Ingyinbin Journal: "Tiny Irregular Crumbly Chunks"

  

John, a meditator from New Zealand, spends extended periods in Ingyinbin each year, the home of the revered Webu Sayadaw and with his friend Ashin Mandala. This winter, he has decided to keep a journal, which he has kindly offered to share with us. His journal alternates between observation and poetry, between meditation practice and commentary about Burmese Buddhist society, from his learnings and his questions. The full collection of his musings can be found here.

17 January

Sitting alone in the early morning, shutters closed due to the chill, I no longer hear the solitary pink-robed nun whose early chanting near the Mahamuni statue usually reverberates in the hut.

I sit with the breath flattening, as if it has lost its volume, only a thin intermittence half free of the body. More attention is given to the area of contact between the breath and the upper lip, something which until now I have given less attention because I have been intent on distinguishing (distracted by) the visual nimitta - usually for me a bright if rather broad light - and anyway the sensations that are felt on the upper lip and those that well unbidden within and through the entire body are quite distinct. In turn, the awareness of the breath becomes sharpened and clearer, until it reaches a stage where it breaks up almost into tiny irregular crumbly chunks.

Now too with the more deliberate focus at that place, the sensation fines to a needlepoint or roughens to one or two grains of dust. Outside someone is sweeping, short brusque strokes, pausing intermittently, resuming:

Endless brush strokes
sweeping through the mind,
settled on namarupa.

Sitting further, I become aware that the body is composed of innumerable, so many, individual flecks that appear insubstantial, unfixed; and while I remain aware of the body as a whole neither are these flickerings simply the same ones recurring.

1000 points
sweeping mind and body,
settled in namarupa.

On our evening walk through Ingyinbin village, again we are greeted with unguarded warmth by the local people, again the girls are just leaving the weaving factory. Looking back after them, I notice the dust clouds stirred up by the returning oxcarts and motorcycles: sunlight and fine dust particles hopelessly enmesh and the lightness of one and the heaviness of the other holds them together in suspension.

Rust-coloured, the late sun
bound in the dust of returning carts; gathered at their gates,
children dash towards us, smiling.

The following morning rain falls. Dust that last night wouldn’t settle will do so now for at least a day or two. Aum Pyee worries that the remaining unharvested rice will be ruined should the rain continue into a second day. Looking at the ground, I see particles of dust coagulate as they become absorbed into large misshapen droplets.

Cheerless hours, old Bhante-ji departed,
three young puppies with their motherscattered. Nearby the hut, a notched bamboo pole

extended, the elderly woman snares
thin uppermost branches, stripping
the tree of its small, plum-like fruits.

Ingyinbin Journal: Not to Get Carried Away

John, a meditator from New Zealand, spends extended periods in Ingyinbin each year, the home of the revered Webu Sayadaw and with his friend Ashin Mandala. This winter, he has decided to keep a journal, which he has kindly offered to share with us. His journal alternates between observation and poetry, between meditation practice and commentary about Burmese Buddhist society, from his learnings and his questions. The full collection of his musings can be found here.

11 January

Interesting to read Aya Khema and find recounted in intenser and more developed form some of the experiences that have started to occur over the past couple of weeks during Anapana. Not that what is experienced is within a long pole’s reach of the jhanas, but these days have given a more sustained settledness when meditating than hitherto and this is heartening. I walk to the hut with some degree of mindfulness, contentment and a feeling of positive anticipation. Walk through the grounds, say hello to the three young puppies who continue to refuse to be petted, and climb the five concrete steps into the hut, leaving my jandals on the platform outside the gate, which I close behind me, and then settle onto my cushion, having, on the cooler days, closed the shutters on two of the three walls and face the other. 

The body is quickly comfortable and relaxed, although the mind continues intermittently with uninvited thoughts and it can take a good 30 minutes until a stage is reached where it too feels contained and settled, not leaning out after things or feeling that things reach in after it, odd sorts of distractions really. The mind is settled yet doesn’t remain unwaveringly on the breath, a number of times it gets lulled into extraneous thoughts for up to several seconds, or even between times there continue to be fleeting little distractions, sometimes fleeting images or forms of half-thought that are not yet verbal or properly formed. Balancing this, to some extent, the mind is progressively absorbed in the calming, pleasant, upwelling body sensation that begins in the head region and slowly incorporates section by section downward the rest of the body, sometimes skipping from chest to feet and legs and then working back through the hips and torso. 

There is a slight tightness, often, in the legs that can linger, but it is not particularly uncomfortable, indeed the feeling is generally muted because along with it there is a smooth and active feeling of ease throughout the legs and the entire body. The mind tends to feel anchored in the chest or head area, but sometimes when I focus on this I realise that that is a notion more than a place and the mind can move freely and inhabit various portions of the body, not necessarily in any order, nor is it jerky. And where the mind arrives it quietens, soothes, warms and kind of stirs; the body seeming to remain body in its shape, but again on reflection that is notional and the mind and body prove a perfect accompaniment where they are together all over. This can fill a two hour sitting, although the feeling of fluidity and fullness varies from sit to sit. Much piti, both of an energetic showering kind (which seems to emanate mostly from the surface of the body) that brings refreshment and eases any tightness, and another upswelling kind that seems to emanate from or reside deep within the body itself - and the feeling that - almost that - the mind can generate or facilitate either kind, though not in an easily controlled or predictable way, rather there is a feeling of confidence to be able to bring a feeling of calm and settledness to parts of the body by concentrating the attention on them.

Like a glass of milk
topping the brim:
nothing to be added.

