Setting the Pagoda Alight

When I was 37, I undertook an intensive meditation retreat at the Mahasi Sasana Yeiktha in Rangoon. Within several months, inspired by the purity and profound benefits of the practice, I felt called to the holy life and, in honour of that intention, navigated through a maze of dusty roads to worship at the sacred Shwedagon Pagoda.

After circumambulating its golden stupa, I knelt in prayer at the Thursday Shrine and offered incense, flowers and candles. A friend of the monastery suggested an auspicious way to support my cause: paying one night’s electricity to light the thousands of lights in the entire Shwedagon Pavilion. I chose the next full moon night. It would be in March, three weeks away.

I shared my aspiration with one of the English-speaking nuns. She pointed to the golden pinnacle of the main Shwedagon stupa ascending into the sky between the rooftops of the monastery. How comforting to see it towering so near like a lighthouse for the Dharma!

The next day, I petitioned Sayadaw U Pandita to ordain me. He agreed only on condition that I take lifetime vows. This seemed unfair. Other foreigners who asked were given temporary precepts lasting several months, just to experience the life in the robe. I alone was singled out to make so final a commitment.

Sayadaw benevolently suffered my protests, and countered that I had tasted “enough of samsara – enough sense pleasure.” It was time to take the step for good. When I stubbornly remonstrated, he sent me to my cell to contemplate the decision.

There was nothing to do but persevere with my retreat. I practised diligently, sitting with the graceful Burmese nuns in the great hall and doing walking meditation in any shady nook of the garden. They, on the other hand, seemed immune to the sun and never flagged. As we paced back and forth mindfully, I felt a mysterious kinship with them.

My restlessness spiralled with the hot season temperatures. I lost track of the days, distracted by reflecting much on Sayadaw’s exhortation. Eventually, one morning after the meal, I found myself drawn to visit him again.

Barefoot, I entered his residence. Inside the shrine room, my heart pounded. Sayadaw was delivering a sermon to a crowd of local women. Wearing batik sarongs, their hair neatly pinned back, they huddled around him in polite posture, listening intently.

I took my place at the far end of the room. Unable to understand Burmese, there was time to rest on the cool of the teak floor. Sayadaw’s voice had a soothing effect but I was terrified. What seemed like an hour melted away. I plotted a suitable moment to slip out again as quietly as I had entered.

Making my bid to escape, I tiptoed to the door. Just as I raised my arm to push it open, Sayadaw ordered me to wait. The women retreated noiselessly while he beckoned me forward. Crawling towards him, I bowed respectfully and sat tensely at his feet. He wasted no words.

“Have you decided?”
“Yes, Sayadaw.”
“What did you decide?” he prodded.
Breathing deeply, I surprised myself and announced without a flicker of hesitation, “Yes, Sayadaw, I will do it. I will ordain for life.”

Sayadaw smiled avuncularly. He asked if I could be ready in three days and I nodded. Immediately, he called in two elderly nuns who measured me for the robes that they would sew in haste. I became excited.

Three days later, shorn, robed in pink, having taken the precepts and received my new name, I floated through the grounds of the monastery in a blissful state. My wish was fulfilled.

When daylight faded and a gong signalled the end of the last meditation, the tropical night drew in with its smoky fires and chorus of insects. A few nuns locked the hall while I crept up the steps, one at a time, to the darkened walkway that led to my cell, taking pains not to trip in my inaugural robe. Periodically tangled in its folds, I paused to rearrange and secure them. I could only giggle at my clumsiness.

Above me hung a resplendent full moon. There, in the night sky, I caught sight of a single majestic spire, dazzlingly bright, just where I had seen it three weeks ago – the glorious Shwedagon, bejewelled with light. I stood quietly for a few minutes, marvelling. Suddenly, it hit me - tonight, I had set the Pagoda alight.

Throughout the years, I have returned to that vision again and again. My offering of the lights long ago and the decision to take perpetual vows continue to bless me – for they still glow undimmed in my heart.

