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SAMATHA
Journal  entries  of  a  
meditation  lineage  
 
  

 
 
 

Samatha  
is  an  occasional  publication  of  
the  Samatha  Trust  
(U.K.  registered  charity  no.  266367)  

The  Samatha  Centre  

Greenstreete  
Llangunllo  
Powys  
LD7  1SP  
United  Kingdom  
 

Distributed  in  the  United  States  and  Canada  

by  the  Samatha  Foundation  of  North  America
  

 
 

CONTENTS  
 
Cover  
“SAMATHARISED”  
René  Thomas  and  Kath  Hick  
page  one  
THE  GATES  OF  LIBERATION  
Paṭisambhidāmagga  II  48  
photo  submitted  by  Dave  Woessner  
page  two  
SAMATHA  ADVENTURES  
Sarah  Shaw  
(photos  by  anon.)  
page  seven    
UNLOCKING  THE  SECRETS  OF  THE  UNIVERSE    
Mark  Rowland  
illustrations  by  Roberta  Sisson    
page  eleven    
MAKING  OFFERINGS  AND  PAYING  RESPECT    
Jeremy  Bruce  
(formerly  Tan  Supaniyo)  
page  fifteen    
REFLECTIONS  ON  A  COPPER  MOON    
Grevel  Lindop  
(illustrations  by  anon.)  

  i  
  
 
page  twenty-­‐two    
“HEART  IMAGE”  
Veronica  Voiels  
and    
THIS  IS  NOT  ABOUT  A  LAKE  
(anon.)    
page  twenty-­‐three    
SAMATHA  EEG    
Paul  Dennison    
page  twenty-­‐nine  
IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  BROKEN  BUDDHAS    
Brian  King    
page  forty-­‐one  
READING  JANE  AUSTEN  AND  DEPENDENT  ORIGINATION  
Saah  Shaw  
illustrations  by  Deborah  Raikes    
page  forty-­‐eight    
TAKING  REFUGE    
Chris  Gilchrist    
page  fifty    
MINDFULNESS  AND  THE  UNTAPPED  ASPECTS  
OF  THE  ASPERGER’S  SYNDROME  MIND    
Chris  Mitchell    
page  fifty-­‐two    
AN  OCTAVE  OF  JHĀNAS  
Jaś  Elsner  
illustrations  by  Tina  Fitzpatrick    
page  fifty-­‐six  
THE  VIEW  FROM  AFAR  
Vikki  Stringer    
page  fifty-­‐nine  
THE  MESSENGERS  OF  TRUTH  
Kindred  Sayings  4.194    
page  sixty  
JUBILEE  ISSUE    
Call  for  Contributions

  ii  
        
     
   
 

   
THE  GATES  OF  LIBERATION  
Now  these  three  gates  of  liberation  lead  to  the  exit  from  the  world:      
Seeing   impermanence   leads   to   thoroughly   seeing   all   that   constructs  
or  is  constructed  as  limited  and  circumscribed,  and  hence  to  the  sudden  
leap  of  consciousness  into  the  signless  element.  
Seeing   suffering   leads   to   the   stirring   of   the   mind   to   disenchantment  
with  all  that  constructs  or  is  constructed,  and  hence  to  the  sudden  leap  
of  consciousness  into  the  goalless  element.  
Seeing   no-­‐self   leads   to   thoroughly   seeing   all   things   that   are   as   alien,  
and   hence   to   the   sudden   leap   of   consciousness   into   the   element   of  
emptiness.    
Paṭisambhidāmagga  II  48  
Photo:  Arches  National  Park,  Utah

  1  
                      
 
 
 
SAMATHA  ADVENTURES  
Two   or   three   years   ago,   a   weekend   was   held   at   the   centre   at  
Greenstreete  to  discuss  possible  ways  of  working  on  theory  in  a  manner  
that  suited  the  samatha  practice.    After  twenty  years  of  work  sessions,  
theory   groups   and   other   kinds   of   weekend   and   longer   courses   at  
Greenstreete   —   and   of   course   much   longer   in   local   groups   —   a  
particular   way   of   working   in   accordance   with   samatha   practice   had  
evolved   to   suit   the   needs   of   the   practitioners.     This   had   been  
strengthened,   revitalized   —   and   also   challenged!   —  by   Nai   Boonman’s  
courses  during  his  visits  to  Britain  over  the  last  fifteen  years,  which  had  
included  some  approaches  that  were  very  novel  to  us.  
Over  the  last  decades,  various  strands  of  working  with  practice  and  
theory   had   emerged   in   samatha   groups.     People   have   very   different  
dispositions  and  different  needs  and  wishes  in  the  practice:  some  really  
like  to  work  on  Abhidhamma,  the  theory  that  describes  the  movement  
and   nature   of   the   mind   and   body   on   a   moment-­‐by-­‐moment   basis  
(however,   others   hate   it!).     Some   had   worked   a   great   deal   on   suttas,  
and   on   relating   features   like   the   similes   to   the   practice.     Some   were  
becoming   proficient   in   examining   methods   of   chanting   and   relating  
them   to   practice.     Some   liked   considering   technique   within   the   sitting  
practice.     Some   had   explored   stories,   songs   and   poems,   and   some  
expressed   an   interest   in   creative   ventures   that   enacted   theory   in  

  2  
different   ways.     These   areas   have   come   to   be   regarded   as   extensions   of  
the   practice:   as   both   supports   for,   and   outflows   from,   the   sitting  
meditation.  
 One  important  feature  of  the  emergence  of  this  kind  of  theory  has  
been   work   in   groups.     This   has   shaped   samatha   in   Britain,   and,   rather  
like  taking  part  in  a  tricky  and  complex  dance,  it  requires  a  kind  of  skill.    
Just  as  in  dancing,  you  need  to  stand  your  own  ground,  but  also  to  be  
aware  of  others  in  the  group,  to  trust  others  and  let  them  do  their  bit,  
to   be   willing   to   do   your   bit   as   well,   but   also   to   stand   back   sometimes.    
For  a  samatha  group  to  work  well  and  establish  trust,  it  is  important  to  
observe  some  basic  rules  of  this  kind,  which  make  up  the  sīla  of  working  
together:  to  relate  theory  to  practice  and  closely  observed  experience;  
to   respect   confidentiality;   to   avoid   ‘personal   advertising’;   and,   when  
making   any   contribution   to   the   group,   to   be   aware   of   all   its   members.    
Every  group  meeting  has  a  beginning  and  an  end,  and  in  order  for  it  to  
work,   people   need   to   stay   the   course:   chanting   and   practice   at   the  
beginning   of   the   meeting   and   a   blessing   to   mark   the   end   help   to   ensure  
that   any   energies   aroused   in   the   discussion   are   settled   and   come   to  
stillness.    Other  factors  for  such  group  work  include  cultivating    friend-­‐
liness,  learning  to  refrain  from  going  on  too  much,  and  practising  the  art  
of  listening  without  interrupting!    
This  kind  of  work,  which  has  been  the  hallmark  of  the  development  
of   samatha   in   Britain,   has   helped   to   build   a   strong   foundation   of   trust  
and  respect  for  others.    Of  course,  other,  less  formal,  types  of  discussion  
have   also   been   pursued:   for   example,   at   Greenstreete   tea   breaks   on  
work   sessions;   or   in   a   very   interesting   conversation   in   the   car   when  
driving  back  with  friends  from  such  a  session.    All  of  these  approaches  
require   a   sense   of   appropriateness   to   the   circumstances   and   that  
indefinable   balance   of   listening   and   participating,   whereby   something  
emerges  that  is  ‘true’.    And,  in  all  cases,  lots  of  mindfulness  is  required  if  
the  path  is  to  be  pursued  safely!  
The   aim   of   the   project   that   emerged   from   these   early   discussions  
was  defined  —  using  a  phrase  coined  by  Nai  Boonman  —  as  a  samatha  
adventure.     We   felt   this   summed   up   the   attitude   to   ways   of   working  
with   theory,   the   practice,   and   the   path   that   we   hoped   to   explore.     After  
some   deliberation,   we   decided   to   pursue   three   strands   of   work,   all   of  
which,  we  hoped,  would  influence  and  help  each  other.  

  3  
 The   first   strand   was   to   extend   our   understanding   of   the   various  
techniques   that   Nai   Boonman   had   taught   us   with   regard   to   samatha  
practice,   and   in   particular,   the   cultivation   of   the   jhānas   and   also   the  
abhiññās,  or  knowledges  and  techniques  that  can  flow  from  the  mind  in  
advanced   stages   of   practice,   and   in   which   the   mind   can   train   itself.    
These   seemed   to   us   a   little   like   aerobic   exercises   for   the   samatha  
meditator,   or   —   perhaps,   rather   more   fun   —   as   ways   of   enjoying   and  
extending   the   fruits   of   the   practice,   and   of   cultivating   both   ease   and  
non-­‐attachment  when  encountering  different  mental  states.  
The   second   strand   was   to   explore   the   theory   of   dependent  
origination,   and   how   it   could   be   applied,   examined,   and   sometimes  
even   reformulated   in   new   ways   inspired   both   by   traditional   terms   and  
explanations,  and  also  by  our  own  experience.    
The   third   strand   was   to   explore   the   ‘first-­‐person’   —   the   way   we  
each   had   personally   encountered   the   practice   and   how   our   own  
recollections  of  it  being  taught  had  communicated  to  us  a  sense  of  the  
lineage  of  the  practice.    We  decided  to  call  this  third  strand  the  Echoes  
of  Lineage.      
Each   group   had   its   own   difficulties   and   challenges.   For   the   ‘first-­‐
person’   group,   how   do   you   record   your   experiences   in   a   way   that   is  
well-­‐observed   and   true   as   well   as   being   perhaps   helpful   to   others?   How  
is  ‘not-­‐self’  apprehended  by  ‘me’?    
For   the   dependent   origination   group,   the   problem   was   how   to  
communicate   and   understand   the   sense   of   process   in   dependent  
origination  in  a  way  that  is  faithful  to  the  spirit  of  samatha  practice  and  
appropriate  for  Westerners?  Because  a  sense  of  the  underlying  radiance  
and   health   of   the   mind   constitutes   a   more   basic   assumption   in   an   Asian  
context   than   it   is   in   the   West,   we   found   that   certain   features   of   the  
formulation   of   dependent   origination   needed   a   slightly   different   ‘take’  
from  time  to  time.    Our  samatha  approach  often  explored  it  in  ways  that  
we  felt  were  different  from  those  in  pure  insight  schools,  and  needed  a  
lightness  of  touch  and  a  sense  of  the  creative  potential  of  the  doctrine  
that  aroused  what  the  ancients  called  ‘wisdom  with  a  smile’.    This  sense  
of   warmth   and   humour,   together   with   an   underlying   appreciation   of  
skillfulness,   as   well   as   unskillfulness,   was   felt   to   be   essential   to   the  
understanding   of   dependent   origination   in   a   culture   which   recognizes  
the  negative  aspects  of  the  human  mind,  but  has  less  innate  trust  in  its  

  4  
inherent   positive   qualities.     Therefore,   we   felt   we   needed   to   become  
aware   as   much   of   the   possibilities   of   the   transcendent   cycle   of  
dependent   origination,   which   allows   the   repressed   roots   of   loving  
kindness,   wisdom   and   generosity   to   come   out   of   their   shell,   as   of   the  
doctrine   that   examines   other,   less   skilful   roots,   which   our   Western  
culture  has  historically  tended  to  stress.  
The   problems   and   questions   facing   the   samatha   practices   group  
were   manifold,   and   perhaps   the   most   fun.     Why   do   some   samatha  
practices  seem  odd  to  us?    Are  we  wary  of  powers  that  we  have  thought  
of   as   ‘power   over’   others,   rather   than   something   that   is   a   traditional  
way   of   arousing   a   simpler   kind   of   power,   the   freedom   and   peacefulness  
found   by   purifying   and   transforming   troubling   hindrances   within   the  
mind?    How  on  earth  do  you  do  them?    Those  working  in  this  group  feel,  
of  course,  that  this  last  problem  is  the  most  exciting  one  of  all.  
Work   on   these   three   strands,   sometimes   together   and   sometimes  
on  their  own,  is  ongoing  in  a  number  of  groups  around  the  country  and  
in   weekends   held   two   or   three   times   a   year   for   those   who   are  
interested.    Some  people  are  involved  in  one  strand,  some  in  two.    The  
three   strands   are   having   interesting   effects   on   one   another,   as   on  
weekends  we  all  work  on  all  three  at  different  times.      
The   project   will   include   some   written   observations   and   recordings  
about   the   various   types   of   samatha   practice   and   the   kind   of   theory   that  
has   evolved   amongst   practitioners   of   samatha   in   Britain.     We   also  
intend   to   produce   a   volume,   perhaps   for   Nai   Boonman’s   eightieth  
birthday,   where   our   own   encounters   with   samatha   and   with   his  
teaching  are  recorded,  along  with  some  history  of  the  various  groups  in  
Britain  and,  perhaps,  elsewhere.      
Samatha   meditation,   through   jhāna,   leads   to   the   temporary   sus-­‐
pension  of  vitakka  and  vicāra,  so  we  need  to  be  able  not  to  follow  usual  
patterns   of   thinking   to   find   out   how   to   develop   breathing   mindfulness  
well.     Discussions   of   theory   linked   to   practice   are   perhaps   the   most  
effective   way   we   have   of   finding   and   refreshing   the   intuitive   part   of  
mind   that   thinks   with   these   qualities,   in   a   way   that   is   useful   for   the  
practitioner.    It  arouses  the  kind  of  vitakka-­‐vicāra  that  encourages  entry  
into   meditation   –   and   so   in   time   to   a   way   that   leads   to   their   own  
abandonment!  Such  thinking  also  helps  to  develop  wisdom  and  a  skillful  
return   to   the   world,   with   its   many   events   and   people.     Well-­‐directed  

  5  
vitakka   is   equated   in   the   Dhammasangani,   an   Abhidhamma   text,   to  
right  intention,  the  second  path  factor.    We  hope  to  arouse  this  factor,  
and  also  right  view,  by  studying  theory  without  getting  caught  up  in  it;  
by  finding  completely  new  formulations  that  are  in  the  spirit  of  the  old;  
by  making  unsentimental  observations  that  call  forth  and  encourage  the  
development   of   skillful   feeling;   and   sometimes   by   just   asking   tricky,  
interesting   questions   which   have   the   effect   of   waking   us   up.     To   our  
surprise,  the  resolutions  of  these  wonderfully  difficult  contradictions  are  
often  very  simple.  
Samatha  adventures  is  an  ongoing  experiment  and  new  participants  
are  always  welcome.  
 