Agitation, where it occurs, is mental rather than physical, a feeling of eagerness to keep developing, pressing towards certain sensations occurring, or the mind being more one-pointed, or desiring the suffused sense of light, lightness of the body, to become a full-fledged patibhaga nimitta. Too eager.

Not to get carried away, the morning and evening group sittings bring me down to earth. I remain self-conscious when sitting with others, especially because I am often noisy in the throat and tend to be -

Breathing.
Commotion barely discernible.
Surrender in and out.

Listening to Pa Auk’s or U Jotika’s talks also sets me back in my modest place.

Ingyinbin Journal: Words Not Mattering

John, a meditator from New Zealand, spends extended periods in Ingyinbin each year, the home of the revered Webu Sayadaw and with his friend Ashin Mandala. This winter, he has decided to keep a journal, which he has kindly offered to share with us. His journal alternates between observation and poetry, between meditation practice and commentary about Burmese Buddhist society, from his learnings and his questions. The full collection of his musings can be found here.

7 January

In Monywa, the careful young man trimmed my hair with a set of mechanical clippers like those my father used fifty years ago, though more carefully. Last evening, on our walk, we watched with several villagers the rice harvester set to work in the adjoining field. What takes hours if not days for a group of industrious villagers takes a matter of minutes for this machine. The bystanders' amazed eyes tell a story - if only an initial chapter, because the process of transition to the mechanical and new, impressive in its own limited way, has several chapters still to run and of necessity the tale is not one simply of the alleviation of misery but also the permutations and distresses of novelty.

The body effulgent
breathing somewhere (breathing)
body effulgent.

While this occurs, with the large orange sun mimicking the flat horizon, the small puppy with its degenerate legs is near its last. Not a month old, and born half paralysed, its many sores have begun to smell rank and it has stopped dragging itself around. Instead it lies on the blanket Karen has prepared, and, to her surprise, the mother who has kept its distance until now emits a small whine and comes to her to be stroked.

The children arrive hands outstretched,
‘thank you’ & ‘whats name’?
Words not mattering, they saunter away.

Ingyinbin Journal: "I Would Stay Here Unmoved"

John, a meditator from New Zealand, spends extended periods in Ingyinbin each year, the home of the revered Webu Sayadaw and with his friend Ashin Mandala. This winter, he has decided to keep a journal, which he has kindly offered to share with us. His journal alternates between observation and poetry, between meditation practice and commentary about Burmese Buddhist society, from his learnings and his questions. The full collection of his musings can be found here.

6 January

Walk from one monastery to the other along the grooved tracks used by carts and motorcycles.

Eyes downcast; nothing
in the fields, feet dust-covered;
mind undisturbed.

It is in the ordination (sima) hall where our teacher U Ba Khin was ordained for one week where we sit. Recently refurbished, it sits under three tiers of manufactured tile sheets - clean, and the pigeons like to roost there at times, although they prefer the shallow stone shelves high on the pagoda, where their ongoing commotion reminds us of the rumbling of a train, like those passing in the distance from time to time. Birds chatter throughout the morning and, sitting late in the hut, we hear the hollow wood struck, followed by a metal gong, struck in twos, and next across the road the pariyati [side] bell, struck repeatedly in threes. The dogs howl bark and whimper en masse - their lunch too! One sits with the body welling pleasantly and the mind settled in a place where it feels content to remain:

Birds continue to clamour,
dogs howl when the meal bell is struck, pounding wood:
I would stay here unmoved.

Ingyinbin Journal: Returning to Each Breath

John, a meditator from New Zealand, spends extended periods in Ingyinbin each year, the home of the revered Webu Sayadaw and with his friend Ashin Mandala. This winter, he has decided to keep a journal, which he has kindly offered to share with us. His journal alternates between observation and poetry, between meditation practice and commentary about Burmese Buddhist society, from his learnings and his questions. The full collection of his musings can be found here.

4 January

Pigeon hoots in Mahamuni hall - dogs wanting to be petted - one bullock cart, bamboo mat floor & slats with a rail made by hand - a child with its mother and infant brother, his eyes peering examining us from under the sibling’s arm - the mother at intervals with a switch in her right hand slapping the white bullock pair - a final hard pull on the reigns brings the lumbering beasts to a standstill - staggering we disembark - passing villagers on their motorcycles laugh and wave or are slightly dumbfounded.

Returning to each breath
Itself a harvest,
a hundred byways.

Ingyinbin Journal: Meanwhile, Sitting Continues

John, a meditator from New Zealand, spends extended periods in Ingyinbin each year, the home of the revered Webu Sayadaw and with his friend Ashin Mandala. This winter, he has decided to keep a journal, which he has kindly offered to share with us. His journal alternates between observation and poetry, between meditation practice and commentary about Burmese Buddhist society, from his learnings and his questions. The full collection of his musings can be found here.

1 January

After breakfast we are met by Aum Pyee who offers his assistance. The ibises appear to have left their roost, and the matting of weed that covers the lake allows smaller birds to land and walk about on its surface. The new pagoda is at the east side, its stainless steel and gold-finished spire still brightly lit by the display lights as well as the new rising sun, a combination that absorbs the surrounding scene with a mirrored clarity. On the farther bank the younger nuns, fresh-looking in pink and orange robes, sweep the bare earth around the kitchen and outside their own quarters with coarse bamboo brooms. The trees are drenched in dust and sunlight. Outside the green cottage that was constructed by his family, a solitary older monk, as on all other mornings, appears at first light and proceeds to sweep the ground around his accommodation, leaving here and there little piles of dust and debris.

The rising sun, disinterested,

lights the trees, the white pagoda, the near-empty compound 

where the lone monk sweeps, clothed in sparkling dust.