[see Taming of the Shrewd]

© Ayyā Medhānandī

Not Straying from Ancient Virtue

While living in monastic community, visitors often asked, “What do you do?” I would describe the daily schedule: rising early, morning and evening meditations, chanting, the almsgiving, work projects, meetings and other duties. But what I am is not just what I do or what is apparent. The physical activities of my day could not convey the inner dimensions of my contemplative life.

Outside the exclusive monastic environment, I am an anomaly, conspicuously out of step with the rush of the world. The same questions I addressed in the monastery follow me here to the concrete fields of suburbia. I must draw from my own faith and experience to answer them, endowing myself with the ambassadorship of our tradition. Still, I cannot adequately portray the ancient process unravelling in me through the simple rhythms and rituals of my days.

So I ponder and re-evaluate what my being and doing mean as a nun outside the cloister. What value does my way of life bring to those around me, my urban neighbours, with whom I have limited contact and who see me as quite alien?

While I left the world behind long ago to enter the monastic fold, my renunciation is not defined by being resident in a monastery - nor is it diminished by living outside of one. I did not simply exchange fashion for robes, a bowl and shaved head, nor abandon certain activities in favour of others.

I truly leave the world when I stop ‘doing’ according to worldly aims and values. This means living with integrity, kindness and wisdom. It also means I am a renunciant – not because I have few possessions – but because I strive to give up my attachment to them.

Sustaining this style of life is difficult in a world churning with greed for, and accumulation of, wealth, power and pleasurable experiences at a frantic pace. Even as a meditator, it is easy to fall into the trap of trying to store up blissful mind states as the measure of my practice and spiritual development. It is not.

The riches of my life lie in fully opening to and fathoming the changing seasons of the heart: the fear, weariness, disappointment and insecurity of being unable to provide my own basic needs, or the uplifting faith, joy, and gratitude for the blessings that do come. These insights save me from circling endlessly in my own suffering or spreading it further. And they enable me to share the fruits of the peace they bring with those around me.

Even when I can endure and be content with little, I sense a pernicious psychological need for approval, encouragement, and appreciation – to be remembered and cared for beyond the physical requisites of life. These yearnings of the heart undermine the practice of renunciation.

One day as I sat in the waiting room of a doctor’s clinic, an older woman next to me asked about my robes and how I lived. Our conversation was congenial enough until it emerged that my supporters paid for my medical treatment. “Not bad,” she snapped. “You don’t even work and you get everything for free.”

Before I became a nun, I myself had a similar attitude when I learnt about a friend who regularly drove for an hour in the early morning to bring breakfast to a Burmese monk. But now that I too live dependent on the kindness of the laity, I see the beauty in her actions.

Contemplative sacrifice radically departs from conventional values. The people who support me are touched by a quality that they trust and know to be true. I am also vulnerable to censure from those not yet ready to open to that truth. Recognizing this, I could more easily forgive the uncharitable attack in the doctor’s waiting room.

I choose to live within society, to be connected to its heartbeat, and more accessible to those who may never visit a monastery but feel an existential lack or thirst for something noble. When they come close, they often find that well of goodness within themselves. And the beauty they love becomes what they do.

© Ayyā Medhānandī

The Ninth Patch

Everyday I proclaim my faith by wearing my robe. I have no special vestments or ceremonial dress. It is the same robe each day that protects me and steers me from worldly pursuits. It links me to the ancient roots of the path I walk and to all disciples of truth. Comprising five main pieces, the largest robe is a head higher than me and almost double the width of my two arms outstretched. Swathed in its folds, I surrender race, nationality, gender, family, culture, and education to the holy life.

My robe defies age-old practices of beautifying the body and contravenes the norms of fashion. Held in place by a sequence of twists and folds, its cumbersome dimensions are also the least practical choice for modern lifestyles and conditions. Yet for these very reasons, it serves as an exquisite if subtle training for the one who wears it.

When I traded dresses and jeans for the robe, I gave up running, climbing, cycling, driving – and relearnt how to sit, walk, kneel, bend, bow, and work gracefully while swaddled in metres of cloth. This took some years of practice and long struggles with feeling painfully awkward and self-conscious. I persevered with being mindful not to catch the robe on doorknobs or sharp objects, trail it on the ground, lose the folds from my shoulder, let my sarong droop unevenly or, worse, fall down.