 

               

  6  
  

 
 
 
UNLOCKING  THE  SECRETS    
OF  THE  UNIVERSE  
A  Fable  
There   was   once   a   boy   called   Simon.   Simon’s   father   was   a   university  
lecturer   in   Cosmology   and   sparked   off   Simon’s   own   interest   in   the  
subject.  So  when  Simon  became  a  young  man,  he  went  to  University  to  
study   the   subject   for   himself.   At   first,   Simon   was   enthralled   by   his  
studies.  He  felt  that,  through  being  at  University,  he  had  made  contact  
with  something  that  ran  deep  within  him  and  would  lead  him  to  find  the  
secret  to  the  origin  of  the  universe.  
But   the   field   of   cosmology   was   in   turmoil.   Its   deeper   problems,   it  
was   generally   felt,   were   unsolved   and,   worse,   prominent   cosmologists  
feuded  bitterly  among  themselves,  each  claiming  to  have  developed  the  
true   theory   of   how   the   universe   began.   Alas,   such   feuds   only   created  
further  confusion  and  further  animosity  and  took  thinkers  even  further  
from  the  truth.  

  7  
 Simon   was   deeply   disturbed   by   this   state   of   affairs   and   became  
worn  out  by  his  unsuccessful  attempts  to  make  sense  of  what  was  going  
on.  His  enthusiasm  waned  and  he  neglected  his  studies  more  and  more  
as  he  turned  to  traditional  but  distracting  ways  of  enjoying  student  life.    
Now   there   was   in   fact   one   of   the   professors   of   the   University  
department   of   cosmology   who   had   indeed   seen   into   the   heart   of   the  
universe.  He  was  also  an  ordinary  man  and  people  were  generally  blind  
to  what  he  had  accomplished.  But  when  he  met  and  talked  with  Simon,  
the   professor   knew   at   once   that   Simon   had   the   abilities   to   work   out  
what  the  universe  was  about,  although  of  course  Simon  himself  was  not  
aware   of   this.   So   the   professor   invited   Simon   to   attend   a   series   of  
cosmology   seminars   which   he   held   at   his   house   for   a   group   of   his  
students.   At   first,   attending   regularly   and   feeling   his   fellow   students’  
enthusiasm  were  enough  to  create  a  structure  for  Simon’s  studies,  and  
this   enabled   him   to   re-­‐engage   with   the   field.   Over   time   his   mind   was  
freed   from   certain   erroneous   assumptions   that   had   previously   led   him  
in  false  directions.  
With  his  mind  freed  in  this  way,  Simon  was  open  to  features  of  the  
universe   of   which   he   had   hitherto   been   unaware   and,   using   the   new  
systems   of   mathematical   techniques   that   he   had   also   been   taught,   he  
renewed   his   attempt   to   understand   the   origin   of   the   universe.   The  
professor   knew   then   that   the   time   was   right   for   Simon.   He   led   him   to  
the  spiral  staircase  in  the  corner  of  the  seminar  room,  and  told  him  that  
four  of  the  best  students  would  take  him  to  the  room  at  the  top  of  the  
house   where   the   giant   telescope   called   Samadhi   was   housed.   Simon  
was  apprehensive  about  the  enormity  of  the  challenge  involved  but  also  
knew  that  at  this  point  there  was  no  turning  back.  
Simon   ascended   the   staircase   as   night   was   falling.   He   was   led   to   the  
viewing  seat  of  the  telescope  as  the  shutters  on  the  roof  slipped  back  to  
reveal  a  glittering  night  sky  illuminated  by  a  full  moon.  But  Simon  knew  
that  he  had  to  let  go  of  how  the  sky  appeared  to  his  eyes  if  he  was  to  
understand   what   the   telescope   would   reveal   to   him.   With   trepidation  
he  applied  his  head  to  the  eyepiece.  At  first  his  mind  was  overwhelmed  
by  what  he  saw  —  there  were  countless  more  stars  filling  the  sky.  Then  
he   realised   that   some   of   the   lights   he   had   at   first   thought   were   stars  
were   in   reality   composed   of   millions   more   stars   —   galaxies   —   complete  
worlds  in  themselves  beyond  our  own  Milky  Way.    

  8  
 Simon’s  mind  let  go  of  some  of  the  doubts  and  perplexities  that  had  
until   then   ensnared   it   and   expanded   to   take   in   what   he   saw   and  
understood.    Then,  at  some  point  in  time  which  he  did  not  remember,  
he  fell  into  a  contemplation  of  the  wonder  of  it  all.  
He  did  not  know  how  long  this  contemplation  lasted  but  eventually  
he  realised  that  the  sky  was  beginning  to  brighten  as  the  night  came  to  
an   end.   He   left   the   telescope   and   descended   the   spiral   staircase   and  
found  himself  once  again  in  the  seminar  room.  
On   the   second   night   he   again   peered   through   the   telescope,   setting  
a   new   direction,   a   greater   magnification   and   more   refined   focus.   The  
sky  appeared  different  again.  He  realised  that  he  was  seeing  objects  so  
distant,   and   light   was   taking   so   much   time   to   reach   him,   that   he   was  
seeing   an   earlier   phase   of   the   universe,   when   stars   and   galaxies   were  
only  beginning  to  form.  He  had  the  same  feeling  of  being  overwhelmed,  
of   letting   go   of   more   subtle   doubts   and   perplexities,   and   again   falling  
into   a   contemplation   of   what   was   revealed   to   him   until   at   last   the   dawn  
roused  him.  
On  the  third  night  he  set  the  telescope  to  view  an  even  more  distant  
and  ancient  phase  of  history  of  the  universe,  when  there  were  no  stars  
at  all  but  just  very  simple  atoms  and  radiation.  
Finally   on   the   fourth   night   he   looked   back   even   further   to   when   the  
universe   was   so   unimaginably   compressed   and   dense   and   hot   that   all  
that   could   exist   was   a   plasma   of   fundamental   particles   of   matter   and  
antimatter  continually  collided  to  cascade  into  yet  more  particles.  
During   the   days   that   followed   Simon   reviewed   what   he   had   seen  
and   let   turn   over   in   his   mind   the   ultimate   question   in   cosmology:   the  
nature   of   that   from   which   the   universe   had   come.   And   in   the   end,  
because   he   had   been   prepared   by   what   he   had   seen   through   the  
telescope,   the   realisation   that   he   was   seeking   slipped   quite   easily   into  
his  mind.  In  that  moment,  he  understood  the  nature  of  the  Singularity,  
that   infinitely   small   point   of   infinite   mass   and   energy   which   went  
beyond   all   known   laws   of   physics,   and   from   which   the   universe   was  
born.    
 
 

  9  
 Simon’s   own   understanding   had   matured,   but   one   big   challenge  
remained:   to   join   his   fellow   students   in   creating   the   School   of   the  
Unified  Theory  of  the  Universe,  to  help  other  cosmologists  understand  
what  they  had  realised.  
 
 
 

 
 
 

  10  
  
 

     
 

MAKING  OFFERINGS    
   
AND  PAYING  RESPECT  
During  my  time  in  Thailand  as  a  Buddhist  monk,  I  was  increasingly  struck  
by   the   significance   of   the   acts   of   making   offerings   and   paying   respect  
and   by   their   impact   in   helping   to   develop   mindfulness,   carefulness,  
gracefulness,   humility,   and   patience.   I   found   they   also   helped   me   to  
develop  an  understanding  of  anattā  (absence  of  permanent  self).  
For  example,  when  a  monk  goes  out  on  the  alms  round,  this  is  not  
about  begging  for  food.    In  fact,  nothing  could  be  further  from  the  truth.    
Local  people  would  be  happy  to  come  and  offer  food  at  the  temple,  and  
on   many   occasions   they   do.   For   monks,   the   alms   round   provides   an  
opportunity  to  continue  to  develop  their  walking  meditation  practice.  It  
also   provides   an   opportunity   for   many   local   people,   who   often   start  
work  at  7:00  am,  to  have  contact  with  the  Bhikkhu  Sangha.        
One   morning,   I   was   the   first   monk   in   line.   Tan   Tui   was   with   me.     I  
had  lost  some  lightness  over  the  previous  few  days  by  allowing  doubt  to  
affect  my  mindfulness  and  drain  my  energy.    However,  on  the  previous  
evening,   my   teacher   Luangpoh   had   given   me   very   helpful   guidance,  
which  enabled  me  to  be  especially  careful  with  light  effort  in  walking  to  
the   village,   and   to   maintain   mindfulness   of   feeling,   which   was   an   aspect  
of  practice  on  which  I  was  working  at  that  time.    

  11  
  
As   we   approached   the   village,   I   noticed   that   there   were   already   a  
number   of   people   by   the   side   of   the   road,   all   kneeling   down   with   the  
food   on   plates   or   bowls   held   to   their   foreheads,   and   waiting   patiently  
for  us  to  arrive.    I  noticed  an  immediate  impulse  to  speed  up   so  that  I  
could   let   them   get   to   their   feet   and   avoid   further   discomfort,   but   I  
resisted  this  urge  as  it  seemed  very  clear  that  this  was  the  wrong  thing  
to   do.     Instead,   we   very   mindfully   walked   towards   them,   opened   our  
bowls  and  received  the  offerings  of  food.    
With   great   grace   and   care,   each   person   placed   her   or   his   offering  
into  our  bowls  and  then  rose  to  a  standing  position.  It  was  clear  that  this  
was   a   meditative   experience   for   each   person.   I   also   felt   a   very   strong  
appreciation  for  their  generosity  and  their  care  for  the  wellbeing  of  the  
monks  in  general.  There  was  a  completely  warm  but,  at  the  same  time,  
impersonal  aspect  to  the  way  in  which  everyone  conducted  themselves,  
and  I  was  not  required  or  expected  to  say  “thank  you.”    All  this  helped  
to  remind  me  that  there  is  no  permanent  or  unchanging  self  to  receive  
the  offering  or  to  whom  the  offering  is  made.    
Having   made   their   offering,   the   local   people   usually   just   carry   on  
with  their  day.    I  understand  that  many  households  teach  their  children  
that  it  is  best  to  give  something  before  you  eat  yourself,  so  an  offering  
to   a   monk   is   a   really   good   way   to   set   up   your   day   to   be   generous   and  
thoughtful.  
 

 
 

  12  
  
Paying  respects  is  a  very  common  experience  to  come  to  terms  with  as  a  
new   monk.   You   are   required   to   pay   respect   every   time   you   go   into   a  
space   that   has   a   Buddha   Rūpa   (statue   of   the   Buddha),   an   event   which  
commonly   occurs   many   times   a   day.   It   is   polite   to   pay   respect   to   any  
monk  who  has  been  ordained  longer  than  you  (i.e.  all  monks).  It  is  also  a  
regular  occurrence  for  lay  people  to  pay  respects  to  you.      
Paying  respect  involves  kneeling  with  your  knees  on  the  ground  and  
your  toes  bent  as  you  sit  on  your  heels  (this  is  no  easier  than  it  sounds!).  
You   then   bring   your   hands   together   in   front   of   you,   so   that   they   just  
touch  the  center  of  your  chest  next  to  your  heart.    Sitting  upright,  you  
compose  and  still  your  mind,  then  in  one  graceful  movement  you  raise  
your   hands   to   touch   your   forehead   before   bringing   them   slowly   and  
carefully  down  to  the  ground  in  front  of  you.  Then,  bending  your  body  
gracefully   from   the   middle   while   keeping   your   back   straight,   you   slide  
your  hands  forward  until  your  forehead  is  touching  the  ground  and  your  
forearms   are   on   the   ground   to   the   elbow.   Equally   gracefully,   you   then  
reverse  the  process  until  your  hands  are  back  to  the  center  of  you  chest.  
This   is   done   three   times.   Meanwhile,   the   person   to   whom   respect   is  
being   paid   sits   upright   and   composed,   stills   his   mind   and   receives   the  
offering  of  respect  on  behalf  of  the  Buddha  Sāsana,  while  also  mentally  
taking  the  opportunity  to  pay  respect  to  the  Buddha,  the  Dhamma,  and  
the  Sangha  for  himself.  
I   had   been   learning   the   practice   of   paying   respect   from   the   time  
that   I   first   met   Luangpoh   Sudhiro   about   three   years   prior   to   my  
ordination.    I  found  it  a  very  powerful  and  moving  experience  to  see  him  
pay   respect   to   the   Buddha   Rūpa   at   Greenstreete.   As   you   can   imagine,  
however,  the  outward  appearance  of  this  process  can  very  easily  evoke  

  13  
Western   ideas   of   bowing   down   to   idols.   Or   (much   as   the   alms   round  
may   seem   at   first   sight   to   be   a   form   of   begging),   it   may   look   as   if   the  
person  paying  respect  is  being  made  to  grovel  so  as  to  inflate  another’s  
self  importance.    
I  have  heard  people  talk  about  the  act  of  paying  respect  in  several  
different  ways.    The  first  thing  to  realize  is  that  you  must  ask,  “May  I  pay  
respect   to   you?”   Thus,   it   is   important   to   recognize   that   the   offering   of  
respect   is   an   opportunity   that   has   been   requested,   not   something  
demanded  by  the  person  to  whom  respect  is  being  paid.      
Luangpoh   once   explained   that,   for   him,   the   act   of   paying   respect  
contains   the   following   elements:     When   touching   one’s   forehead,   one  
mentally  gathers  oneself  with  the  thought:  “this  is  all  of  me.”  Placing  the  
forehead   on   the   ground   it   is   an   opportunity   to   recognize   that   “all   that  
we  are  will  go  back  to  the  earth.”  As  we  come  back  up,  we  can  recognize  
that   “we   have   come   together   from   natural   elements.”   In   this   way,   we  
are  reminded  of  our  impermanence  and  our  ever-­‐changing  makeup,  so  
that   the   act   of   paying   respect   becomes   a   symbolic   way   of   connecting   to  
the  basic  teaching  of  the  Buddha.    
At  another  level,  I  find  that  paying  respect  can  simply  help  to  settle  
my   mind.   I   also   find   the   act   to   be   very   grounding   and   that,   when  
performed  mindfully,  it  tends  to  raise  energy  and  increase  alertness.  
 