Meanwhile sitting continues:

Leaves, birds, dogs,

one sound, three sounds: 

I slog on in my hut!

Webu Sayadaw, the reputed arahant who trained as a novice in the paryatti (learning) monastery in which we are housed and for whom on his return to the area the extensive patipatti (meditation) monastery, including the hut where we meditate daily, was built.

The little brown puppy with the unusable rear quarters munches on the beans and rice that Karen places before him. On Uposata day (On each eighth day of the lunar cycle layfolk dedicate this day to their Buddhist practice, taking eight precepts, undertaking of moral behavior, and spending time at their local monastery, as well as contributing the meal shared with those at the monastery) a local engineer, recently returned from America, arrives with his extended family to give dana and a shared lunch. Outside one boy makes another boy cry. An older woman smokes a cheroot as she comforts another young child beside the lake. The novices take turns sliding down the angled stack of coloured roofing iron, lifting their robes and grinning as they do so. A photo with the dana family and foreigners and they’re away! We take food with the monks; the Sayadaw and senior monks sit at the head table, others in descending order of seniority down to the most junior, who pile their plates with rice and add a morsel of vegetables. Some adults serve while others stand near us, marvelling at our plates loaded with various vegetables taken from several of the seventeen dishes that crowd the round table. The nuns, who have spent the entire night in food preparation, take a table together in the rear near the entrance door. As we leave, the men working on the pagoda approach the dining room: the straggler carries a mortar board and sings near the top of his voice. Nearby,

half the length of its tail, the squirrels

campers along the aerial cable:

earth its mirror.

In the evening we visit the family of Aum Pyee: two families and three generations share a large compound. We are sat down and offered fruits and bread and a sweet tonic drink and local tea. Everyone talks gently and convivially and with sweetness. The compound houses white bullocks and a cow with its calf, dogs, pigs, piles of cut rice stalks (harvest is near-finished and what isn’t stored indoors is sold in the nearby towns), tamarind and other fine trees, and various accommodations, the latest a tidy brick house occupied by the elder brother with his wife and their two children, aged 7 and 12 and both quite shy. We are returned by Aum Pyee to the monastery near 6pm, the distant sky golden and near dissolution as the white birds home in to the lakeside trees to chatter and groan before sleep.

Ingyinbin Journal: The Unguarded Mind

John, a meditator from New Zealand, spends extended periods in Ingyinbin each year, the home of the revered Webu Sayadaw and with his friend Ashin Mandala. This winter, he has decided to keep a journal, which he has kindly offered to share with us. His journal alternates between observation and poetry, between meditation practice and commentary about Burmese Buddhist society, from his learnings and his questions. The full collection of his musings can be found here.

31 December
It takes time finding a routine that suits. Sitting, it is astonishing how the mind teems with numerous unrelated thoughts. Occasionally, beneath a kind or morass, clarity gathers and briefly surfaces. It takes at least an hour on the mat before the concentration gains a steadier attention on the breath:

Following each breath
pull deeper
no bottom or top.

Evening walk. We approach the village to the west of the monastery, greeted by couples who stand smiling at their gates. A group works the threshing machine in one dust-filled yard, tossing in bundled rice stalks that get separated on exit into a growing pile of stalks (to be chopped and fed to the cattle) into one place while in another the husked rice (paddy) falls into a neatly placed large woven basket that, near full, a young woman swings easily onto her head and carries with surprising elegance to the place of storage. The track leads us past a dozen or so simple thatched houses with yards populated with families and their charges, cattle, dogs, chickens, pigs, including an occasional cat. One young woman stops in her tracks when she realises she has been observed striking out at a large feeding sow in the pen. The unguarded mind excites in a scene supported by a hundred contrary things. And getting back to the monastery grounds, overhead we see groups of ibises, their wings stretched wide, almost stalling as they seek a place to roost high in the tamarinds beside the weed-covered lake:

Nadia points out the darkened
shapes arriving in small groups into the upper branches
of the tamarind & neighbour trees

that skirt the matted lake: birds
spilling onto the monastery,
masters of the evening sun.

Ingyinbin Journal: Arrival in the Village

John, a meditator from New Zealand, spends extended periods in Ingyinbin each year, the home of the revered Webu Sayadaw and with his friend Ashin Mandala. This winter, he has decided to keep a journal, which he has kindly offered to share with us. His journal alternates between observation and poetry, between meditation practice and commentary about Burmese Buddhist society, from his learnings and his questions. The full collection of his musings can be found here.

"The enthusiastic young student in the restaurant encourages us to return later to Kin-U and use her phone for wifi access if needed, given there is no internet available at the monastery. A few minutes later U Mandala arrives in a white car with the Sangha flag positioned mid-bonnet, his passenger a fellow meditator on a visit from Belgium, to drive us on the dirt and stone road, past multiple fields of mature rice plants interspersed by others containing only stubble on cracked earth, to the monastery.

Nearing Ingynbin 

egret buffalo buffalo egret: 

coming, staying, going.

Bhante is pleased to see us and clearly appreciates the National Geographic Atlas that, with other small gifts, we place before him following our prostrations. A new toilet is to be installed in the main building, itself freshly re-painted on the outside with a mixture of white green gold & silver; we also are shown the freshly painted white pagoda nearing completion that sits on a small mound between the guest house and the lake. Greetings ended, we pass by the dogs sleeping on the ground on the way to our accommodation and sit with the surroundings somehow seeming unshakeable:

Suddenly barking village dogs
enter an evening without disturbance
Already at home here.