Even after years of working on these skills to tie and hold the robe in place, there were still 'moments'. Every nun would know how I felt after sailing into the temple to lead the evening meditation meticulously decked out, and bowing mindfully in front of everyone only to hear the shoulder folds of the robe gently plop onto the mat. Such tests were kinder than those to come outside the sanctuary of the monastic cocoon where merely mastering the physical technique of wearing the robe did not go far.

Buddhist monks and nuns are a rare sight. Over the years, my walking down a Western city street bald and wrapped in bolts of brown cloth often generated anything from disdain, amusement, hostility, fear, and even outright shock. Schoolchildren would giggle or sneer at what was so alien to them. Once, a woman ran up to me and asked, "Are you the Dalai Lama?"

When I travelled on trains and buses, more intimate opportunities to practise patient endurance arose. Sometimes passengers would stiffen or expand into the next seat if I moved towards it. Others might stare unblinkingly, scowl or lean towards a neighbour to make a mean remark. Recently, a policeman snickered when he saw me and barked with disgust, "What’s this?!" When I was on my own, this cowardly abuse took on more menacing tones.

To be ridiculed and vilified for wearing the uniform of what I love was humiliating, stressful, and punishing. It eroded my self-esteem. Gradually, I created an oasis within myself not to take these episodes of pillorying too much to heart. If people only knew more about my way of life, I assured myself, they would receive me as a friend.

The insults that I suffered taught me the pain of those who are routinely shunned. I confronted the very source of that fear within myself and knew I had to summon even greater courage and compassion. Such vigorous reflection and resolve would still not make the victory over vanity an easy one.

My Rule prescribes replacing a robe only when it is shabby, threadbare, damaged, or has been repaired with ten or more patches. Once, when my upper robe, already patched nine times, tore, I painstainkingly sewed a new one from cotton fabric I'd received as a gift. But it was poor quality cloth and faded badly after a few washes.

A senior nun advised me to dye it. Unfortunately, as often happens with dying used cloth, the result was too mottled to be worn. I could only request more fabric but of a better quality and begin again. Finally, when the new robe was sewn and I was able to wear it, I smugly presented myself at evening tea with the other nuns. As we sat on the floor with our steaming cups, one of them snorted, "You're always getting new robes".

I felt both bruised and rattled. At that moment, I would have happily returned to my old patched robe or its discarded successor than be so misjudged. But the anger in my mind was uglier than the comment itself and the lack of empathy behind it. There in the mirror of my heart was my own impurity staring back at me.

One who wears the robe may still be proud, vain, jealous, resentful, or angry. I could not know beauty of heart through perfecting the art of wearing the robe just as I could never achieve modesty simply by covering the skin. To live with gentleness, humility, and wisdom – and die without regret - that would be beautiful.

When I grow pure in conduct as much as in appearance, worthy of honour and trust but wholly from my innermost state, when I want nothing else beyond the ninth patch, then will I know,

    "Whoever is purged of selfishness,
    well-established in virtue,
    filled with purity and self-control,
    she indeed is worthy of the ochre robe."
             - adapted from the Dhammapada 1.10

© Ayyā Medhānandī

Lenten Feast

As a nun, I practice Lent every day – not just because I fast after midday but because my fast is a devotion. I choose this path out of love for a truth that reveals the depths of my humanity even in the humdrum of daily life. But this only happens when I surrender my personal desires for that love. And my Rule is the primary yardstick of that renunciation.

Theravada monastics have fasted since the Buddha lived and taught in ancient India twenty-five centuries ago. Many people question me about the value of ascetic practices that seem not only out of step, but also self-obsessed, pointless, and impractical.

Living outside the safety net of an established community, I too have pondered the merit of subjecting myself to a stress that is relentless and enervating. Years of fasting make it no easier to bear hunger – just as scaling a mountain is hardest at the top - because our resources are spent.