 
 
At   another   level   again,   it   is   a   process   that   continually   challenges   my  
sense  of  self-­‐importance  and  so  teaches  humility,  both  in  giving  and  in  
receiving.

  14  
      

REFLECTIONS  ON  A  COPPER  MOON1  

I   sit   beside   the   dark,   fast-­‐flowing   river,   watching   the   disc   of   the   full  
moon   straight   ahead.   It   has   a   reddish   tinge;   its   light   glitters   on   the  
surface  of  the  water  and  casts  shadows  beneath  the  bushes  beside  me.  
Something  darts  from  the  undergrowth  at  my  right.  To  my  amazement  
it’s   a   black   cat.   It   runs   towards   me   and   begins   to   circle   me   clockwise.  
Others  follow:  dozens,  hundreds  of  cats  stream  from  the  bushes.   They  
run   fast   and   they   close   in,   dancing,   brushing   my   skin   with   their   fur,   a  
whirlpool   of   black   cats.   Then,   as   suddenly   as   they   appeared,   they   veer  
away  and  vanish  into  the  forest.  
I   know   I   have   to   leave   for   my   appointment   with   the   woman.   I’ve  
been   told   to   wait   in   the   house   next   door.   Sure   enough,   a   slender  
woman   with   blonde   hair   comes   in.   She   dances   around   me   in   a   circle,  
close   up,   like   the   cats.   But   almost   at   once   she’s   gone.   I   know   that   I   have  
to  follow  her  now,  to  the  house  next  door,  her  house.  And  as  soon  as  I  
walk  in  I  see  her.  But  now  she’s  not  alone.  There’s  a  man  with  her,  and  a  
huge  black  dog.  She  smiles  at  me.  She  has  something  important  to  tell  
me.   I   think   she’s   speaking   Spanish   but   I’m   not   sure.   ‘This   moon   is   the  
moon   of   copper,’   she   explains.   ‘Copper,   because   it   comes   between  

1
   This  article  first  appeared  in  the  magazine  Urthona.  

  15  
silver   and   gold.’   She   gestures   towards   the   man.   ‘And   now,’   she   says,  
‘you  must  kiss  my  companion.’  
I’m   a   bit   troubled   by   this.   But   I   needn’t   worry.   The   man   bends  
forward  and  gives  me  the  slightest  brush  on  the  lips,  a  mere  formality.  
We’re  not  finished  yet,  however.  ‘Next,’  says  the  lady,  ‘you  have  to  kiss  
my   dog.’   The   dog   is   like   a   very   large   black   Labrador.   I   have   a   dog   at  
home  and  I  like  dogs.  I  guess  I  can  tolerate  kissing  it.  I  bend  down  and  
look  into  its  loving,  dark   brown  eyes.  The  dog  flickers  its  tongue  out  and  
gives  me  just  the  tiniest  lick  on  my  lips.  No  problem.  
‘And   now,’   says   the   lady,   ‘you   can   kiss   me.’   She   pulls   me   towards  
her   in   her   arms.   This   time   it’s   a   real   kiss.   It’s   very   good.   She   smiles   at  
me.  ‘Look  into  my  mouth,’  she  says.  
She   beckons   me   to   come   close   again,   and   she   opens   her   mouth.  
Something  very  strange  happens.  Her  lower  jaw  seems  to  change  shape,  
to   elongate   a   little.   There’s   something   not   quite   human   about   it.   A  
piranha?   A   cayman?   I   peer   into   her   mouth.   I   can   see   several   things:   a  
rounded   stone   pebble;   a   small   cylinder   of   polished   bone   or   ivory,   about  
the  size  of  a  chessman;  and,  astonishingly,  I  can  somehow  see  through  
the   back   of   her   throat:   instead   of   flesh   there   is   empty   space,   the   sky,  
and  in  the  midst  of  it  the  copper-­‐coloured  disc  of  the  full  moon.  
She  closes  her  mouth  and  her  jaw  returns  to  normal.  Once  again  she  
is  a  beautiful,  blonde  woman.  She  holds  me  at  arm’s  length,  a  twinkle  of  
amusement  in  her  eyes,  smiling  as  if  to  cheer  up  a  favourite  child.  ‘Don’t  
worry,’  she  says.  ‘I’ll  look  after  you.’  
And   I   wake   with   a   soundless   crash,   as   if   I   had   fallen   into   the   bed  
from  a  great  height.  My  heart  is  pounding,  my  scalp  prickling.  The  pitch-­‐
dark   room   crackles   with   a   weird   energy,   as   if   the   whole   place   were  
charged  with  static  electricity.  Shakily  I  get  out  of  bed  and  look  for  the  
light.   I’m   in   a   hotel   room   in   Bogotá.   I’ve   just   had   one   of   the   strangest  
dreams  of  my  life,  and  I  feel  sure  of  one  thing:  it  didn’t  come  out  of  my  
little  personal  psyche.  
I  tell  this  story  (it  happened  in  April  2007)  to  show  that  even  thirty  
years   of   Samatha   practice   may   not   immunise   you   against   visitations  
from   deities   (or   spirits   or   apparitions,   call   them   what   you   like)   who  
seem   to   have   nothing   to   do   with   Buddhism.   But   then,   I’ve   always   felt  
that  the  Buddha’s  teaching  takes  for  granted  the  existence  of  countless  

  16  
non-­‐material   beings   —   good,   bad   and   mixed.   The   Wheel   of   Life,   that  
popular   image   in   the   art   of   nearly   all   Buddhist   traditions,   shows   the  
realms   of   the   hungry   ghosts,   of   the   asuras   or   titans,   and   of   the   gods  
themselves.   And   Buddhist   texts   —   even   the   supposedly   ‘plain   and  
simple’   Pali   suttas   —   show   just   how   rich   and   varied   the   realms   of   the  
gods   are.   In   the   Kevaddha   Sutta,   the   Buddha   describes   a   monk   who  
wants   to   know   where   the   four   elements,   earth,   water,   fire   and   wind  
cease  and  leave  no  trace  behind.  He  develops  his  meditation  and  then,  
to   ask   his   question,   travels   in   turn   to   the   heavens   of   the   Four   Great  
Kings,   the   Thirty-­‐Three   gods,   the   Yama   gods,   the   Gods   Who   Rule   Over  
Creation,   the   Gods   Who   Inspire   the   Creations   of   Others,   and   the  
Brahma  realms.  
Of   course   he   doesn’t   find   the   answer   there,   because   the   gods   —  
though   more   beautiful   and   long-­‐lived   than   we   are   —   are   no   more  
enlightened   than   ourselves.   The   Buddha   explains   that   the   place   where  
the   elements   (and   even   name   and   form)   cease,   is   in   the   Enlightened  
mind,   which   is   free   of   them   all.   But   as   for   those   gods,   countless   other  
Buddhist   texts   take   for   granted   the   existence   of   such   beings.   The  
biographies   of   numerous   eminent   meditation   teachers   confirm   the  
same  view,  telling  of  how  they  met,  talked  and  debated  with  deities  of  
many  kinds.  
Whether   we   ‘believe’   in   the   existence   of   the   gods   is   up   to   us,   but   at  
least  we  might  keep  an  open  mind.  Certainly,  the  question  of  whether  
the   specific   gods   and   goddesses   of   the   world’s   religions   —   past,   present  
and   future   —   actually   exist   as   ‘persons’   is   a   difficult   one.   Are   Indra,  
Osiris,   Quetzalcoatl,   Aphrodite,   Thor   and   all   the   rest   of   them   wandering  
around   somewhere   in   the   spiritual   cosmos   at   this   very   moment?  
Frankly,   I   don’t   know.   I   suspect   that   it   isn’t   quite   that   simple.   Such  
beings,  if  they  do  exist,  certainly  don’t  have  material  form  as  we  know  
it.  Perhaps  they  are  more  like  living  centres  of  psychic  energy.  Perhaps  
they   merge   and   separate   —   changing   from   one   to   many   and   back   again  
—   in   ways   we   find   hard   to   imagine.   (Indeed,   if   there   is   any   truth   in  
Jung’s   idea   of   the   Collective   Unconscious,   there   must   be   a   viewpoint  
from   which   the   whole   of   humanity   is,   in   a   sense,   a   ‘single’   person.)   It  
may   well   be   that   human   feelings   —   devotion,   love,   fear   and   so   on   —  
give   the   gods   form,   a   kind   of   shape   that   enables   our   imaginations   to  
grasp   them,   but   also   distorts   them   in   the   process.   We   see   them,   and  
imagine   them,   for   the   most   part   in   terms   of   what   we   already   know.  

  17  
What   is   not   in   doubt   is   that   at   times   such   beings   —   whether   Celtic  
goddesses   or   Christian   angels   —   can   inspire   us,   bring   us   wisdom   or  
protection,   or,   for   that   matter,   trouble   us.   For   we   should   always  
remember  that  the  gods,  if  they  exist,  are  not  themselves  enlightened.  
Like   humans   they   may   be   wise   or   foolish,   honest   or   deeply   dishonest.  
Some  are  perhaps  malicious:  think  of  the  asuras,  the  jealous  titans  who  
want   to   get   into   heaven   by   force,   and   who   make   war   on   the   gods.   I  
suspect  that  this  category  includes  many  of  those  so-­‐called  gods  whom  
humans  have  ‘worshipped’  with  human  and  animal  sacrifice.  The  energy  
of   the   asuras   corresponds   to   the   mental   states   of   kings   and   warrior-­‐
castes  who  live  by  violence  and  fear.  
It   was   in   1944,   towards   the   end   of   World   War   II,   that   one   of   the  
most   dramatic   irruptions   of   a   ‘pagan’   deity   into   modern   culture   took  
place.   The   poet   Robert   Graves   was   then   living   in   Devon.   Age,   and  
wounds  from  the  previous  World  War,  had  led  to  his  being  turned  down  
for  war  service,  so  he  was  writing  and  researching  as  usual.  Suddenly  he  
found  himself  taken  over  by  a  vast  current  of  psychic  energy,  in  which  
he   unexpectedly   began   to   see   answers   to   several   of   the   unsolved  
mysteries   of   Celtic   culture.   ‘My   mind,’   he   recalled   later,   ‘ran   at   such   a  
furious  rate  all  night,  as  well  as  all  the  next  day,  that  it  was  difficult  for  
my  pen  to  keep  pace  with  it.  Three  weeks  later  I  had  written  a  seventy-­‐
thousand-­‐word   book’   —   which   became   the   first   draft   of   The   White  
Goddess.  
The   book   began   by   examining   a   group   of   riddling   early-­‐Welsh  
poems   which   previous   scholars   had   been   unable   to   interpret   with   any  
confidence.   Graves   solved   the   riddles   and   deciphered   the   poems  —   to  
his   own   satisfaction   —   revealing   them   as   records   of   the   defeat   of  
goddess-­‐worship   in   Britain   around   400   BC,   and   its   replacement   by  
patriarchy  and  the  worship  of  male  gods.    
Graves   was   convinced   that   the   inspiration   for   his   book   came   from  
the   Muse   Goddess,   the   moon-­‐goddess   or   ‘White   Goddess’   who,   he  
came   to   believe,   was   the   object   of   all   pre-­‐patriarchal   religion.   He  
believed   that   he   owed   his   poetry   to   her,   and   that   she   had   inspired   all  
the   true   poets   of   the   past.   He   was   also   convinced   that   society   would  
return   to   her   worship   in   the   future,   after   the   breakdown   of   male-­‐
dominated   industrial   civilisation.   Not   that   this   was   necessarily   an  
entirely   pleasant   prospect,   for   Graves   also   thought   that   the   Goddess  

  18  
had   her   cruel   aspects.   She   might   demand   human   sacrifice,   and   would  
certainly  make  people  suffer.  
His  urgent  sense  of  inspiration,  and  the  fascinating  book  it  produced  
—  eventually  published  as  The  White  Goddess  in  1948  —  were  undoubt-­‐
edly  real  enough.  To  Graves  the  Goddess  was  an  actual  entity;  and  she  
has   become   an   inspiring   presence   in   the   lives   of   many   people   who   have  
read   his   book.   A   whole   host   of   Pagans   and   enthusiasts   for   a   ‘Celtic’  
culture  based  more  on  the  Romantic  imagination  than  on  archaeological  
evidence   have   followed   in   Graves’s   footsteps.   But   has   the   White  
Goddess  really  anything  to  do  with  the  religion  of  the  Celts  (about  which  
in   fact   we   know   very   little)?   Probably   not.   The   Goddess,   as   Graves  
depicted  her,  is  surely  shaped  in  the  terms  of  the  modern  imagination.  
She   is   a   composite   goddess,   made   up   of   aspects   from   a   wide   range   of  
ancient   goddesses   from   Europe   and   the   Middle   East,   and   mixed   with  
Graves’s   personal   quirks   —   he   was   something   of   a   masochist,   and   the  
idea  of  a  cruel  goddess  had  a  special  appeal  for  him.  
Academic  scholars  of  Celtic  culture  have  rejected  almost  all  Graves’s  
interpretations  —  whilst  continuing  to  delight  in  the  stream  of  students  
who   come   to   enrol   for   Celtic   Studies   after   being   inspired   by   his   book.  
Yet   though   Graves   may   not   have   produced   reliable   interpretations   of  
early   Welsh   poetry,   he   certainly   created   an   imaginative   world   and   a  
system  of  symbolism  which  has  proved  powerful  and  enduring.  
And   even   that   is   not   the   whole   story.   Not   only   do   the   complexity  
and   intensity   of   The   White   Goddess   show   it   as   an   exceptionally   rich  
book,   a   staggering   creative   feat.   It   also   introduced   ideas   of   feminist  
spirituality   at   a   time   when   these   were   hardly   discussed   in   western  
culture,  and  it  warned  of  an  ecological  crisis  which  almost  no  one  else  in  
the   1940s   could   foresee.   Where   did   all   this   come   from?     If   Graves   felt  
that  his  work  had  been  galvanised  by  a  visiting  intelligence  which  took  
him   far   beyond  what  he  could  have  done  unaided,  perhaps  he  was  right  
—  even  if  his  vision  of  that  intelligence  was  shaped  and  distorted  by  his  
own   personality.   Certainly   for   me   it   is   hard   to   reconcile   the   idea   of   a  
goddess   who   inspires   poetry,   love   and   scholarship   with   the   vision   of   a  
cruel   female   deity   thirsting   for   blood.   And   yet   again,   I   am   checked   by  
the   thought   that   the   compassionate   deities   of   Tibetan   tradition   have  
their  wrathful  aspects.  The  riddle  remains.  