The agreed time to sit is 5am; at 4:45 bhante’s torchlight appears at the glass panels of the metal door. The surroundings remain still until near 6 when the temple bell is struck in series of three calling the monks to breakfast - only to launch another crescendo, barks and yelps. Anapana together starts to reshape an internal sense of proportion:

A small boat 

smaller, smaller: 

sea everywhere!

When Karen and I in early afternoon head to the small white stupa in which Tamara said she had also meditated, it is the athletic young monks playing caneball who impress: some of them have draped parts of their red robes over nearby branches or tucked them round their bellies as they nimbly cavort. We see them kick the ball backwards over their heads or header it deftly to a teammate:

The cane ball repeatedly crosses the net 

dextrous monks!

- cane ball my mind.

The mythological duck placed atop the stone pillar adjacent our meditation place marks the historical extent of the monastery’s land. The elderly women with her few remaining blackened teeth who seems to be living out her life in one of the bamboo huts in the compound retains a wide smile as she fingers Karen’s lungyi ‘la la la’.

As we had done on the previous visit, now with Thierri we walk the local dusty lane, used by bullock carts leaving for the rice fields in the morning and re-entering the village near evening. Again the girls, at sunset, stream from the weaving factory, empty tiffins shining in their hands, smiling and laughing together, as they enjoy gazing at us and giggling:

A line of bullockcarts returning to the village: 

sunlight tangled in dust, 

girls smiling."

Burmese Buddhism: Vast, Brutal, Gentle, and Sticky

 By Miles Bukiet 

"Much of the Buddhist world has been crushed over the last century. The wake of devastation stretches across the Asian continent, a result of the Communists in Mongolia, Vietnam and Laos, the Cultural Revolution in China, and the ongoing ruthless occupation in Tibet. Even the countries spared violent political suppression have been assaulted by modernization and development. In Thailand, for example, economic growth has led to the wholesale destruction of the forests that once served as the ground of the Forest Tradition. Is there anywhere dharma is still at the root of things, where the people have been steeped in it for millennia, where the built environment reflects the devotion of a nation, where the spirit of the society is infused with the wisdom of the Triple Gem? 

Welcome to Myanmar. 

Many know of Myanmar as an incubator for the modern Vipassana movement, the home of Mahasi Sayadaw and the birthplace of S.N Goenka. Others know it as the base of the fabled Pa Auk monastery. These strands of teaching and practice lured me to Myanmar with their promise of fourteen hours of meditation a day, the strictness of their demands, and the fullness of their support. Wake up before dawn, keep your mouth shut, and sit through pain in exchange for a bed and a free lunch. This was the brutal no nonsense approach I sought. If this is what you seek, Myanmar won’t let you down. 

My own journey began last winter at Panditarama, a sprawling 100-acre campus still presided over by the indomitable Sayadaw U Pandita, a man who has been in robes for more then 80 years. Here the task is an unremitting focus on the moment-to-moment arising of phenomena. From 4:30am until at least 9:00pm you alternate sitting and walking meditation in one-hour blocks. There’s a ferocity to the approach here. It’s not about feeling good; it’s about relentless application of the technique, and hopefully over time a breakthrough to liberating insight.

Pa Auk has a similarly driven attitude although the focus is, at least in the early stages, narrowed to the breath and sitting meditation is prioritized. Its 500-acre campus inhabits a forested hillside with kutis spreading up steep pathways and extending deep into the jungle, making the scale almost impossible to grasp. These kutis house the monks, whose numbers sometimes swell to over 1000. Go to either Pa Auk or Panditarama and you will be assured a clean and comfortable lodging, abundant food twice daily and the expectation of rigorous practice.

I most likely would have stuck to this limited itinerary if it weren’t for a chance encounter with a man named Joah that would radically alter my trajectory. Neat, trim, fit, he carries a quiet calm matched by a fierce intensity of purpose. Two years ago a small group of foreign yogis at the Shwe Oo Min center north of Yangon met to exchange tips about where to study. Seeing that most of these yogis were new to the country and understood very little about the ins and outs of Burmese Buddhism and culture, Joah began gathering and collating information in order to deepen and enrich the experience of foreigners living and practicing in Myanmar. The project has since snowballed into an exhaustive and long overdue guide to Burmese Buddhism. This guide will become an immediate classic of indispensable value to anyone looking to experience the dharma first hand in Myanmar as well as for those with a more armchair style curiosity. But the book is about more then just satiating idle curiosity and facilitating the experience of foreign yogis. It’s a treasure trove of history and a chronicling of one of the richest extant cultural realms on this planet. It arrives at a time of radical change and will help to redefine what development and progress can mean, not only in Myanmar, but in Southeast Asia and the world at large.

The book is called Shwe Lan Ga Lay (Shwe Lan for short), which translates as The Golden Path. It contains a thumbnail sketch of hundreds of monasteries, practice centers, monuments, pagodas, shrines, and stupas across the country. It profiles dozens of Sayadaws, both contemporary and historical, and it contains information from interviews with Sayadaws, scholars, lay devotes, and seasoned foreign yogis. Much of this content has never before appeared in English, and some of it has never before been written down in any language whatsoever. The book has a section on Burmese culture and the ways to be respectful, focusing on common guffaws and cultural differences. It notes the practicalities of travel with information on transportation, health, food, and visas. It will even teach you how to ordain as a monk.

With dozens of artists donating original pieces, both professional and amateur photographers contributing photographs, and professional designers working to create a dynamic layout, it promises to pack a strong visual punch to match the hefty written portion. When Shwe Lan is completed Pariyatti, a non-profit devoted to disseminating the teachings of the Buddha, will publish it in a way that insures as broad a distribution as possible including freely available e-versions.