But this is exactly the sacrifice that defines religious vocation. It is not a punishment nor is it renunciation for its own sake. Like the kiln that fires the clay pot to strengthen it, by this sacrifice we are made tough – we are purified. While undertaking a discipline such as a period of Lent, silent retreat, abstaining from meat or giving up luxuries, we are called to examine our habitual lifestyles and the ways in which we uphold – or compromise – core values.

Recently, in the solitude of my hermitage, I took a vow of silence during the traditional three-month ‘Rains’ retreat. Faithful to my Rule, I routinely waited to 'break fast' after sunrise with food items that had already been offered: dry cereal, bread or fruit. For the main meal, on most days, one of my supporters would drive the long distance from town to bring cooked food and other provisions I might need, sometimes even fresh flowers and candles for my shrine.

When the weather was fierce, I worried for their safety. But as the hour grew late, my anxiety would turn inward – would they arrive to offer the meal in time for me to eat? Then I would hear the telltale sound of a car door slamming shut, and breathe more easily. On those days when no one was available to bring a meal, I ate more of the dried offerings of that morning. Whatever happened, I was determined to be content.

One Sunday morning, after two days of fasting, the promise of a meal heartened me. I paced back and forth in front of the window, waiting for the familiar sounds of a car and footsteps on the porch. With little time left before noon and no one in sight, I rummaged hurriedly through the remaining breakfast offerings to assuage my hunger.

I tried to console myself but an overwhelming sense of fragility gnawed at this veneer of composure. By mid-afternoon, my confidence collapsed. Reflecting on the immensity of my commitment, I felt unequal to it. I pined for rescue from the hunger to come, from this seeming poverty, abandonment and vulnerability.

In the dim light of winter’s evening, I sat before the ever-smiling marble Buddha, my robe wet with tears, my faith in tatters. I was anything but fearless. A single flame illuminated the Buddha's face while I demanded to know: How will I find the strength to keep going? Where is the faith that held me through long years of spiritual travail?

Steeling myself, I recalled my lifetime vows. A strength of resolved surged in my heart. I silently declared myself a daughter of the Buddha, resolving anew that I would never forsake my vows to live the holy life. I would endure hunger, discomfort, danger – any obstacle – to continue walking in his footsteps.

These vows are not for bargaining. I did not dedicate myself to this path so that the Buddha would feed and pamper me all my days – but to empty and purify my heart, to be a worthy vessel for everything that is sacred.

© Ayyā Medhānandī

Composting the Heart

Just as church steeples or temple spires once symbolized the essence of what we cherished, these days, our tallest buildings tend to be commercial in nature - as if to signify the moral erosion of contemporary civilization. We are in a state of decline and those who believe that ethical living is supported by largely being carbon-neutral and environmentally-friendly fail to acknowledge this.

Their view would render purity of intention, action and expression – the true essentials for ethical living – as practically irrelevant. There are issues of greater urgency than eating organic vegetables, giving up meat, using fair trade produce and recycling waste. What comes out of our mouths and how we behave must take priority over concerns about the origin, quantity, and quality of what we consume.

We must care for the state of our minds where all conflict and unhappiness take root. This then will enable us to address the source of our dis-ease and so overcome the moral inertia that brings harm to ourselves and others – our mental and emotional addiction, aggression, instability and excess. And we accomplish this by applying moral principles even to the smallest details of our daily lives and relationships.

That requires sacrifice, but it is right sacrifice because it is fundamental. It assures a level of integrity that will automatically shoulder environmental responsibility whereas acting on the premise that protecting the earth is the ultimate good of human existence can never bring the security or happiness we seek. Nor will it foster peace between individuals, cultures, religions, and nations.

So, rather than composting the earth, the first step of ethical living is composting the heart. With a moral imperative to honour life, property, and the sanctity of our relationships, we nurture the trust on which peace depends.

Do this: just for one day, live honestly. Be scrupulous in every act. Treat everyone with kindness, even those you dislike or with whom you would not normally interact. Reach out to help if you can.

For one week, speak truthfully. Use no white lies or habitual excuses that avoid taking responsibility for shabby behaviour. Give value to every word and live up to it. Keep every promise you make.