  19  
 I  wrote  above  about  ‘living  centres  of  psychic  energy’,  and  perhaps  
this   is   the   best   formulation   I   can   find.   It   was   surely   one   of   these   that  
Robert   Graves   encountered.   Whether   such   entities   dwell   in   higher  
cosmic   realms,   in   the   individual   psyche,   or   in   the   ‘Collective  
Unconscious’   proposed   by   Jung,   is   something   we   could   argue   about  
endlessly.   Certainly,   if   I   understand   the   suttas   correctly,   the   Buddha  
implies  that  we  can  at  times  contact  such  beings  in  meditation.  
I   have   no   idea   whether   The   White   Goddess   is   accurate   in   its  
explorations  of  Celtic  culture   —  the  secret  lore  of  the  tree  alphabet,  the  
interpretation  of  the  Battle  of  the  Trees  as  a  poem  about  the  overthrow  
of  matriarchal  culture,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  But  it  is  a  book  that  casts  a  
powerful   spell.   I   discovered   it   at   sixteen   and   have   never   ceased   to   be  
fascinated  by  it.  The  opportunity  to  produce  a  new  and  more  accurate  
edition   of   it   in   1997   was   a   delight   and   an   honour   for   me,   a   chance   to  
repay   something   of   the   debt   I   felt   I   owed   to   the   book,   and   to   Robert  
Graves,   for   a   lifetime   of   inspiration.   And   beyond   the   book   itself,   I   also  
cherish  the  notion  of  an  inspiring  goddess,  one  who  has  many  faces  and  
turns  up  in  many  cultures,  who  shows  herself  to  me  at  certain  moments  
in   the   woman   I   love,   and   who   every   so   often   may   give   an   extra   touch   of  
magic   to   a   poem   I   write.   I   don’t   have   any   feeling   that   she   demands  
human   sacrifice.   As   far   as   I’m   concerned,   impermanence,   old   age,  
sickness  and  death  will  see  to  that  anyway.  
For   me   the   Goddess   has   a   certain   reality,   as   a   helper,   a   friend,  
someone   living   on   a   different   plane   from   me   but   still   a   part   of  samsara,  
destined   no   doubt   in   the   end   to   die   and   be   reborn   into   this   human  
world,   even   if   she   perhaps   doesn’t   yet   know   it   herself.   So   I   felt  
honoured   as   well   as   amazed   that   she   —   or   one   of   her   aspects   —   paid  
me  that  startling  visit  on  my  first  night  in  Colombia.  And  I  felt  sure  that  
someone  who  knew  the  local  Afro-­‐Caribbean  religion  would  be  able  to  
tell  me  more  about  her.  
I   found   a   babalawu   —   a   shaman   —   in   the   Yellow   Pages   (easy  
enough   in   South   America)   and   went   to   tell   him   about   my   dream.   ‘The  
lady  you  dreamed  of  was  Ochun,’  he  told  me,  ‘the  goddess  of  the  river,  
of   the   moon   and   of   copper.   She   granted   you   a   vision   of   herself.   The  
three  kisses  were  three  tests  which  she  set  you,  and  you  passed  them.  
She   is   telling   you   that   she   loves   you   and   will   take   care   of   you.’   The  
babalawu   advised   me   to   get   a   picture   of   Ochun,   and   told   me   that   when  
I  got  home  I  should  offer  her  five  eggs,  five  candles  and  five  yams.  

  20  
 I   took   his   advice.   In   Panama   City   not   long   afterwards   I   noticed   a  
shop  with  a  sign  that  said  ‘Esoterica’.  I  went  in,  and  asked  if  they  had  a  
picture   of   Ochun.   Yes,   indeed,   I   was   told,   and   the   lady   behind   the  
counter  gave  me  a  little  plastic-­‐covered  Catholic  picture  of  Our  Lady  of  
Charity  of  Copper  —  a  miraculous  statue  of  the  Virgin  Mary  enthroned  
in   Cuba   on   a   mountain   where   copper   was   mined,   and   who   is   now  
honoured  as  the  patroness  of  Cuba.  In  my  picture  she  floats  above  the  
water,   on   a   crescent   moon,   in   a   blue   robe   just   the   same   shade   as   the  
dress  she  wore  in  my  dream.  To  the  Catholics  she  is  the  Blessed  Virgin;  
to   followers   of   Santería,   the   Afro-­‐Caribbean   religion   that   grew   up  
amongst  the  slaves  of  the  New  World,  she  is  Ochun;  perhaps  to  Robert  
Graves  she  would  have  been  an  aspect  of  the  White  Goddess.  
I  don’t  know  what  she  will  do  with  the  eggs  and  the  yams,  bless  her,  
but   I   enjoyed   offering   them   to   her.   They’re   near   me   as   I   write,   on   a  
small  table,  in  two  dishes,  with  a  couple  of  candles,  in  front  of  my  little  
picture  of  Ochun  —  alias  Our  Lady  of  Charity  of  Copper,  alias,  perhaps,  
the   White   Goddess.   In   a   day   or   two   I   shall   take   them   out,   as   the  
babalawu   instructed   me,   and   leave   them   in   a   forest   somewhere.   But  
right  now  it’s  time  for  me  to  do  my  meditation  and  try  to  take  another  
tiny  step  on  the  path  that  leads  beyond  the  gods,  those  fellow-­‐travellers  
of  ours  on  the  path  to  enlightenment.  
 

 
 
   

  21  
  

 
 
 
 
 
This  is  not  about  a  lake.  
The  dark  water  goes  down  deep,  beyond  fathoming,  
Beyond  turbulence,  it  stands  
Tranquil,  time  halts  over  its  stillness.  
The  eye,  the  heart  cease  their  incessant  search,  
The  endless  scuffling  in  the  handbag  
For  the  lost  precious  something,  held  
By  its  light-­‐brimmed  clarity.  
The  mind’s  chatter  falls  quiet:  there  is  nothing  
That  it  can  add  to  this,  nothing  
It  can  find  to  lack.  
‘The  immaculate  
Looking  naturally  at  itself.’  
 
 
 
 

  22  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
DÉJÀ  VU  
1965  —  Cambridge:  weak  electrical  signals  from  distant  radio  stars  recorded  as  
pen  traces  on  paper  tape  …  
2010  —  Greenstreete:  weak  electrical  signals  from  meditators’  brains  recorded  as  
traces  on  laptop  screen    …  
 
Over   40   years   ago,   Nai   Boonman   suggested   we   might   someday  
carry  out  research  into  the  effects  of  meditation  on  the  brain.  In  
2010,  during  a  ten-­‐day  practice  period  at  Greenstreete,  we  made  
a   start   by   recording   the   electroencephalograms   (EEGs)   of   twelve  
meditators   over   periods   of   about     ten   minutes   each   as   they  
practiced   both   rūpa   and   arūpa   jhāna,   as   well   as   the   arousing   of  
energy   that   we   fondly   refer   to   as   “psychic-­‐power”   practice.   The  
recordings   were   made   using   nineteen   electrodes,   positioned   on  
the   head   according   to   the   international   system   that   allows  
different   EEG   studies   to   be   compared,   and   connected   to   an   EEG  
amplifier   and   laptop   analysis   system.   Although   there   have   been  
other  EEG  studies  of  the  effects  of  meditation,  this  is  the  first  time  
we  have  been  able  to  look  at  the  effects  of  Samatha  practice.  
What   is   described   here   is   very   provisional.   It   will   take   much  
time  and  many  more  recordings  before  we  can  begin  to  develop  a  
detailed  understanding  of  the  effects  of  meditation  on  the  brain.  
However,  these  early  readings  are  offered  to  give  a  taste  of  what  
we   are   seeing   so   far.   Several   meditators’   commented   on   the  

  23  
satisfaction  –  and  in  some  cases,  surprise  –  they  felt  in  seeing  that  
their   meditation   practice   actually   has   very   real   effects   on   their  
brain  waves.    
1.    RŪPA  /  ARŪPA  JHĀNA  
Meditator  
    A:  rūpa  jhāna  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
Each   electrical   trace   is   from   an   electrode   pair   at   different  
positions   on   the   meditator’s   head.   These   signals   are   then  
converted   into   2-­‐dimensional   plots   of   activity   in   the   different   EEG  
frequency  bands.  For  this  meditator,  activity  is  focused  in  the  left  
frontal   cortex,   in   the   theta   band   (4.0–8.0   Hz),   known   to   be  
associated  with  deep  relaxation.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
In   “normal”   daily   activity,   theta   waves   are   overshadowed   by  
higher   frequency   alpha   and   beta   waves,   and   theta   activity   tends  
to   come   more   at   the   borders   of   sleep.   In   meditation,   however,  
theta   activity   develops   as   part   of   a   highly   alert   state,   and   this  
meditator  was  giving  attention  to  a  strong  visual  nimitta.  

  24  
Meditator  A:  arūpa  jhāna  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
     
When  this  meditator  moved  into  developing  arūpa  jhāna  and    let  
go   of   attending   to   the   nimitta,   the   electrical   activity   changed  
dramatically.   The   two-­‐dimensional   plots   show   that   the   intense  
focus   shifted   to   the   right   parietal   lobe,   which,   among   other  
functions,   is   known   to   be   involved   in   the   integration   of   spatial  
representations.  The  intense  energisation  also  spread  to  the  low-­‐
frequency   (0–4   Hz)   delta   band.   Normally,   this   is   found   mainly   in  
deep   sleep.   Here,   however,   it   occurs   as   part   of   the   highly   aware  
meditative  state.      
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
This   meditator   acknowledged   being   at   a   fairly   early   stage   in  
developing  arūpa  jhāna,  and  was  strongly  encouraged  to  see  the  
dramatic   change   brought   about   by   the   shift   between   rūpa   and  
arūpa  practice.  

  25  
Meditator  B:  arūpa  jhāna  
This   example   shows   the   arūpa   jhāna   practice   of   a   more  
experienced   meditator.   The   raw   electrical   signals   show   highly  
synchronised  activity  (top  to  bottom  traces)  across  large  areas  of  
the   brain.   This   is   confirmed   by   the   two-­‐dimensional   plots,   which  

also   show   very   large   areas   of   the   brain   across   the   frontal,   parietal  
and   rear   occipital   areas   as   being   highly   energised.   Again,   the  
frequency   range   is   strongest   in   the   theta   band,   but   the   lower  
frequency  delta  band  is  also  strongly  energised.    
 
 
 
 
 
 
     
   
These  two  examples  suggest  that  the  deep  “relaxation”  associated  
with  delta-­‐band    activity  —  and,  normally,  deep  sleep  —  may  be  
developed   in   a   more   active   form   in   the   deep   “absorption”   of  
arūpa  jhāna.  
 
 

  26  
 2.    ENERGISATION  /  PĪTI  /  “PSYCHIC  POWER”  PRACTICE  
Meditator  C    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
This   is   an   historic   picture.   It   is   the   first   recorded   EEG   of   an  
experienced   meditator   demonstrating   “psychic   power”   practice.  
What   is   surprising   about   this   image   is   that   it   is   virtually  
indistinguishable  from  an  epileptic  seizure.  In  this  case,  however,  
the   meditator   retained   complete   control   over   the   process   of  
leaving  and  entering  that  state.  
Meditator  D  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
   
 
 
This   record   was   taken   of   a   different   meditator   with   substantial  
prior   experience   of   the   arousal   of   pīti,   but   who   had   only   been  
practising   the   formal   “psychic-­‐power”   energisation   practice   for   a  
relatively   short   time.   Notice   how   the   meditation   practice   is  
intensified   after   the   “psychic-­‐power”   burst,   compared   to   the  

  27  
relatively   “flat”   signals   seen   immediately   before   this   occurs.   This  
may   illustrate   the   power   of   this   technique   as   a   “short   cut”   to  
intensify  and  deepen  the  practice.  The  following  two-­‐dimensional  
plots  are  from  the  “after”  portion  of  the  linear  record  and,  for  this  
meditator,  show  intense  activity  in  two  areas,  left  frontal  and  left  
parietal.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
There   are   conflicting   views   on   whether   or   not   meditation   could  
benefit   epilepsy   sufferers,   and   there   are   very   few   useful   studies  
on  this  subject  so  far.  Some  have  suggested  that  meditation  might  
actually   provoke   seizures,   while   others   believe   it   might   help.  
These   different   views   should   come   as   no   surprise,   since   more  
open   and   undirected   meditation   practices   do   not   develop   the  
same   control   of   attention   as   Samatha   practice   does.   Hence,   those  
practices  might  well  be  dangerous  in  that  they  have  the  potential  
to   stimulate   uncontrolled   excitation   in   a   person   predisposed   to  
seizures.   In   Samatha,   however,   we   spend   a   lot   of   time   carefully  
developing   the   ability   to   choose   whether   or   not   to   respond   to  
sensory  stimuli  (vitakka/vicāra).  These  recordings  therefore  make  
me  wonder  whether  aspects  of  our  practice  might  potentially  be  
useful  as  a  supportive  epilepsy  treatment.    
I  hope  this  introductory  account  will  stimulate  some  interest.  By  
the   time   it   is   published,   you   may   have   received   an   invitation   to  
participate  in  this  study.  

