was simple and old-fashioned, with one notable exception. Unlike most contemporary Buddhist monasteries in Thailand, where the practice of meditation as the Buddha had taught had all but died out, Achaan Chaa’s demanded intensive meditation practice and a slow, deliberate, mindful attention to the mundane details of everyday life. He had developed a reputation as a meditation master of the first order. My own first impressions of this serene environment were redolent of the newly extinguished Vietnam War, scenes of which were imprinted in my memory from years of media attention. The whole place looked extraordinarily fragile to me. On my first day, I was awakened before dawn to accompany the monks on their early morning alms rounds through the countryside. Clad in saffron robes, clutching black begging bowls, they wove single file through the green and brown rice paddies, mist rising, birds singing, as women and children knelt with heads bowed along the paths and held out offerings of sticky rice or fruits. The houses along the way were wooden structures, often perched on stilts, with thatched roofs. Despite the children running back and forth laughing at the odd collection of Westerners trailing the monks, the whole early morning seemed caught in a hush. After breakfasting on the collected food, we were ushered into an audience with Achaan Chaa. A severe-looking man with a kindly twinkle in his eyes, he sat patiently waiting for us to articulate the question that had brought us to him from such a distance. Finally, we made an attempt: “What are you really talking about? What do you mean by ‘eradicating craving’?” Achaan Chaa looked down and smiled faintly. He picked up the glass of drinking water to his left. Holding it up to us, he spoke in the chirpy Lao dialect that was his native tongue: “You see this goblet? For me, this glass is already broken. I enjoy it; I drink out of it. It holds my water admirably, sometimes even reflecting the sun in beautiful patterns. If I should tap it, it has a lovely ring to it. But when I put this glass on a shelf and the wind knocks it over or my elbow brushes it off the table and it falls to the ground and shatters, I say, ‘Of course.’ But when I understand that this glass is already broken, every moment with it is precious.”5 Achaan Chaa was not just talking about the glass, of course, nor was he speaking merely of the phenomenal world, the forest monastery, the body, or the inevitability of death. He was also speaking to each of us about the self. This self that you take to be so real, he was saying, is already broken.

Chiang Mai, Thailand If Bangkok, is Thailand's economic and political heart, then Chiang Mai is certainly the cultural one. It is the home of a host of ancient Thai practices and given that it's a big backpacker hotspot, it's very easy for you to observe or even take part in them. Some experiences are more authentic than others but this is the sort of town you could hang around for weeks, spend very little yet learn a great deal about Thai cooking, Thai massage (the traditional version) and traditional Buddhist practices such as meditation. There are also lots of interesting ethnic groups and tribes in the area and for once Thailand might just leave you enlightened and uplifted as opposed to hungover and sunburnt.

Some terrorism analysts have seen the southern insurgency as an Islamic jihad that forms part of the broader network of AQ-linked extremism, with Islamic theology and religious aspirations (for shari’a law or an Islamic emirate) as a key motivator.73 This surface impression is reinforced by the facts that the violence is led by ustadz74 and other religious teachers, that the mosques and ponoh (Islamic schools) have a central role as recruiting and training bases, and that militants repeatedly state that they are fighting a legitimate defensive jihad against the encroachment of the kafir (infidel) Buddhist Thai government. Clearly, also, the AQ affiliate Jema’ah Islamiyah (JI) has used Thailand as a venue for key meetings, financial transfers, acquisition of forged documents,75 and money laundering and as a transit hub for operators.

Ajahn Chah, the Thai Forest monk and teacher, asked his students one day when they passed a big boulder, “Do you think that boulder is heavy?” His students said, “Yes, it’s extremely heavy.” Then Ajahn Chah said, “Only if you try to pick it up!” So, we can avoid unnecessarily picking up boulders when we let go of fighting the challenges in our lives. If we can change something, we should do it, without complaining, judging, or blaming. But if we can’t do anything to change it, we can learn to accept it. Shantideva, the eighth-century Indian Buddhist monk and scholar, says it this way: “Why worry if you can do something about it? And why worry if you cannot do anything about it?

[Ayya Khema]: Once a Westerner asked Achaan Chah, a great Thai teacher, why he had so many material things in his room. The teacher replied: “You see this glass, to me it is already broken. While it is still intact on the table, I use it. It even has beautiful colours when the sun shines and a lovely sound when I hit it with a spoon. But for me, it is already broken." This means no attachment, not trying to keep anything.

Since then, the newspapers have relegated to their inside pages the day’s, or week’s, account of the slaughter in the south, almost invariably involving the barbaric beheading of lone rubber-tappers cycling to work at dawn, when the sap flows most freely—a thankless, poorly paid job that these often elderly victims nonetheless undertake to eke out a living for themselves and their families. Sometimes these easy, innocent targets are Thai Buddhists, sometimes they are Malay Muslims, and such is the heroism of the jihadis of southern Thailand rising up against their oppressor in the name of Allah.

The trains in any country contain the essential paraphernalia of the culture: Thai trains have the shower jar with the glazed dragon on its side, Ceylonese ones the car reserved for Buddhist monks Indian ones a vegetarian kitchen and six classes Iranian ones prayer mats, Malaysian ones a noodle stall, Vietnamese ones bulletproof glass on the locomotive, and on every carriage of a Russian train there is a samovar.

As I described in Step Two, my first understanding of God came with my Catholic upbringing. God was apparently a man—or looked like a man—and was kind of like a combination between Santa Claus and a punishing parent: he’d give you great stuff sometimes if you asked for it, and smack you down if you broke one of his Commandments. He seemed a little irrational. He was supposed to be loving, and yet could really make people suffer; sometimes he punished little kids for no apparent reason. Buddhadasa, the great twentieth-century Thai Buddhist master, calls this, “the God of people language,” and equates it with a childish understanding. He goes on to say that people who have this misunderstanding of God “do not yet know God in the true sense of the word, the God that is neither person, nor mind, nor spirit, but is the naturally self-existent Dhamma, or the Power of Dhamma.