Stop the tiniest pilfering from company stationery. Refuse the miscalculated extra change at the grocery store. Use legal software.

Don’t exploit the good nature of others – or make them feel beholden. Be loyal to friends and family. Refrain from unkind gossip.

Practically, we are human and imperfect. But if we understand the intrinsic value of these ethical practices, we create stability for what is true. We should never compromise that. Such moral compost safeguards our own well-being and that of everyone around us. This is the basis for a truly ethical life.

© Ayyā Medhānandī

Taming of the Shrewd

My personal identity was dismantled on the day I donned the robes of a Buddhist nun in Rangoon. After months of intensive meditation, I prayed at the Thursday Shrine of the Shwedagon Pagoda, being born on that day, to ordain as a nun. Within three weeks, I was accepted, my robes were quickly sewn, and the nuns gathered to chant while one of their elders scraped away the remnants of my hair with a cutthroat razor.

Appearing before Sayadaw U Pandita in my pink robes, I glowed with readiness to complete the precept ceremony and receive my new Pali name. It would begin with a letter that matched the day and time of my birth according to the ancient system. And Sayadaw, knowing my strengths, weaknesses and potential, would have chosen a name to reflect a quality of mind worthy of my spiritual aspirations.

Sitting tensely on the teak floor that full moon day, the whirring fan blades punctuated my anticipation. When I heard my new name, I blenched. Sayadaw looked surprised. "What’s the matter, you don’t like your name?" he asked. Chastened, I expressed my gratitude. But he had clearly read my heart. That name did not resonate at all with me.

The next evening, at the end of Sayadaw’s discourse, he summoned me. I approached his dais, still awkward in my new robes and anxious at being singled out. “I want to change your name”, Sayadaw announced. I was stunned. This was an added blessing for me – and I liked the new name instantly. It meant, he explained, the bliss of discerning wisdom. This was what I was to live up to.

When I returned to the West to live in monastic community, the moral code under which I trained governed the most refined details of our life, even the way monks and nuns addressed each other. Regardless of our personal feelings, we always used a title of respect for elders, such as 'Venerable' or 'Sister' followed by the ordained name. This applied even to those younger in the robe during communal meetings, formal events and in public.

After ten years in the robe, the monks were called 'Ajahn', meaning ‘teacher’. Eventually, the nuns were also given this honorific. Although only a title, still it indicated a certain standing, of one qualified to teach, lead and train younger monastics, and the respect due a teacher. 'Ajahns' receive special considerations, but at the same time, they shouldered greater responsibility in running the community and caring for its members.

As the ten year mark approached, I worried about falling victim to self-importance and conceit in the use of such an august title. As it happened, in my tenth year, I travelled to New Zealand for an extended sabbatical and lived there as a solitary nun. Rather than 'Ajahn', I chose ‘Ma’, the Burmese way of address, and later, the more eclectic ‘Amma’ as I was known in Asia.

With this, I whetted the blade for my own suffering. While everyone happily addressed me as ‘Ma’, they reserved a special respect for ‘Ajahns’ and these all happened to be monks – that rankled. Wanting due recognition as one who was just as able to transmit the Dharma, I felt diminished and so became a casualty of my own making. Even when I settled on ‘Ayya’, the name used at the time of the Buddha, nothing changed.

In the end, no name can confer authority or self-respect, nor does opinion, tradition or entitlement bestow them. As the Buddha tells us, “One does not become a noble one by birth... It is by one's deeds that one attains to nobility.”

The riches of my being come from what I know myself to be – spiritual friend, spiritual mother, daughter of the Buddha, devotee and supplicant of the Way. My true name is the pure presence behind every name, the emptiness in which all personal identity dissolves. And where only love abides.

© Ayyā Medhānandī

I Gave Up the Froth

Monastic life can be a regime of intensifying renunciation. This turning away from worldy pleasure is not undertaken for its own sake but to keep us on our toes, clarify our truest goals and sweep away the many webs of desire that constantly deceive, distract and thwart our spiritual development.