  28  
  

 
IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  BROKEN  BUDDHAS  
Bamiyan  Valley,  Afghanistan  
A   couple   of   years   ago,   I   found   myself   in   Afghanistan,   sitting   in   for   the  
head   of   a   project   running   Master’s   degree   programs   in   Public   Admin-­‐
istration   and   Computer   Science   at   Kabul   University.   Kabul   is   a   packed,  
dusty,  and  sometimes  very  tense  city  but  it  can  also  be  very  charming.  If  
things   go   even   moderately   well   it   is   going   to   be   gorgeous   again.   And  
there   are   signs   of   progress.   In   2001,   there   were   fewer   than   4,000  
university  students  in  the  country.  Today  there  are  over  37,000.  
Yet   it   can   feel   oppressive,   slinking   around   Kabul   in   order   not   to   be   a  
target.  Logic  says  that,  with  certain  safe  practices,  your  odds  are  better  
than  excellent.  Nonetheless,  the  killing  of  internationals  gets  under  your  
skin.     The   first   one   during   my   stay   was   targeted   because   she   worked   for  
a   Christian   non-­‐profit.   She   was   proselytizing,   or   so   the   Talibs   said.   She  
was  also  walking  to  work,  using  the  same  route,  and  at  the  same  time  
every  day—all  rather  unwise  choices.    
A  couple  of  days  later,  a  guard  at  an  international  shipping  company  
decided   to   turn   his   AK-­‐47   on   the   Director   and   Deputy   Director   as   they  
arrived   to   work   in   the   morning.,   then   against   himself.   No   one   claimed  
credit   and   the   Talibs   issued   an   uncharacteristic   statement   denying  
responsibility.   Then   came   the   text   messages   from   security   monitoring  
firms   to   avoid   restaurants   owing   to   unspecified   threat.   Not   that   these  
places   felt   entirely   safe   before—running   from   closed   space   to   closed  
space,  the  windows  blacked,  the  guards  opening  slits  in  the  metal  gates  
as  if  you  are  entering  a  speakeasy  (sometimes,  you  are).  A  friend,  who  
helps  train  teachers  and  develop  curricula  for  primary  schools,  received  
a  threatening  letter:  “Stop  your  work  or  be  beheaded.  If  you  have  any  
questions  please  call  the  following  number  …”  

  29  
 One   day   I   went   to   the   reconstructed   garden   and   grave   of   Babur  
Shah,  Emperor  Babur  who  died  in  1530.  Babur's  fountains  and  orchards  
were  built  on  the  slopes  of  the  mountain  ring  overlooking  the  city  now  
scarred   and   choked   with   dust.   Homemade   kites   of   every   color   dive  
(were   diving?)   and   dart   (darting?)   like   goldfish   above   the   dust   clouds  
and  their  strings  arc  and  sway  tenuously  to  all  sides  of  town,  tugged  by  
children  who  —  or  so  I  imagine  —  scarcely  remember  the  Talibs.  There  
is   a   youth   who   sometimes   goes   to   the   garden   to   play   flute   poems   of  
Persian   antiquity   that   reverberate   naturally   among   those   walls.   The  
sound   is   very   delicate   and   very   precious,   like   the   kites,   and   the   little  
shops   opening,   and   the   many   thousands   of   children   walking   home   from  
school  in  that  pock-­‐marked  mess  beneath  that  blood-­‐streaked  sky.    That  
was  when  I  realized  that  I  liked  Kabul.  
The  more  I  reflect,  I  see  that  this  experience  taught  me  something  
very   important   about   development   and   culture.   Several   international  
foundations  collaborated  in  the  project  to  reconstruct  Babur’s  gardens,  
his   marble   tomb   and   mosque.   They   trained   docents,   who   very   earnestly  
recite   their   talks   in   English,   Dari   and   Pashto.   The   outcome   of   these  
efforts   is   a   communal   space   in   which   art   from   Persian,   Afghan,   and  
Pakistani   traditions   is   displayed,   and   where   international   colloquia   are  
held.  On  Fridays,  Afghan  families  and  international  visitors  walk  around  
the  gardens,  conversing  normally  and  pleasantly.  
Under   the   Talibs’   rule,   all   forms   of   representation   —     music,   film,  
painting,  and  sculpture  —  were  strictly  prohibited.  I  understood  that  the  
reconstruction  of  this  social  space  with  its  many  uses  —  the  flute  music,  
the  art,  the  learned  colloquia,  and  the  merely  social  conversations  —  is  
an  effort  to  repair  the  damage  caused  by  after  thirty  years  of  strife;  to  
reclaim   something   normal,   nourishing   and   real;   to   rescue   a   shared  
imagined  past;    and  to  construct  an  imagined  common  future.    
Near   the   end   of   my   stay   in   Afghanistan   I   made   a   solo   trip   to  
Bamiyan  Valley,  the  place  where  the  Talibs  destroyed  the  2,000-­‐year-­‐old  
Buddharūpas.    I'd  heard  it  was  a  peaceful  valley  of  staggering  antiquity.  
The   Governor   is   a   woman.   New   Zealander   troops   from   the   Provincial  
Reconstruction   Team   walk   around   town   freely.   I   hoped   to   hike   up   to  
cavities   where   the   2,000-­‐year-­‐old   Buddhas   used   to   look   out   over   the  
valley,  and  maybe  sit  there  in  a  monk’s  garret  carved  into  the  stone.    
 

  30  
 The   dual   prop   UN   plane   arched   in   low   over   the   bone   dry   hills   and  
landed   on   the   gravel   strip.   I   stepped   out   into   a   crisp   valley   under   gray  
sky.   I   was   met   by   Arif   Yosufi,   Chancellor   of   Bamiyan   University,   who  
drove   me   to   the   Roof   of   Bamiyan   Hotel   situated   on   a   plateau   over-­‐
looking   the   town.   The   Chancellor   and   I   joked   that   the   project   was  
making   me   sleep   on   the   Roof   to   save   money.   A   delicate   golden   light  
began   to   peek   through   the   clouds,   giving   the   sandstone   cliffs   and   whole  
valley   a   warm   glow.   Sheep   picked   among   the   tidy   potato   fields;  
permanent  snows  up  the  mountain  fed  a  turgid  creek  that  rolled  down  
and  out  across  them.  I  noted  small  details  of  careful  stewardship  of  the  
land:   rock   walls   and   trees   shaping   the   creek,   terraces,   a   network   of  
shallow  irrigation  ditches.    
This   high   mountain   valley  
made   me   feel   as   if   I   was   in  
Tibet,   or   that   some   similar  
tradition   resonated   there.   And  
indeed,  the  valley  is  considered  
to  be  one  of  the  birth  places  of  
Mahayana   Buddhism.   The  
people  who  live  here  are  ethnic  
Hazara,   of   mixed   Mongol,  
Chinese   and   Tibetan   blood.   For  
more   than   a   thousand   years,  
these   people   have   been  
Muslims.    
Something  held  tight  within  me  loosened.  I  dropped  my  backpack  in  
my  room  and  poked  around  the  central  hall:  lathed  wooden  chairs  set  in  
a  square,  a  tin  wood  stove  with  chimney  shining  in  the  center,  rugs  and  
Bamiyan   wall   hangings   of   intricate   woven   wool.     I   stepped   out   and  
drifted  toward  an  outbuilding  where  the  two  owners  of  the  hotel  were  
sitting.   Their   names   were   Shir   and   Razaq.   I   asked   if   I   could   get   some-­‐
thing  to  eat,  and  Razaq  went  inside  to  prepare  an  omelet  and  black  tea  
with   milk.   I   looked   out   over   the   valley,   the   town,   and   the   sandstone  
cliffs  dotted  with  hundreds  of  caves  and  niches.    
A  sheep  bleated.    
"It's  very  quiet,"  I  said  to  Shir.    
He  nodded.  "Bamiyan  is  peace.    There  are  no  assholes  here."  

  31  
  
 
 
 
 
 
Shir  and  Rezaq  used  to  sell  carpets  and  handicrafts  in  Kabul  during  
the  1970s.  They  recalled  fond  memories  of  parties  with  Peace  Corps  vol-­‐
unteers  and  friendships  with  roving  hippies.  “It  was  like  a  dream,”  said  
Shir  —  until  the  Soviet  invasion  inaugurated  thirty  years  of  turmoil  and  
flight,   of   making   do   and   getting   by.   Shir   lived   in   India,   Italy   and   for   a  
while,  I  think,  Pakistan.  He  came  home  briefly  to  visit  family  during  the  
Taliban  time,  his  beard  grown  long  to  blend  in.  Even  so  he  was  harassed  
at   a   Talib   checkpoint   for   having   a   pack   of   cigarettes   in   his   pocket.   He  
and   Razaq   started   the   hotel   just   months   after   the   Talibs   were   routed.  
They  do  a  brisk  tourist  business,  in  the  summer  months  at  least.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
I  spent  the  next  day  at    Bamiyan  University.    BU  opened  its  doors  a  few  
years  before  the  Talibs  captured  control  of  the  country,  and  then  ceased  
operation   the   entire   time   they   were   in   power.   Today   they   offer  
Bachelor’s   degrees   in   Agriculture   and   Education,   with   the   express  
mission  of  contributing  to  the  development  of  the  valley's  teachers  and  
expanding   its   viable   revenue   crops.     Chancellor   Yosufi   is   a   very   gentle  
and   extremely   dedicated   man   with   features   that   could   be   either  
Mongol,   or   Tibetan.   Before   assuming   the   role   of   Chancellor   of   BU,  
Yosufi   studied   mechanical   engineering   in   Russia,   after   which   he   did   a  
turn  as  a  producer  of  educational  programs  for  children  on  BBC.  
 

  32  
 We   started   the   morning   by   visit-­‐
ing   the   graduation   ceremony   of   ten  
new   secondary   school   teachers   from  
Bamiyan   Teacher   Training   College.   A  
long   ribbon   with   ten   bows   was  
brought   out.   Yosufi   and   the   College  
Principal   cut   the   bows   one   by   one,  
while   the   assembly   clapped.   We  
toured   the   new   biology,   physics   and  
chemistry  labs,  and  a  library  donated  
by   a   German   development   agency.  
The   college   was   right   at   the   feet   of  
the   cliffs.   Since   I   was   unable   to   follow  
the  proceedings  in  Dari,  I  stood  in  the  
courtyard   studying   caves   and   niches  
where  smaller  Buddharūpas  once  sat.    
Yosufi   and   I   went   back   to   BU   and   spent   a   couple   of   hours   touring  
the  University,  and  meeting  faculty  and  staff.  They  told  me  about  their  
many  sources  of  donations,  their  plans  to  add  several  new  departments,  
and  their  wish  to  move  to  a  new  location.  They  recited  an  endless  list  of  
needs   and   wants.   I   got   the   impression   that   they   would   accept   whatever  
donors  offered,  regardless  of  how  —  or  even  whether  —  it  fit  into  their  
strategies   for   building   the   institution.   The   single   largest   challenge   they  
face  is  keeping  the  quality  of  instruction  high.    In  Afghanistan  the  lack  of  
human   resources   has   led   to   the   creation   of   a   system   where   any  
undergraduate  earning  an  average  grade  of  more  than  70%  can  apply  to  
become   a   university   lecturer.   They   must   then   pass   a   qualifying   exam  
and   state   their   preferences   as   to   which   university   they   wish   to   join.    
Lecturers   earn   a   pittance,   so   they   must   seek   out   other   jobs   to   make  
ends  meet.      Bamiyan  Valley  doesn’t  have  any  such  jobs  that  would  help  
to  attract  and  keep  talented  lecturers.    
After  my  visit  with  Yosufi  I  went  to  sit  in  the  Lincoln  Center  to  work  
on   my   proposal.   The   Center   is   a   sort   of   American   Cultural   center  
donated   by   the   U.S.:   an   impressive   brick   building   with   a   conference  
room,   two   rooms   for   computer   labs,   solar   panels,   and   six   guest   rooms  
for   visiting   lecturers.   One   of   the   labs   was   equipped   very   smartly   with   16  
desktops  and  a  large  plasma  monitor  for  the  instructor  to  use.  Two  large  
wooden   tables   were   in   the   center,   and   the   walls   were   lined   with   books.  