More impressive still, the entire document has been created exclusively by volunteers and a scanty few thousand dollars of dana (donations) to cover various costs. I was floored and struck with a powerful urge to lend a hand. Joah emailed me and another young American, Sam Hanft, a list of 25 places to scout in Yangon. For each place we were instructed to report back on the conditions, the food, the sleeping arrangements, the style of teaching, and the vibe. We were asked to iron out directions, cull anecdotes, interview Sayadaws, record relevant history, and take pictures.

The scale of the task begins to crush me as even finding the monasteries proves to be a maddening undertaking and a herculean test of patience. Hurled into Yangon, the pulsing hub of the emerging nation, I spend a sweaty confused week lost and stuck in traffic. Busted sidewalks, with potholes big enough to fall into, heave with swarms of people hawking cheap Chinese merchandise and local fruits. Several stories above the mayhem, trees grow through the cracks of the function over style concrete flats that dominate the downtown. A rooster sits on the top of a glass counter full of the latest model knock off smart-phones. This is the angsty epicenter of the nation set to set to become the newest democracy in Southeast Asia, set to increase its GDP ten fold in the next decade.

But despite all the hustle, and bustle, despite the promise of modernity, despite the smog, and despite the traffic, there is the palpable sense of a collective, expectant pause. On a balmy evening, wandering the streets of Yangon, a Burmese friend and a poet, quips to me “it’s like Godot around here, everyone’s waiting, but they don’t know what they’re waiting for.” Myanmar is poised to transform, but in the interim you’re still hard pressed to find internet or an ATM and you can still see an older, gentler way of life and practice of dharma. This poisedness lends a poignancy to all that I see, a sense that the world that’s unfolding in front of me, the world that Joah is eager to share, is open, but only for a moment. 

Even within the crowded downtown, each monastery is a universe unto itself. Aletawya Monastery is lost in time with decaying colonial relics interspersed with lush green foliage and hidden pagodas. Orange robes hang on lines as elderly monks move quietly about their business and cats bask in the sun. Dhamma Theidhi Kya Ung center is full of the charged youthful energy of hundreds of novices showering and running about. Smart new concrete school buildings stand proudly above the well-marked sports fields. The Mogok Headquarters occupies the sprawling former tax building. In the 1950’s this was a crucial center for the massive post war meditation boom, when tens of thousands took up the practice for the first time. Drenched in history it’s a Blade Runneresque maze of corridors and rooms, some filled with huge dusty machinery. Everywhere wires and pipes run this way and that. Dhamidaow Daya Dhukhidarma is an orderly and serene nunnery housing hundreds of well fed young women dressed in the classical hot pink robes. Some monasteries ooze a turgid energy with pudgy monks lazily lounging, chewing betel nut, the fast acting narcotic of choice in Myanmar, as packs of mangy dogs roam the grounds.

The continual refrain from the monasteries is: come stay, come practice, come learn. Everyone is ready to roll out another mat to sleep on, ready to set up another mosquito net to meditate under, ready to make room on the floor around one of the round tables laden with food. Whatever your style, whether it’s learning Burmese and studying Pali; practicing one of the many different types of meditation; or helping the young novices there’s somewhere to suit you. Shwe Lan will highlight this diversity of options opening dharma doors both within and beyond the formal practice of meditation. 

Something of both the relative and absolute scale of it all can be grasped by noting that Myanmar is a country with 53 million people and a whopping monastic population of over 500,000. Those 500,000 live off donations alone. Myanmar is one of the poorest nations in the world, and yet the society somehow manages, through extraordinary generosity, to unfailingly support its bulging monastic population. Much of this generosity comes in the form of a single spoonful of rice given daily. Indeed this generosity, and the faith and understanding that inspires it, is legendary. This spirit of giving has created a softening effect on the country, such that despite the poverty, and despite the political oppression there is an air of friendliness and safety. The people possess an unusual uprightness both physically and psychologically, and they have a remarkable brightness and warmth. Some of the money that flows into the monastic world is squandered on flat screens for the Sayadaws, vain building projects, and sluggish monks, but much of it is funneled towards education and authentic practice whose fruits radiate through the entire society.

Watching a long line of monks marching through the streets at dawn, large metal bowls held out expectantly, people bowing and filling them with all types of food, I wonder how long such generosity can last as Myanmar hurtles into the 21st century. Shwe Lan reminds us that change is not new to Myanmar, recounting the mighty kingdoms that have come and gone, the rise and fall of colonial rule, the passing of the World Wars, and the five decade long grip of a corrupt military regime. Somehow through it all the dharma has remained strong and relevant, often reinventing itself to do so. But the juggernaut of consumerist culture that is already descending on the land is something unprecedented. How the society galvanizes to protect what’s worthwhile in the culture, while also working towards valid development goals concerning health, sanitation, infrastructure, access to education, ending hunger, the alleviation of poverty, and protection of minority rights, will have effects far beyond the boundaries of the nation.

Although originally tasked with investigating particular monasteries, it seems Myanmar is so saturated with Buddhism that I can’t help but trip and fall over it everywhere I go. Riding on one of the busy highways I see a massive Buddha, perhaps dozens of stories high, rearing up from the flat lands visible through the haze like a mirage. “What’s that?” I ask the cab driver excitedly. He dishes back a deadpan shrug as though such things are so commonplace as to be forgettable. Trundling through the streets on one of the 1950’s wood floor buses, I look up and notice that above the driver the bus has its own shrine, with flowers, pictures, and a small statue. I soon discover this is nearly universally the case.