Traditionally, the three month period of the Rains Retreat or ‘Vassa’, is a time suited to special practices of study, seclusion, or renunciation in order to sharpen or perfect wholesome qualities of the mind. Carried out in the right spirit, these special renunciations, like spring cleaning in household life, can have a purifying effect.

One Vassa, while I was still living in community, I decided to give up chocolate, one of our few afternoon allowables. With little reserve in the body and a tendency to feel very hungry at night, I felt some resistance to doing this. I enjoy chocolate, and for years had delayed giving it up. That year, I felt ready. So I made a strong resolve to do it.

I also love simplicity, so taking on a new austerity promised to simplify my daily choices. Already our afternoons were free of activities connected to the preparation and consumption of meals, and cleaning up afterwards. This lent more time for study, meditation, community meetings, or ongoing work projects.

One of the junior nuns began to notice my absence at evening tea and would sometimes invisibly leave allowables outside my door - a basket would appear with the familiar shiny red wrappings. I had not informed anyone of my vow so these offerings continued as my retreat unfolded.

Whenever I caught sight of the basket with its attractive contents, I became agitated. Assaulted by pangs of hunger, yet remaining faithful to my resolve, I wrestled with the maggots of craving.

At dusk, I would return the chocolates to the tea room or leave them for other members of the community. Offering in this way to my sisters brought me joy, albeit slightly tainted by a sense of self-congratulation. So I took to distributing the chocolates anonymously. Finally, I left a note to explain my Vassa vow so that no more would be sent in my direction.

It worked. The deliveries came to an end and with no more chocolates to share I was released from the buzz generated by these peripheral activities. Peace, I thought, would return and I could concentrate on my meditation practice undisturbed.

Still, in the evenings, I would find myself peeking with curiosity out the window of my cabin for the familiar basket and wondering if anything would arrive. “What is this?!” I asked myself. I was besieged by a new wave of intrusive thoughts.

Sometimes, I would parent myself, stopping the mind by reflecting, “This is greed. It's a little thing really” - not as disruptive as fear or anger. And so, in the ensuing months, I studied and sat with the insidious ways that greed arose, determined to abandon it so that I could dedicate myself to the silence, to emptiness.

Sustained by that relentless effort, my preoccupation with chocolate eventually fell away completely. It was not chocolate that I had renounced, but the yearning for something that would comfort, console or occupy the mind and relieve its desire for stimulation.

I gave up the distraction, the worldly sweets of this life, to taste much more – just from one intention to renounce. I never understood this until I began monastic training. Prior to that, I believed that my faith in, and application of, formal meditation practice would be enough to transform me.

These days, I no longer pride myself on special renunciations. I live a simple life, committed to my vows, a disciple of kindness, compassion, and truth. If someone offers me chocolate, I have a little. I see the way the mind grasps the world and the peace that comes from letting it go. I even drink cappuccino. But I gave up the froth.

© Ayyā Medhānandī

Uncooked Rice and No Ice-Cream

Living with contentment sounds easy. And it can be, particularly for one already withdrawn from the world and committed to a life of simplicity and renunciation – until that inevitable day when we are confronted with not getting what we want or, conversely, getting what we don’t want. Discontentment seeps in as soon as mindfulness grows slack, especially when our primary needs are not met.

Ironically, such privation was unknown to me in the monastery. Though I had taken renunciant vows, I never feared going without daily food, medicine, or my other requisites. In that abundance lay the danger of complacency and the dulling of appreciation for the support and attention lavished upon us as members of a community upholding the Buddha's teachings.

It is mealtime and a young couple have brought offerings for the almsgiving. I must finish eating before noon. It is their first visit and they are late - but it is kind of them to come.

Smiling widely, they bow and nervously scoop spoon after spoon of tepid white rice as I hold out my stainless steel alms bowl. I hear the grains settle into it with a diminutive tinkle. Soon these are obscured by vegetable curry and a sparse topping of sliced fruit. Once the food has been offered, my young benefactors kneel with joined palms, waiting for the ritual chants.