  33  
It  felt  like  a  well-­‐equipped  middle  school  library.  Some  of  the  books  on  
the   shelves   seemed   glaringly   irrelevant,   such   as   Peter   Drucker’s   The  
Purpose   of   the   Corporation.   Still,   people   came   to   practice   reading   in  
English.   The   most   popular   books   were   easy-­‐reading   children’s   books  
and  Barack  Obama’s  The  Audacity  of  Hope.  
I  sat  there  for  a  few  hours  sketching  out  a  proposal  to  help  develop  
and   implement   a   knowledge   management   and   technology   strategy   for  
the   University,   something   that  
would   help   give   some   order   to  
the   myriad   donations,   and  
serve   as   a   repository   and  
support   of   session   plans   and  
training   aids   for   BU   lecturers.  
After  a  while  the  instructor  and  
manager  of  the  center  brought  
a  simple  meal  of  rice,  potatoes  
and   sauce,   some   radishes   and  
local   greens,   some   flatbread  
and  tea  for  us  to  share.    
We   finished   lunch   and   I   had   begun   to   work   again,   when   we   heard  
an  explosion  from  one  corner  of  the  valley,  near  the  remains  of  Shar-­‐I-­‐
Ghulghulah,   a   citadel   dating   from   the   sixth   to   the   tenth   centuries.   We  
paid   little   attention,   as   the   New   Zealand   troops   train   Afghan   police   in  
that  area  most  days.    
Later   that   afternoon,   the   library   started   filling   up   with   young   men  
seeking   to   practice   reading   or   use   the   Internet.   Deciding   I   had   done  
enough   work   for   that   day,   I   rejoined   Yosufi   in   his   office.   He   offered   to  
take  me  to  visit  the  Buddhas.  We  got  into  his  Landcruiser  and  set  off.    As  
we   rolled   out   through   the   gate,   Yosufi   told   me   the   cause   of   the  
explosion   we   had   heard.   A   de-­‐miner   had   triggered   the   explosion   and  
died  while  removing  mines  from  the  ruins  of  the  citadel.  

  34  
 We   drove   to   the   base   of   the  
cliffs   and   paid   a   few   Afghani   for   the  
right   to   pass   through   the   gate   and  
inspect   the   site   of   the   destroyed  
Buddharūpas   with   its   network   of  
hundreds   of   caves.   As   we   walked,  
Yosufi  explained  that  one  of  his  BBC  
programs   had   won   an   award   for  
children’s   education.   One   of   the  
young   listeners   sent   in   the  
question:   “Why   can’t   we   see   the  
stars   during   the   day?”   Yosufi   and  
some  children  conducted  an  experi-­‐
ment.    They  filled  a  wide  bowl  with  
water   and   put   it   outside.   When  
night   had   fallen   they   looked   at   the  
water   and   saw   the   stars   brightly  
reflected  within  it.  Then  Yosufi  lit  a  
candle   and   slowly   moved   it   closer  
and   closer   to   the   dish   so   that   the  
light   of   the   candle   gradually   over-­‐
powered  the  reflected  starlight..    
We   walked   to   the   feet   of   the  
Buddhas—or   rather,   their   remains.  
White   canvas   was   draped   over  
mounds   of   stone   at   the   bases   of  
the   alcoves   to   protect   what  
remained  of  the  statues.  Yosufi  said  
that  a  German  university  has  taken  
3-­‐D   images   of   the   pieces   and  
matched   them   by   computer  
program   to   a   model   of   the   original  
statues,   hoping   to   reassemble   the  
pieces   and   fill   in   the   spaces  
between  them  with  clay  cement.    

  35  
 We   ducked   into   the   hewn  
stone   stairwell   of   a   nearby   cave  
and  clambered  our  way  up  the  dark  
stairs,   ascending   next   to   the  
Buddha  niche.  We  poked  around  in  
the  caves  at  the  top,  coming  at  last  
to   a   point   overlooking   the   valley  
from   behind   the   head   of   the   large  
Buddha.  Then,  leaving  the  overlook  
behind,   we   came   upon   a   series   of  
caves   that   may   have   been   monks’  
garrets.   Most   of   these   were   very  
simple,   with   beautiful   views   of   the  
valley,   but,   from   time   to   time,   we  
would   come   upon   a   dome-­‐shaped  
shrine   or   temple   cave   whose   walls  
were  carved  with  layers  over  layers  of  niches  extending  from  the  floor  
to   the   heights   of   the   ceiling.   At   the   very   top   center   of   the   ceiling   one  
could  make  out  carved  mandalas.    
It  appeared  that  each  of  the  little  
alcoves   must   have   once   held   a  
Buddha  or  deity,  and  later,  as  I  played  
with   the   contrast   on   the   images   it  
seemed   possible   to   discern   the  
outlines   of   other   figures   between  
these   niches.   In   the   center   of   one  
cave,   it   appeared   possible   to   discern  
the  profile  of  a  meditator.  
One   out   of   every   5-­‐10   rooms  
appeared   to   be   a   shrine,   amounting  
to  hundreds  of  caves  in  this  cliff  alone  
and   many   thousands   of   monastery  
caves  throughout  the  valley,  which,  it  
seemed   to   me,   might   well   be   called  
“the  Valley  of  Countless  Buddhas.”      
 
 

  36  
  
I  didn’t  expect  to  find  the  caves  so  sad.  Virtually  every  trace  of  the  
original  Buddhist  images  or  forms  had  been  pried  or  chipped  off,  burnt,  
scraped   away,   or   scrawled   over.  
The   destroyed   artifacts   included  
statues   from   a   distant   time   and  
culture   in   which   Buddhism   was  
combined   with   Hellenistic  
religion   and   Buddharūpas   often  
appeared  alongside  deities  of  the  
Greek   pantheon.   They   also  
included   the   oldest   known   oil  
paintings   in   the   world.     All  
destroyed.    By  Shir’s  “assholes.”  
I   spent   the   next   morning   finishing   up   the   Bamiyan   University  
proposal,   then   in   mid-­‐afternoon   caught   a   ride   with   Shir   to   the   bazaar.  
Among   the   goods   on   sale   were   Bamiyan   rugs;   locally   made   jewelry   with  
delicately   inter-­‐laced   silver   strands;   an   odd   assortment   of   old   brass  
compasses,   sextants   and   binoculars   from   London,   some   stamped   with  
the   date   1914;   and   Soviet   coat   pins.   I   understood   that   people   had  
brought   these   things   from   their   homes   and   sold   them   to   the   antique  
shop.    
There   were   post   cards   showing   Talib   tanks   firing   on   the   Buddha  
statues.  
There   were   coins,   some   real   some   counterfeit,   spanning   periods  
from   Alexander   the   Great   to   the   1970s.   Mixed   among   the   coins   were  
little  plaster  cast  sculptures  of  the  heads  of  Buddhas.    
“Those  are  new”  said  the  antique  seller.    
Shir  nodded,  “they  wouldn’t  lie  to  you  with  me  here.”      
You  could  see  the  lines  from  the  molds  on  the  fake  Buddha  heads,  
but   I   don’t   know   if   I   could   have   guessed   the   true   age   of   some   of   the  
coins.   I   hoped   I   could   find   something   that   would   give   me   a   sense   of  
connection   with   the   ancient   Buddhist   roots   of   the   Valley   that   still  
seemed  somehow  present.    
 

  37  
 Among   the   knock-­‐off   Chinese   Buddhas   with   big   bellies,   and   the   fake  
Buddhas  resembling  those  still  being  found  out  in  the  dust  all  these  eras  
later,  I  saw  a  smoothed  disc  of  agate  rock,  cross-­‐banded  with  silver  and  
adorned  with  a  very  delicate  image  of  a  nun,  or  perhaps  a  boddhisatva,  
seated   in   meditation.   It   seemed   to   be   local   silver   work   from   thirty   or  
more  years  ago,  characterized  by  a  quality  of  delicate  skill  that  has  since  
been  lost.  It  struck  me  that  the  artist  had  crafted  the  image  not  so  much  
out   of   reverence   as   from   a   sense   of   local   identity.   I   felt   a   small   but  
definite  rush  of  greed,  together  with  heightened  curiosity,  and  growing  
amazement.    
“Do  you  have  any  old  Buddhas?”  I  was  almost  ashamed  to  ask,  as  if  
it  made  me  complicit  in  the  wholesale  raiding  of  Afghanistan’s  cultural  
treasures.  Still,  I  really  wanted  to  know.    
The   antique   dealer   took   me   to   an   adjacent   shop   and   from   behind  
the  counter  took  out  a  large  bundle  of  cotton  and  slowly  unwrapped  it  
to  reveal  the  head  of  a  clay  sculpture  of  one  of  the  Buddhist  kings  of  the  
Kushan   Dynasty,   which   ended   around   150   A.D.   He   took   out   another  
bundle   and   unwrapped   it   to   show   the   head   of   a   Buddha.   There   were  
two   more   Buddhas   and   one   more   Kushan   king.   All   of   them   had   been  
sculpted  with  clay  and  sandstone,  and  you  could  still  make  out  that  they  
had   been   painted.   On   the   back   were   the   marks   where   at   some   time  
they   had   been   attached   to   the   wall   of   a   cave.   Every   one   of   them   was  
decapitated.    
I   stood   for   many   long   minutes   with   a   two-­‐thousand-­‐year-­‐old  
Buddha  head  in  my  hands.  The  ‘great  man’  signs  were  there—the  long  
delicate  ears,  and  the  curls  in  the  hair.  They  were  very  recognizable  and,  
as   a   result,   felt   timeless.   I   wanted   to   continue   holding   them,   studying  
their   every   detail   and   feeling   a   sense   of   awe   and   timelessness.   What  
else   could   one   do   with   the   head   of   a   two-­‐thousand-­‐year-­‐old   Buddha-­‐
rūpa?   I   suppose   the   rightful   place   of   such   things   would   be   in   a   shrine   or  
museum.   I   was   somewhat   disturbed   to   observe   a   sort   of   active   dis-­‐
interest  in  these  images  on  the  part  of  the  local  people,  as  if  they  were  
only   valued   for   what   foreigners   would   pay   for   them,   rather   than   for  
their  connection  to  the  place.    

  38  
 I   thanked   the   vendor.   He   was  
reluctant   to   let   me   take   photo-­‐
graphs   of   the   Buddhas,   or   I   would  
have  done  so.  He  showed  me  some  
coins  that  appeared  to  be  from  the  
early   Greek   period,   and   some   from  
the   Kushan   dynasty.   One   featured  
someone   sitting   in   meditation   and,  
on  the  reverse  side,  a  haloed  figure  
standing   with   arms   outstretched  
over   what   appeared   to   be   four  
flames.   My   immediate   impression  
was  that  it  might  show  the  Buddha  
on   the   point   of   attaining   enlightenment,   and   then   going   forward   to  
teach   the   Four   Noble   Truths,   but  
subsequent   research   discover-­‐ed   a  
number   of   competing   inter-­‐
pretations.   Some   scholars   believe  
that   King   Kanishka   the   Great  
depict-­‐ed   himself,   seated   in  
meditation,   on   his   coinage,   and  
that   the   haloed   figure   is   probably  
Pharro,   a   figure   related   to   the  
Greek  god  Mercury.  Others  suggest  
that   the   coins   show   Maitreya  
Buddha   on   one   side   and   Kanishka  
offering   something   at   an   altar   on  
the  other.    
The   Buddharūpas   are   usually   found   decapitated.   The   most   famous  
statues   had   had   their   faces   scratched   off   centuries   ago,   after   one   or  
another   wave   of   conquest   by   Muslims.   I   was   told   that   centuries   ago,  
one   Sultan   proudly   took   an   epithet   that   meant   something   akin   to  
“destroyer  of  the  images  of  false  gods.”  The  Talibs  merely  continued—
perhaps  some  would  say,  perfected—the  destructive  process.    
And  yet  the  Buddhas  are  still  being  found,  many  thousands  of  them  
underground,   or   deep   in   the   caves.   At   the   foot   of   the   famous   cliffs,   a  
thirty-­‐meter   long   reclining   Buddha   has   been   identified   by   using   earth-­‐
penetrating   radar.   Some   thirty   to   forty   kilometers   away,   researchers  

  39  
have   found,   but   not   yet   unearthed,   an   even   greater   reclining   Buddha,  
measuring  roughly  three  hundred  meters  in  length.  German  researchers  
recently   found   a   little   carved   stone   cylinder   concealed   in   a   piece   of  
sandstone   that   was   once   the   elbow   of   the   extended,   teaching   hand   of  
the   large   Buddha   statue.   The   cylinder   bears   on   it   the   carved   seal   of  
Shakyamuni   Buddha,   and   x-­‐rays   have   revealed   that   it   contains   shapes  
resembling   the   traditional   shape   of   bone   relics.   These   bone   fragments  
may   have   been   taken   —   at   least,   according   to   the   beliefs   of   the  
sculptors  —  from  the  funeral  pyre  of  the  Buddha,  or  one  of  the  original  
disciples,  or  perhaps  one  of  three  monks  sent  in  the  three  directions  to  
spread  Buddhism  by  the  converted  Indian  King  Ashoka.  
It   is   intended   that,   whenever   peace   is   restored,   the   undamaged  
Buddharūpas   will   be   unearthed,   the   surviving   oil   paintings   revealed,  
and,  perhaps,  the  broken  statues  reassembled.  If  and  when  these  things    
happen,  Bamiyan  Valley  may  once  again  become  a  Buddhist  pilgrimage  
site  of  world-­‐wide  importance.  
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
 

  40  
  
 