Stumbling upon the former residence of Aung San, the much-loved father of modern Myanmar, I learn that despite being both a general and a communist, he was also a devoted Buddhist. In a turret of his house I pause for a moment of meditation in front of the gold, oddly squat Buddha statue where the general sat quietly each morning in the last few years of his life. My spine tingles and, chills course up and down my body. There’s a palpable charge to this turret. It’s not only here. Almost daily I find places that provoke this peculiar energetic reaction. 

At night Shwedagon Pagoda, beaming over Yangon, beckons me to retreat north of the downtown. As the heat recedes and the crowds dissipate, I walk barefoot on the still warm marble, head craning up to see the 344ft golden spire stretching towards the heavens. The profound allure of gold, its austere and relentless beauty against a dark sky, captivates the eye. Listen carefully and you’ll hear the singing of the small brass wind chimes placed high on the monument. Lovers walk hand in hand and families picnic idly.

In Myanmar the romantic rarely comes without a reminder of the real as the nation grows up. A youth anxiously spins his smart phone in his hand as he talks in a jittery manner with his girlfriend. LEDs have been affixed behind many of the bronze Buddhas nestled at the foot of the pagoda and cheesy looking plaster statues have been added around the base. The true devotees don’t seem to mind, kneeling silently by the Buddhas in the various reliefs, the altars full of offerings, fruits, flowers, dried goods, incense. A time for prayer. A time to tune into something beyond time.

I’ve become lost in this strange timeless momentum and have taken a young Sayadaw named U Asabha, at his word to come and stay. On the outskirts of Yangon is a vast sprawling neighborhood known as South Dagon. Flat, dry, hot, poor, and dusty, its massive blocks stretch for miles, lined with rickety wooden houses packed close to one another. Small makeshift footbridges cross the open sewers that run alongside the bumpy dirt streets. Sayadaw U Asabha speaks impeccable English, and teaches in the Mogok style, a style that is barely known in the West, but with more then 700 major centers, represents the most practiced tradition in Myanmar today. He presides over Shwe War Win monastery on a small plot at the corner of one of the blocks.

He takes me with him everywhere. Day after day we wind through the neighborhoods in his Toyota 4Runner, his infatigueable driver spitting betel nut out the window, honking his way through pedestrian-choked streets. We’re off to lunches and breakfasts, Sayadaw U Asabha blesses the homes, the babies, the marriages, and gives dharma talks everywhere he goes. Each home, no matter how modest the family, provides an immaculate spread, of fruits, rice, tealeaf salad, fish, curries, tea, sweets, on and on. Rolling out low wooden tables to sit around, they take great joy in offering food to the monks and me.

At night we’re often driven to this or that neighborhood of Yangon for large public talks where many hundreds of people cram into a temple or onto the streets that have been closed off for the occasion. The Sayadaw’s normally cool temperament is here augmented by a ferocity that sweeps the crowds on a roller coaster from excitement to hushed silence and on into the rollicking laughter so typical of the Burmese people. When he leaves the organizers present him with piles of cash gathered from the attendees, shoeboxes or plus sized envelopes stuffed with kyat. As per monastic code he doesn’t touch any of it. Instead one of his lay supporters carries it faithfully back to the car. This will go towards the construction of his monastery and towards feeding and educating the monks and young novices under his care. Somehow in his spare time he manages to instruct me on the Theory of Dependent Origination, the central teaching of the Mogok tradition. He’s adamant that the link between vedana (feelings) and tanha (craving) is the crucial link that must be severed in the karmic cycle.

He takes me south with him to the bottom of Mon state for a retreat. We clunk along in the 4Runner for twelve hours on poor roads with four people to a three-person seat. The retreat is an assault on my senses as Burmese continuously blares through loud speakers across the monastery. But the dharma is between the cracks out here. A young man noting the awkward position I’ve ended up in takes me on his motor-bike on an impromptu tour around the state to see massive religious monuments and enormous forested monasteries supported miraculously by local farming communities. I get a glimpse of the vastness of the monastic network and gain a new respect for the power of a spoonful of rice. In the small “kitchen” a handful of middle-aged women with large smiles, a few immense woks, and a small pile of wood, crank out enough food to feed hundreds. They consistently come by and ask me “alright?”, “happy?”, “enough?”. I assure them “kaun deh,” Burmese for “it’s / I’m great.” 

Golden Rock Pagoda in Mon State

When it’s time to part ways with Sayadaw U Asabha a young man offers to take me to the bus stop and once there he buys me a ticket before I know what he’s doing. It’s only 5000 kyat, a few dollars, but for him it’s likely a week’s pay. To refuse would be obscene so I accept as graciously as I can. “Call me when you get to Pa Auk, it’s good place, it’s good thing you do, good luck.” He leaves me with these words and I leave with a heart bursting with the absurdity and the profundity of such a gesture. There’s a saying that when it comes to Theravada Buddhism: if you want the universities go to Sri Lanka, if you want to learn the Viniya go to Thailand, but if you want to practice, go to Myanmar. Everyone is relentlessly ready to help and is determined to support you in any way they can.

Before I leave Myanmar I head north to the Sagaing Hills, a place I had never heard of, but for a few words from Joah and the battered pages of printed notes from an advance copy of Shwe Lan. “It’s difficult to overstate the majesty and wonder of the Sagaing Hills. And for the yogi intent on Burmese Buddhist practice, there are few—if any—places that compare... with an estimated 1,000 monasteries and 200 nunneries—many of them consisting of just little more than a scant collection of buildings on a quiet hillside— and well over 15,000 in robes, it is a living, breathing Buddhist community almost unparalleled in the modern world.”