Though I feel somewhat anxious about the meal, I try to give myself fully to the chanting as if it is indeed a feast. I am grateful that they remembered to come, grateful to chant blessings, to have any meal at all today.

When they have gone, I study the contents of my bowl. It is a private moment of giving thanks and reflecting on what I have received. It will be good enough - it has to be. With an added chant and my lap-cloth in place, I work my spoon into the rice for the first bite - only to find it hard. I chew and chew to no avail. It is simply not fully cooked.

Another mouthful – am I imagining it? Rice is their staple and surely they know how to cook it! But no, it is inedible. And with the curry and fruit well-mixed into it, I won't be able to salvage anything of this meal.

I have only one choice. It feels onerous. Having renounced often, why is it so difficult today? I empty the contents of my bowl for the birds and wash up.

A haze settles over me. I am unable to stretch a mantle of gratitude over the embers of my equilibrium, nor yield to receiving food that I need but cannot eat. Nor can I forgive my humanness in wanting it to be otherwise, anticipating the hunger to come.

It would pass, I knew, but the daily meal is vital for my well-being. I glanced through the glass doors where my supporters had gone, carrying their empty pots. They had no malice - they just didn't know how to cook! Then compassion for them - and for myself - arose and soon, on its heels, a truer sense of gratitude trickled through with its inimitable fragrance of peace.

On another occasion, gratitude again rescued me when, returning with friends from an evening at the temple, they stopped to buy ice-cream. That was an ominous signal of the start of a new training exercise.

Having prided myself that I could easily renounce, I sat in the back seat ‘not minding’ while they contentedly licked their cones all the way home. Without the freedom or the choice to join them, the tone of my renunciation grew shrill - not for want of ice-cream but for them to have shown even a sliver of deference to my Rule if not my commitment to it and eaten their treats after leaving me in my hermitage.

That night, I could relish neither the black hills draped along the coast nor the sea’s thrashing until I was alone again. Listening to my heart, I clearly saw the tricks of the world. In that moment, Mother Gratitude came infinitely more sweet and sustaining than any dessert.

© Ayyā Medhānandī

Stepping Back Into the River

I seem always to be stepping back out into the River. Which river is it this time? The same river, but a different step, a mildness, a tender stopping, not to make sure that the bottom is there but to feel the current and know the moment of letting go. When balance is possible and the ties of the past have loosened, it is as if the River decides and I become again a small bird diving towards the waves and refreshing myself for a moment before I cross to the other side.

Now I leave my small temple by the sea, a loose network of spiritual friends and familiar faces, and an archipelago of safe harbours where I have wandered for years between the sun and the wind to be uncreased and cradled in the art of growing whole. And my leaving is pungent.

To some, it is an estrangement, an abandonment, a quixotic turning away from the sought-after place of safety and saccharin assurances that fed long years of vague connection and accessibility. To some, it is an inconsequential leap out of earshot, far from the ground of our encounter on this earth. But to others, it is a sadness, an unspoken cry, lamenting the loss of presence and personal rapport, the long conversations and interactive support, the giving and receiving and the simple sharing of blessings.

For me, this departure is a realisation of something greater to be done, at once acknowledging what I have received and what is needed in order for me to give back. But what an act of unstitching it has taken to send me into the thrashing waters of anonymity and the unknown. How complacent I could have been, how comfortable - lulled to a flawed happiness in the ebb tides of conventionalism, barely in view of the real fibre of life and the precarious landscape I must traverse to realise my freedom.

But stepping out like this is a stepping in. I shear away the props and paraphernalia of my very existence because I must, because it is the only way to be true, deeply true to what I honour most in this world.

© Ayyā Medhānandī

True North

Sitting here in the stillness of a winter’s afternoon, I find myself in the middle of my life – or closer to the ending – as if suspended between two shores. I hold on to the one, the known, seemingly secure bit of earth where I landed six years ago in search of a haven - although I had the ultimate trust and refuge in the Triple Gem: nothing touches that.