READING  JANE  AUSTEN  

AND  DEPENDENT  ORIGINATION  
1.   There  is  a  particular  kind  of  mood  in  which  I  feel  like  reading  a  
Jane   Austen   novel.   I   suppose   this   is   a   kind   of   ignorance   which   occurs  
before  you  open  any  novel.    What  is  going  to  happen?  Will  I  like  it?  In  
my  case  I  read  Jane  Austen  novels  repeatedly  so  there  is  no  excuse  as  I  
know   exactly   what   is   going   to   happen.   But   when   this   mood   comes   upon  
me,  I  just  feel  like  reading  a  particular  one  again.  In  a  sense,  this  is  like  
many  things  we  do  in  life:  we  have  usually  done  similar  or  comparable  
things  before,  but  we  just  go  about  doing  them  again.  Of  course,  in  “real  
life,”   I   do   not   know   in   advance   how   this   particular   combination   of  
events  is  going  to  turn  out.    And  in  spite  of  my  prior  knowledge,  in  the  
case  of  a  Jane  Austen  novel,  it  does  in  fact  seem  new  to  me  each  time.  
2.   Constructions  (saṅkhāras)  are  the  past  associations  we  bring  to  
any   novel.   In   the   case   of   one   we   have   not   read   before,   these   are   the  
associations   we   have   with   novel   reading   in   general,   perhaps   in   a  
particular   genre,   that   arouse   our   expectations   and   colour   how   we   are  
going   to   take   to   a   particular   book.   Amongst   these   associations   I   put  
things   like   expectations   that   there   will   be   a   ‘goody’,   some   sort   of   a  
‘baddy’,  a  hero  and  heroine,  and,  depending  on  the  genre,  a  particular  
kind  of  set  of  events.  I  do  not  expect  to  meet  a  monster  from  the  planet  
Erg  in  Mrs.  Bennet’s  front  parlour.  Nor  do  I  expect  to  encounter  Maria  

  41  
Crawford,  for  all  her  dodgy  behaviour,  with  the  lead  piping  in  the  billiard  
room   with   a   mysteriously   garrotted   vicar   from   the   local   parsonage.  
Conversely,  it  would  be  a  bit  boring  in  a  fast-­‐moving  political  thriller  to  
spend  too  much  time  hanging  around  the  pump  rooms  in  Bath  or  Emma  
Woodhouse’s  drawing  room,  as  I  expect  a  little  bit  more  in  the  way  of  
fast   cars,   gun   fights   and   mysterious   text   messages   that   indicate   that   the  
suicide   bomber   has   already   started   his   journey   which   we   must   stop   if  
civilisation   as   we   know   it   is   going   to   continue.   These   expectations   are  
the   patterns   or   saṅkhāras   that   I   associate   with   other   kinds   of   fiction.  
These  rules  are  very  deep  in  our  minds.  Many  works  of  fiction  are  funny  
or  interesting  precisely  because  they  break  these  patterns  and  rules,  but  
we   need   the   rules   to   be   there   for   this   to   work.   At   the   opening   of  
Northanger  Abbey  Jane  Austen  tells  us  all  the  ways  Catherine  Morland  
cannot   be   a   heroine   of   gothic   fiction,   the   pulp   mystery   thrillers   of   her  
time:  she  is  not  beautiful,  ill  or  in  the  grips  of  wicked  relations.  But  we  
know   of   course   that   she   will   be   a   heroine   in   her   own   way,   an   impulse  
that   always   finds   a   form,   and   we   find   out   in   the   novel   that   she   is   also  
the   victim   of   all   kinds   of   unpleasantness   she   has   to   overcome   on   her  
way  to  a  ‘happy  ending’.  She  is  in  fact  persecuted  by  her  lover’s  father,  
who   thought   she   was   an   heiress,   and   finds   in   the   mysteriously   titled  
Northanger   Abbey   not   a   secret   hidden   in   a   chest,   but   a   very   realistic  
secret   plot   that   causes   her   to   be   sent   away   in   what   would   then   have  
been   great   disgrace.   This   is   the   kind   of   ironic   play   with   our   expectations  
at   which   Jane   Austen   excels.   She   teases   our   saṅkhāras,   or   expectations,  
and  then  turns  them  round  on  themselves.  
3.   Consciousness:  I  take  this  to  be  the  moment  at  which  the  mind  
alights   on   a   particular   book   to   read.   It   is   a   product   of   the   chemical  
reaction   between   ignorance,   which   senses   it   wants   to   read   something  
but  is  not  sure  what,  and  past  saṅkhāras  of  various  kinds  of  books  one  
has  read  before.  The  book  I  have  alighted  on  is  Persuasion.  It  just  suits  
my   mood.   It   is   also   interesting   because   the   principal   characters,   Captain  
Wentworth   and   Anne   Eliot,   have   been   through   a   whole   cycle   of  
dependent  origination  before  the  action  of  the  novel  begins.  They  have  
met   before,   fallen   in   love,   and   been   near   marriage,   but   Anne   was   has  
been  (?)  dissuaded  by  her  aunt’s  concerns  and  her  snobbish  family  from  
marrying  such  an  unsuitable  catch,  with  no  money  or  name.  Now  they  
meet   again:   with   the   tables   somewhat   turned.   Anne   Eliot   is   faded   and  
disillusioned,  Captain  Wentworth  a  rich  and  successful  sea  captain.  Will  
the   chain   of   events   work   in   their   favour   this   time?   Will   Captain  

  42  
Wentworth  still  like  Anne,  and  be  willing  to  forgive  and  understand  her  
earlier   acquiescence   to   the   wishes   of   her   relatives?   Will   Anne   be   able,  
within   the   rigid   confines   of   polite   interchange,   to   let   him   know   of   her  
remorse,   love   and   willingness   to   be   asked   to   marry   him   again?   Of  
course,   given   that   it   is   an   early   nineteenth-­‐century   novel,   we   know   it  
will  turn  out  …  but  how?  They  have  to  do  a  great  deal  of  work  in  order  
to   bring   a   new   consciousness   to   the   sad   saṅkhāras,   the   tired   cycle   of  
memories   and   hurts   which   have   shaped   their   interactions   in   the   past,  
and  it  is  this  fresh  volition,  the  impulse  of  the  pair  of  them,  that  shapes  
and  informs  the  novel  and  sustains  it  so  that  they  overcome  the  forces  
of   the   past.   Old   misunderstandings   have   to   be   revisited   and   seen   in   a  
new   light   —   as   when   Wentworth   sees   the   stubbornness   of   Louisa  
Musgrove  in  ignoring  all  ‘persuasion’  and  jumping  off  the  pier  at  Lyme  
Regis,   and   appreciates   the   gentleness   and   now   renewed   vitality   and  
consciousness   of   Anne   Eliot,   who   deals   so   well   with   a   crisis,   always  
tempers   enthusiasm   with   an   admittedly   sometimes   excessive   caution,  
and   who   now   seems   to   have   discarded   stale   saṅkhāras   and   habits   of  
many  years.  She  positively  blooms  in  Lyme  Regis  in  good  company,  salty  
sea  air,  the  absence  of  ghastly  relatives  and  the  possibility  of  renewed  
hope,  and  so  we  all  cross  our  fingers  for  her.  
4.  This  brings  us  to  the  next  stage:  nāma  and  rūpa.  The  interaction  
between  name  and  form  seems  to  denote  the  stage  in  reading  a  novel  
when  you  are  getting  your  bearings,  and  trying  to  find  out  who  is  who,  
what  kind  of  novel  it  is  and  whether  it  is  a  setting  and  atmosphere  with  
which   you   want   to   engage.   In   reading,   nāma   is   also   the   reader   of  
course,  and  form  (rūpa)  is  the  text  as  embodied  in  a  physical  product:  a  
happy   interaction   between   these   two   elements   is   essential   for   any  
continued  relationship,  with  books  or  people!  It  is  the  physical  imprint  
on   which   the   author’s   intentions   and   the   products   of   her   mind   are  
impressed.  The  form  of  a  good  novel  is  something  that  you  like  to  pick  
up,  is  a  comfortable,  transportable  shape  and  size,  has  a  good  typeface  
and,   in   ‘the   olden   days’   helpful   pictures   around   which   you   could  
construct   your   own   internal   narrative   of   the   book.   The   material   object  
and   the   kind   of   writing   associated   with   it   seem   inextricably   bound  
together.  I  have  tried  reading  novels  on  the  internet  and  it  just  does  not  
work.   Whether   new   forms   such   as   Kindle   books   will   encourage   this  
process,  I  do  not  know.  For  now,  I  prefer  to  read  from  a  physical  product  
of  the  kind  Jane  Austen  intended.  In  her  day,  a  new  book  would  be  quite  
an   expensive   event,   and   would   also   require   the   physical   work   of   cutting  

  43  
the  pages  with  a  knife.  For  me,  this  interaction  with  a  physical  form,  is  
for  me  of  the  essence  of  reading  a  novel.  
5.   After   you   have   been   engaging   for   a   while   with   this   particular  
form,  or  thumbprint  of  the  author’s  nāma,  you  find  yourself  entering  a  
world,  built  up  of  the  six  senses.  This  was  amusingly  depicted  in  a  recent  
television   serial   in   which   the   heroine   actually   walks   through   a   cupboard  
and  into  the  world  of  Pride  and  Prejudice,  having  fallen  in  love  with  the  
hero   Darcy.   This   is   of   course   what   we   do   when   we   construct   in   our  
minds   the   world   of   Emma   Woodhouse’s   drawing   room   or   the   wild,  
storm-­‐filled   landscape   into   which   Marianne   throws   herself   after   her  
rejection   by   Willoughby.   It   is   also   evident   in   the   way   we   read   a   novel   —  
this  is  the  point  when  we  settle  into  our  chair  and  perhaps  slightly  cut  
off   the   world   we   usually   inhabit.   Clearly,   a   Buddhist   would   try   to   be  
mindful   of   this   world   when   reading,   but   we   are   at   this   time   entering  
also   another   world,   which   we   hope   will   act   in   some   restorative   way.  
Tolkien   once   suggested   that   the   world   of   fable   and   legend   was   a   kind   of  
rescue   for   the   mind,   a   way   of   seeing   the   ‘real’   world   with   new   eyes.  
Some   well-­‐written,   engaging   and   ‘true’   depictions   create   for   us   a  
sparkling   sense   of   interchange   and   interaction   from   which   we   emerge  
with   our   views   refreshed.   However,   some   do   not!   I   recently   read   a  
detective   novel   from   which   I   emerged   feeling   quite   ill,   with   my   eyes  
jaundiced.   I   should   not   have   engaged   with   it   for   a   full   cycle!   The   fact  
that  it  exercised  such  power  was  a  testimony  to  the  vividness  of  some  
created  worlds  we  read  in  books.  
6.  Contact  with  the  novel  occurs  for  me  when  the  world  created  by  
the  previous  stage  before  has  been  successfully  realized.  I  seem  to  make  
contact   with   the   characters,   lives,   and   conversations   that   are   enacted.  
This   can   happen   in   the   first   page   of   the   work   of   a   good   novelist.   The  
opening  sentence  of  Pride  and  Prejudice  for  instance  creates  instantly  a  
whole  world,  amusingly  and  tightly  expressed,  such  that  our  appetite  is  
aroused  and  our  intellect  awakened  by  this  sparkling  observation:  ‘It  is  a  
truth   universally   acknowledged   ...’   By   whom?   Who   are   these   people?  
Will   we   like   them?   Who   is   the   mysterious   man   suggested   in   the  
following  words?  The  first  sentence  says  it  all.  Persuasion  is  even  more  
satiric:   it   opens   with   Sir   Walter   Elliott   appreciatively   reading   his   own  
lineage  in  the  Baronetege.  We  know  what  we  are  getting  with  him,  and  
with   the   novel,   and   contact   that   world,   which   operates   so   insidiously   to  
immediately  spoil  our  heroine’s  chances.  

  44  
 7.  There  is  a  particular  feeling  tone  associated  with  a  book.  If  you  
do  not  like  it,  you  throw  the  book  aside  and  are  relieved  to  get  back  to  
‘normal’   life.   If   it   is   pleasant,   you   carry   on.   It   seems   to   me   that   the  
quality   of   feeling   encountered   at   this   stage   is   the   very   hub   of   the   novel,  
and  can  sometimes  be  deeply  skillful,  in  the  Buddhist  sense.  When  we  
read   a   novel   based   on   skilled   and,   at   times,   compassionate   observation,  
it  is  this  feeling  tone  that  sustains  us  through  the  events  and  intricacies  
of  the  plot.  Jane  Austen,  though  not  always  compassionate,  is  invariably  
skilled.   In   Persuasion,   especially,   she   seems   to   me   to   marry   the   two  
qualities,   and   we   experience   a   real   depth   and   intensity   of   feeling,  
without  sentimentality,  towards  her  two  protagonists.  Both  Wentworth  
and  Anne  engage  our  feelings,  so  that  we  feel  a  surprising  compassion  
as   well   as   interest   in   her   presentation   of   their   predicaments.   This   is  
gradually   transformed   convincingly   into   a   genuine   sympathetic   joy   at  
their   eventual   union.   This   evocation   of   the   brahmavihāras   is   a   very  
tricky   feat   for   a   novelist,   and   the   test   to   me   of   a   novel   of   this   kind   is   the  
writer’s   ability   to   inspire   it.   It   transcends   the   usual   range   of   feeling   for   a  
novel  —  interest  in  events,  people  and  conversation  —  and  becomes  a  
medium  for  arousing  our  better  feelings.  
8,9.   Then  comes  the  point  where  there  is  no  turning  back.  At  this  
stage   in   the   novel,   ‘I   cannot   put   it   down’.   For   some   people,   this   is  
literally   the   case.   I   find   myself   carrying   it   around   with   me   everywhere,  
just   in   case   there   should   be   a   moment   when   I   can   catch   up   on   my  
friends,   the   characters.   From   a   Buddhist   point   of   view   this   is   highly  
unskillful.  It  means  that  taṇhā,  craving,  has  seeped  into  my  engagement  
with   the   novel,   so   that   I   all   the   time.   At   this   point,   those   who   are  
disciplined  will  simply  read  in  the  evening,  place  a  bookmark,  and  return  
to   the   story   next   evening,   comfortably   seated   in   an   upright   chair.   Those  
who  are  not  may  find  themselves  reading  on  buses  and  trains,  or  in  the  
dentist’s  waiting  room,  unable  to  keep  away  from  their  beloved  object.  
But  perhaps  it  is  better  to  direct  this  impulse  into  the  excited  interest  of  
reading  a  novel  than  to  let  it  run  amuck  in  some  other  field  of  activity.  
Dependent  origination  colours  all  our  activities,  and  the  attempt  to  read  
with  mindfulness,  despite  the  fact  that  it  looks  as  if  Anne  is  just  about  to  
lose   Captain   Wentworth   in   Bath,   is   a   test   of   strength,   not   only   for   our  
hero  and  heroine,  but  also  for  the  reader.  I  cannot  read  this  section  of  
the   novel   without   my   back   straightening   and   all   my   senses   becoming  
alert,  as  if  I  too  am  sitting  in  a  Bath  drawing-­‐room,  striving  to  maintain  