Further along in the Shwe Lan section is a quote from V. C. Scott O’Conner in Mandalay and Other Cities of the Past in Burma that seems as true today as it was one hundred plus years ago when he wrote it. “By far the most interesting part of Sagaing lies in the hilly country above it, where austere monks live; and every peak bears testimony to the piety of bygone kings and people…. The effect of the spectacle is enhanced, and lifted up to something strangely majestic, by the atmosphere, dry, prismatic, mystical— glorious with all the effulgence of Sagaing… One does not come upon sights like this out of Burma. There is some unconscious undercurrent of great qualities in the Burman personality that alone makes them possible.”

At a quiet monastery, tucked into a valley in the Hills, I stumble upon an old friend and a small gaggle of foreigners. I tell them a bit about the project and they nod. “Ohhh, just don’t tell them about these Hills” they giggle to themselves, wanting to keep Sagaing a secret. For a moment I falter. Perhaps they’re right. Maybe sharing these places will just spoil them, leave them overrun the same way the Lonely Planet often destroys the very places it highlights. Joah has already considered this, opting to craft the Sagaing section not as a traditional guide, but as a monument to the unknown and untold history of Sagaing and an open invitation to make your own path there… still I wonder.

But as I wander for days up and over and around the hills I begin to see just how embattled this ancient bastion is. Only a generation ago wild tigers roamed these Hills, today the towns on the edges steadily encroach on the habitat once reserved for these magnificent animals and the seekers brave enough to live alongside them. In the Hills once quiet forest paths have been paved and tractors blare as workers illegally mine rocks that will be crushed and made into cement. The historic Dat Ma Ku Kan Pond has been reduced to a puddle by a strangely dry year. On the peaks you can hear the speakers of the nearby towns blasting pop tunes. Myanmar is surrounded by nations eager to plunder it. It’s filled with people enthralled by the promises of material wealth and its climate, like that of the rest of the world, is becoming strangely unpredictable. It’s these forces that will radically reshape the monasteries and transform the character of the nation and not a few earnest seekers. It’s these changes that also lend an urgency to the completion of Shwe Lan and to the explorations it will engender.

I leave on a direct Air Asia flight from Mandalay to Bangkok, one of many such new connections that are facilitating Myanmar’s rapid transformation into just another cog in an increasingly monolithic global capitalist culture. The plush red and black pleather seats contrast sharply with the brown earthy hews of the Myanmar landscape fading beneath me. The tight-fitting uniforms, fake smiles, and menus where everything is for sale likewise contrast sharply with the modesty, authenticity, and generosity fading beneath me. As I sink back into the seat I begin to reflect that perhaps Myanmar doesn’t fade from you quite so quick as that. Maybe its got more of a sticky hard to rinse off quality.

I went to Myanmar hungry for a certain almost violent approach to practice, but in experiencing such practice delivered in impeccable form I began to navigate towards something else. Of course there can be enormous value in hardcore practice environments, but the dharma is not one size fits all and even an individual will need different things as he or she evolves over time. Myanmar seemed to effortlessly accommodate, perhaps even instigate, my own shifting orientation and turned out to be more diverse, gentle, and nuanced then I’d ever imagined. It swept me along in its current, delivering teachings on its own time and its own terms.

Like a pebble emerging from a river I feel a little smoother and softer around the edges. I fear that upon returning home I’ll effortlessly regain all my old prickly hardness, but this is far from fated. Despite what the dominant culture may encourage, culture is not a one-way street. Individuals create culture just as culture shapes individuals. At one point the dharma was new to Myanmar, carried slowly by pilgrims, seekers, and wise men from the Indian subcontinent. I’ll be taking home a burgeoning understanding of how these initial seeds of dharma can root and flower and grow into something of tremendous scale and multifaceted value. Tempering this awesome possibility, I’ve also seen how even mighty trees can be threatened by storms and disease. And alongside these grandiose conceptions of how radical large-scale social transformation emerges and declines, I’ll carry something on a much more intimate, and visceral level, a quiet twang in my chest reminding me of the deep worth and infectious quality of human kindness.

Hopefully the majesty, the grandeur, the mystery, the improbable scale of it all can be a reminder that the world still holds pockets of wonder and goodness. As we consider the people who make all this wonder possible, as we reflect on the relentless drive of Joah McGee, the welcoming embrace of Sayadaw U Asabha, the patient persistent contributions of peasants offering their daily spoonful of rice, and the monks and yogis battling to transform their minds we can settle back in these reminders of uprightness and benevolence, finding solace and warmth in their glow. We can also use these reminders as an edge to inspire us to dig deeper in summoning our own relentless drive, in conjuring our own warm embrace, in finding an arena for our own consistent contribution, and in waging our own inner battle."

To read Shwe Lan Ga Lay Part 1, go here.

About the author: Miles Bukiet has followed a consuming passion for yoga, bodywork, and meditation to India, Malaysia, China, Myanmar, Laos, and Thailand.

Miles Bukiet

"The Dog Barks at the Man on the Elephant"

Zazzle

A foreign meditator's welcome to many new villages or monasteries is often a chorus of howling hounds. This was one of the things that surprised the American Bhikkhu Cintita, who observed at Sītagū Academy in Sagaing that “to announce mealtime, someone would hit a big bell outside the kitchen with a mallet and at that time all of the Sītagū dogs… would take this as cue to point their chins skyward and howl.” In the case of dogs barking at a new arrival, eventually local residents will come over to investigate, whereupon they’ll immediately call the dogs off. And as one stays in one location long enough, it will not be this constant, daily headache, as the dogs will become accustomed to one’s presence. This non-sensical—though instinctual—dog barking is such a common feature that there is one expression, sin paw ga lu kwe haun which means “the dog barks at the man on the elephant.” It refers to exerting effort toward something that will not likely be very effective.