To find suitable conditions for deepening my practice was as vital then as it is now, and I have been tenacious, determined to live out my remaining years on these shores. For starting again is a tiring process. And yet, I see how healthy it will be for me as I begin to let go this life – to venture out into the unknown once more. The irony is that I’m not being cast out. No one is asking me to go. I could just carry on here doing what I am doing and letting the years slide by inconsequentially.

Instead, what have I chosen? At this older, more vulnerable age, to thrust myself into the rapids of uncertainty; and to divest myself of the wrappings of a settled and viable life, in a beautiful, peaceful village surrounded by what is familiar and friendly. I really must be mad.

But I understand - and am grateful for - this madness that still flows in me; this clear sound of my own truth clamouring to be heard, offering me renewal and deliverance from habit. As much as my fear of change, so weighty are the bonds of my attachments, as well as the obstacles to my inner growth and freedom from all fear.

I have to trust, to reclaim full authority for my life so that I no longer make excuses for those who treat me shabbily. I may still choose to be silent but it won’t be out of fear that I will not be fed.

Therefore, going is imperative. I see that now. And to have chosen it myself – hazarding all because I believe there’s a truer, more connected way to live. And I have had to wake up to this, that only by stepping out from what is known and secure will I accomplish what may yet satisfy that calling.

Slowly I come to the full import of what it is to give up all that has sustained me here. I say goodbye to them one by one with thanks and a feast of gratitude, acknowledging the ways these varied friends have served and supported me. I don’t just mean the beings, but also the trees, the sea, the shells and the hills, my four legged friend next door, my books, my flocks of birds, the sounds of the wind and its songs, even the crashing waves as well as their often rhythmic whisper lulling me to sleep… I hold each of them for a moment longer, with a bitter sweetness, and I begin to let them go.

This process is a conscious dying - a vital choice for a spiritual aspirant. And I must keep exercising it for it has a power, and the giving up frees me to receive an even greater treasure.

Of course, the kindness and support offered by spiritual friends creates a bridge for the crossing. Without their unflagging faith in me, would I have the courage to do this?

As I step forward to take my leave, I feel at ease, hastening towards ‘true north’ - my home; there is no other choice than this.

© Ayyā Medhānandī

The Mantra of 'Good Enough'

In both the spirit and the letter of my Rule, I live as a beggar, completely dependent on the generosity of my supporters. I may not ask for anything to eat or drink other than water, unless a devotee makes a specific invitation on the day.

Likewise, I may not ask for things that I need except when invited. And when an offering is made, I must be mindful of what those who offer are able to provide, and carefully gauge what is appropriate for me to ask.

My Rule prescribes the correct ways for me to conduct myself both in private and public – from the care of my robes and bowl to the manner of begging for alms and how I relate to lay people. So I live simply, fostering contentment with the requisites I receive, particularly with regards to food.

The true basis of this mendicancy is the fact that even when I am hungry or in need, I can neither accept nor handle money in any form. This practice – letting go control over even the most basic resources for my survival – demands a choicelessness that violates the primordial human impulse for self-preservation.

Such powerlessness is greater than the sum total of every other monastic relinquishment. In the face of it, giving up sensory pleasure and material comfort pales because it calls me to live by an exalted faith - to trust that I will be looked after, that the folk around me will not only recognize what I need but also come forward to support me in the ancient way.

I watch the whirlwind in people’s lives, and the burden of stress with which they come through my door; wishing to give but being unable, or being able but not knowing how. I see all the degrees of generosity that the Buddha taught, from princely to pretence, from those fulfilled by the sheer joy of offering to those hoping their good deeds will bring reward or consolation.

In times of plenty, the joy of our reciprocity is sweet. But in the days of lack, of doing without, of enduring neglect, I am left to witness the flights of the mind into expectation, worry, disappointment, and fear. I struggle to accept whatever is given; not to pick or choose, comment or bargain, evaluate or reject; to let go again and again, and to return to that sweetness with gratitude - even while the inner dragons scream in protest.

And yet I have lived in blessing for, in the end, my strength seems to come from a new quarter that is not dependent on my needs being fulfilled but on the quality and measure of my faith.

© Ayyā Medhānandī