Burma Pilgrimage #14, Day 14: The Bull and the Cow

The following excerpt was written by an American yogi about the pilgrimage in Burma. The first pilgrimage has ended, and the second one has just begun! To read about the previous day, go here. To see an outline of the day's events, see here.

You can also consider joining a later pilgrimage in Burma.

The entrance to Sitagu Academy in Sagaing

"Sitagu Academy grounds are quite grand. It's large and clean and organized. Coconut trees are laden with fruit, and trees are blooming. The dogs here are not as skinny (and much more interactive than elsewhere). Even the mosquitoes are twice as big!

The activities today included a visit to two nunneries in the Sagaing Hills. The first of these is a patipatti nunnery - it's a small place, but it seems like the nuns do get at least several hours of meditating a day [the head nun being a disciple of Saya U Than, who studied under Saya Thet Gyi]. Alms rounds are twice a week. We are told that one can practice whatever tradition while staying at the nunnery, and that it is possible to leave for meditation courses. As a co-pilgrim noted, the energy of the place was quite different than that of a monastery - much more gentle and 'motherly' of a place.

Sayalay Daw Nu Ka Ti takes questions about the nuns' life from pilgrims. Click to enlarge the photo, and behind the nun you can see a variety of posters that include Ledi Sayadaw, Saya Thet Gyi, Saya U Than, The Phyu Sayadaw, and herself at a young age. The white Buddha statue to her right was given by a German yogi who is now a nun at Pa Auk.

The second nunnery is a thriving place with over 150 nuns. It's run by three nuns and generously supported by a Japanese donor (who also made a documentary of the nun's life here), including a mother/daughter couple (their entire family ordained together!) As a pariyatti nunnery, there is minimal time set aside for patipatti, but they apparently are well known for the quality of their education and discipline.

The daughter, who self initiated the family ordination at the age of eight (now in her early forties), answers questions with surprising grace and adeptness. As to why they've chosen to focus on pariyatti, she notes that teaching women the words of the Buddha is something important that needs to be done. And while working for liberation can help oneself, keeping patipatti alive can give benefit beyond one's lifetime, and so they've chosen to dedicate this life to this for the benefit of all. 

Excellent facilities and generous donations have given the young nuns an ideal place for study

The discipline found at the second nunnery visited can be seen even in the way the sandals are carefully arranged before entering a building

Another example they used was that patipatti is like a bull, whereas pariyatti is like the cow, and if no more cows were present, there would be no more calves.

It was a touching way to think about pariyatti, and struck a chord amongst some of the women.

We ended with a tour of the grounds. The young women were reciting, and while a few peeked the odd looking foreigners, most continued to be quite focused. Both nunneries were cleaner than many of the monasteries we had been to, but this one was especially so. Their large Buddha statue was behind floor to ceiling glass, and one of the men remarked on how spotless the glass was..."

To read about the following day in the magical Sagaing Hills, see here!

The pilgrims pay respects to the large Buddha statue at the second nunnery

These three buildings on the compound are aptly named Sila, Samadhi, and Panna

While waiting for their transportation back to Sitagu, pilgrims talk about their event-filled day

Burmese Dogs: A Bark Worse Than Its Bite

A typical wild dog as found in Burma (Myanmar)

Haun lun thay kwe, lu ma lay: “A dog barking all the time will not bite.”

It is helpful to be attuned to canine behavior in Myanmar, especially as dogs usually know when someone unfamiliar enters their territory. If you happen upon a dog sniffing the ground, cowering its head or wagging its tail, these are all good signs that the animal does not pose any threat. However, a stiffened tail, frozen body posture, and alert eyes and head are all signs of possible aggression, though these are often nothing more than a prelude to a threatening bark. Most dogs in Myanmar don’t want to fight, but feel a need to defend their territory. 

If a dog looks like it might be trouble, you have some options of how to respond. Some yogis will menacingly raise their hand as if they are about to throw something—whether you have an object or not doesn’t matter, as many dogs know from experience what this gesture means. Others will walk on in a steady pace ignoring the dog entirely, making a loud clicking noise with the tongue that many Burmese dogs have been conditioned to understand that this is warning them to back off. Others may simply try for mettā. Whatever you do, it is unwise to show fear or uncertainty. If you are staying somewhere for a while, most often the nearby residents will eventually call the dog back, and after several days the dog will realize you are not an unwelcome intruder, and let you be.

However, many of the dogs in Myanmar are happy enough with their monastery leftovers and not looking for any trouble. Harold Fielding noted this more than one hundred years ago in Soul of a People, when he wrote: “Coming from half-starved, over-driven India, it is a revelation to see the animals in Burma. The village ponies and cattle and dogs in India are enough to make the heart bleed for their sordid misery, but in Burma they are a delight to the eye. They are all fat, every one of them— fat and comfortable and impertinent; even the ownerless dogs are well fed.”

While one may have little fear against actual dog bites, avoiding their bark is a much harder task, as one Burmese proverb illustrates. One says Sin paw ga lu kwe haun, meaning “the dog barks at the man on the elephant,” and refers to exerting effort towards something which is not going to be all that effective.

Burmese Dogs: "A Bark Worse Than Its Bite"

The Meditator Guidebook to Burma is in its final stages! As the guide gets closer to publication, we will begin to share excerpts of what yogis may expect... some sneak previews of what is to come. Here is an excerpt from the "Health" chapter as it begins to get laid out:
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A Bark Worse Than Its Bite