  45  
control   over   my   emotions   and   my   conduct!   I   might   have   been   slouching  
around   when   I   started   reading,   but   by   this   stage   I   am   right   there,  
shoulders  gracefully  poised  and  ready  to  sip  my  tea  in  an  appropriately  
genteel   manner,   rather   than   gulp   back   the   cooling   coffee   at   my   elbow  
as   I   read.   We   all   feel   our   inner   early   nineteenth-­‐century   self   emerging  
when   reading   Jane   Austen.   Clearly,   this   is   the   stage   at   which   our  
characters  also  know  that  there  is  now  no  possibility  of  return.  A  friend  
of   mine   once   said   that   the   scene   when   Captain   Wentworth   writes   his  
marriage   proposal   at   a   desk,   while   overhearing   Anne’s   impassioned  
observations   about   women’s   tenderness   and   constancy   of   feelings,   is  
the   most   turbulent   and   exciting   moment   in   English   Literature.   For   at  
that   time,   we   do   not   know   that   this   is   what   Wentworth   is   doing,   and   so  
we  take  both  his  turning  away  and  Anne’s  sad  eloquence  as  proofs  that  
he  is  ignoring  her  world  and  has  rejected  it.  The  passion  and  drama  of  
this   scene   are   so   skillfully   portrayed   precisely   because   they   occur   in   a  
world   where   self-­‐discipline   and   composure   govern   all   social   activities.  
We  are  plunged  into  the  world  of  craving,  but  it  is  transformed  by  the  
great   liveliness   and   strong   sīla   of   the   participants,   who,   while   secret  
thunderstorms   threaten   their   happiness,   sit   politely   and   chat   with   the  
most   extraordinary   composure.   No   rules   are   broken,   no   manners  
neglected.  There  is  clinging  when  this  occurs  but  it  is  transformed  into  a  
kind  of  strength  and  loyalty,  both  for  the  reader  and  for  the  characters,  
just  as  Anne  Elliot’s  wish  for  a  marriage  to  Captain  Wentworth  has  been  
changed  into  longstanding  fidelity  that  will  not  be  inconstant.  
10.   This   is   where   Jane   Austen   shows   herself   at   her   best,   with  
dependent   origination   always   present,   but   here   directed   and   channeled  
to   …   Becoming.   We   are   all   on   tenterhooks   as   we   move   to   the   happy  
ending.  We  have  always  known  that  in  a  Jane  Austen  novel  this  will  be  
the   outcome   but,   while   reading,   we   too   have   become   part   of   this  
process   of   dependent   origination,   being   skillfully   harnessed   and  
directed  towards  the  happy  outcome.  Like  the  characters  in  the  novel,  
with   whom   I   have   probably   over-­‐identified,   we   are   sitting   alert   and  
expectant,   waiting   for   the   drama   to   unfold   and   find   its   resolution.   The  
happiness  when  this  is  achieved  may  be  transient.  The  characters  do  not  
actually  exist  —  I  have  to  remind  myself  of  this!  —  but  their  happiness  is  
of   a   kind   we   wish   for   others   and   ourselves   within   all   those   dependent  
origination  circles,  lost  causes,  and  various  other  things,  which  we  make  
boring  and  dull!  

  46  
 11,12.   ‘Happy   endings’   tend   to   lead   to   birth   and   death.   We   do  
not   find   out   how   our   two   protagonists   fare   after   the   novel.   But   of  
course   things   tend   to   end   that   way   —   without   endings.   So   when   we  
read   a   novel   we   all   know   that   the   ‘happy   ending’,   if   there   is   one,   is  
impermanent.   It   is   just   very   satisfying   to   read   a   novel   about   two  
characters   who   live   in   the   world   of   dependent   origination,   but   where  
the   novelist   has   played   with   the   process   and   turned   it   around   for   an  
encouraging,   if   temporary   outcome.   I   think   Tolkien’s   observation   that  
the  function  of  fable  is  to  ‘rescue’  the  mind  is  a  good  one.  He  also  said  it  
helps   us   to   ‘see   things   as   they   really   are’   (Tree   and   Leaf),   so   that   we  
return  to  the  world  with  minds  freed  from  staleness  and  boredom.  If  a  
novelist   convincingly   creates   some   characters,   mixes   them   together   in   a  
convincing   setting   with   some   inspiring   dialogue   and   interchange,   then  
brings   it   all   to   a   convincing   finale,   we   do   see   people   and   situations  
differently:  we  enter  their  world  in  what  we  hope  will  be  a  mindful  and  
controlled  way,  and  we  are  relieved  that  somewhere  in  the  universe  the  
heroine  does  meet  the  hero  and  it  all  works  out!  This  is  pretty  cheerful  
for  us  all.  It  does  not  mean  that  we  try  to  become  Regency  heroes  and  
heroines,   though   I   suppose   it   might   for   some!   Rather,   we   feel   their  
strength  and  their  integrity,  and  perhaps  wish  we  had  it  too.  I  think  the  
reason  I  go  back  to  Jane  Austen  is  that  there  is  always  something  new  to  
be  discovered  when  you  do:  a  turn  of  phrase,  or  a  detail  of  interchange  
between  characters,  which  makes  the  repetitive  always  interesting  and  
fresh.  The  cycle  of  dependent  origination  does  not  disappear,  but  where  
the   characters   act   within   that   cycle   with   grace   and   good   sīla,   I   find   their  
actions  to  be  rather  inspiring.  And  so,  I  look  forward  to  reading  the  story  
again!  
 
 
   

  47  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
TAKING  REFUGE  
 
I  take  refuge  in  the  Buddha  
I  take  refuge  in  the  source  and  origin  
I  take  refuge  in  the  initiation  of  teaching  
I  take  refuge  in  the  way  
I  take  refuge  in  the  pure  light  of  compassion  
I  take  refuge  in  the  heart  of  gold  
I  take  refuge  in  the  perfection  of  being  
 
I  take  refuge  in  the  Dhamma  
I  take  refuge  in  the  principles  behind  law  
I  take  refuge  in  the  subtlest  of  truth  
I  take  refuge  in  the  ordering  of  order  
I  take  refuge  in  the  universal  inherency  of  wisdom  
I  take  refuge  in  the  knowledge  of  cause  and  effect  
I  take  refuge  in  the  timelessness  of  mind  
 
I  take  refuge  in  the  Sangha  
I  take  refuge  in  the  brotherhood  of  breath  
I  take  refuge  in  the  long  body  
I  take  refuge  in  the  creativity  of  tradition  
I  take  refuge  in  the  continuity  of  the  teaching  
I  take  refuge  in  the  vigour  of  shared  aspiration  
I  take  refuge  in  the  joy  of  hopeful  journeying  

  48  
  
I  take  refuge  in  the  purity  of  original  mind  –  untainted,  
unconditioned,  uninformed  –  the  mind  before  the  flood,  before  father  
and  mother,  before  all  images,  thoughts,  concepts,  wishes,  desires,  
attributes,  faculties.  
I  take  refuge  in  the  objective  truths  of  mind,  in  the  reality  of  
principial  relationships,  in  the  wisdom  of  clear  insight.  
I  take  refuge  in  the  shared  aspiration  of  perfectability,  the  good  life,  
the  heart-­‐friendship  that  needs  no  words,  the  unjudging  acceptance  of  
diversity  on  the  way.  
 
I  take  refuge  in  the  place  of  no-­‐standing  beyond  self  where  life  is  
instant,  in  the  now  that  has  no  before  or  after,  in  the  spindle  of  
necessity  on  which  all  the  worlds  turn.  
I  take  refuge  in  the  truths  that  are  hardest  to  speak,  and  the  
lifetime’s  effort  that  makes  them  speakable.  
I  take  refuge  in  all  true  friendships  where  one  sacrifices  self  for  
another  joyously.  
 
I  take  refuge  in  the  acute  folly  of  the  wise  and  the  cheerful  wisdom  
of  the  foolish,  in  the  foreknowledge  of  law-­‐conformable  results,  in  the  
acceptance  of  intolerable  circumstances.  
I  take  refuge  in  the  human  perfection  of  the  right  word  at  the  right  
time,  in  the  certainty  of  truth  that  lasers  out  of  darkness,  in  the  
delusion-­‐defeating  acceptance  of  illusion.  
I  take  refuge  in  the  multitudes  of  love  that  bring  people  together,  in  
the  warmth  of  the  simplest  moment  of  sympathy,  in  all  openings  of  
doors,  all  smilings  of  eyes,  all  just-­‐so  sexuality  of  hearts.  
 
I  take  refuge  in  the  impeccable  honesty  that  leads  to  truth.  
I  take  refuge  in  the  enlivening  truths  revealed  by  wisdom.  
I  take  refuge  in  the  everyday  wisdom  of  the  companionable  way.  
 

  49  
  
 

MINDFULNESS  AND  THE  UNTAPPED  ASPECTS  OF  

THE  ASPERGER’S  SYNDROME  MIND  
As  a  person  with  Asperger’s  Syndrome,  I  have  experienced  depression,  
high-­‐level   anxiety   and   a   strong   obsessive   tendency,   all   of   which   affect  
my   state   of   mind   to   the   extent   that   I   sometimes   lose   my   relationship  
with   my   immediate   surroundings   and   forget   who   I   am.   For   the   past   two  
years,   I   have   been   practicing   Samatha   meditation,   which   has   made   a  
great  difference  by  opening  up  the  untapped  abilities  of  my  mind.  
 Growing   up,   I   experienced   and   developed   fixations   on   different  
subjects  from  astronomy  and  railways  to  football  and  cricket.  Of  course,  
an  interest  in  such  subjects  is  by  no  means  abnormal  in  itself.  However,  
the   quality   of   mind   associated   with   Asperger’s   Syndrome   would   cause  
me   to   become   so   deeply   absorbed   in   the   objects   of   my   interest   that   I  
would  lose  all  sense  of  myself  and  all  awareness  of  my  surroundings.  
 I  have  often  been  able  to  apply  high  levels  of  concentration  where  
needed,  but  it  has  been  difficult  to  balance  this  with  mindfulness.  I  have  
found   that   Samatha   practice   can   help   empty   one’s   mind   of   the   clutter  
produced   by   the   need   to   deal   with   the   issues   and   problems   of   daily   life.    
As   a   result,   I   have   begun   to   notice   regions   of   my   mind   of   which   I   was  
previously  unaware.  
 According   to   the   Dhammapada   (3:35),   the   mind   is   ‘fickle   and  
flighty’  like  a  monkey.  It  is  up  to  the  individual  to  control  it  effectively.  
The   tools   required   to   control   the   mind   through   meditation,   including  
right   effort   and   application,   can   also   have   beneficial   effects   on   one’s  
quality   of   life   in   terms   of   increased   self-­‐discipline   and   becoming   more  
skilled   socially.   As   a   person   diagnosed   with   Asperger’s   Syndrome,   I   have  
experienced  difficulties  in  these  areas  of  life.  
 The   abilities   of   my   mind   that   I   have   begun   to   realise   through   the  
practice  of  Samatha  are  also  those  with  which  I  have  often  experienced  
difficulty  owing  to  my  Asperger’s  Syndrome.  They  include  an  enhanced  
flexibility   of   thought   or   view,   and   a   greater   ability   to   recognize   the  
reasons  for  others’  actions.  I  am  also  becoming  better  able  to  perceive  
the  roots  of  my  own  states  of  mind,  ranging  from  anger  to  excitement.  

  50  
This  enhanced  self-­‐awareness  has  made  it  possible  for  me  to  recognize  
and  understand  the  roots  and  causes  of  the  low  self-­‐esteem  by  which  I  
am  from  time  to  time  afflicted.  This  has  enabled  me  to  deal  with  those  
issues  better  and  so  improved  my  quality  of  life.  
 Owing   to   the   development   of   these   mental   abilities,   I   have   begun  
to  realize  that  many  of  my  mental  problems,  including  low  self-­‐esteem  
and  depression,  are  directly  related  to  the  five  hindrances  of  traditional  
Buddhist   teaching   —   in   my   case,   especially,   doubt.   When   faced   with  
uncertainty   about   the   future   —   as   to   where   I   may   live   or   work,   for  
example  —  I  am  liable  to  experience  extreme  anxiety,  which  clouds  my  
thinking  and  impairs  my  ability  to  handle  the  situation  in  an  appropriate  
way.    
 As   a   result   of   the   mindfulness   developed   by   Samatha   practice,   I   am  
increasingly  able  to  recognise  the  sources  of  such  feelings  to  the  extent  
that   they   don’t   determine   my   immediate   state   of   mind   to   the   same  
extent  as  in  the  past,  when  I  would  sometimes  become  contorted  with  
frustration   and   anger.   The   practice   of   simply   being   aware   of   the   activity  
of  the  hindrances  without  paying  them  too  much  attention,  or  thinking  
too   much   about   them,   has   enabled   me   to   recognize   the   source   of   the  
low   self-­‐esteem   when   it   comes   to   trouble   me,   without   being   attached  
to  —or  identified  with  —  it.  
 As   well   as   helping   me   to  become   more   self-­‐aware,   the   practice   of  
mindfulness   has   enabled   me   to   become   more   aware   of   my   immediate  
surroundings   and   my   relationships   with   others.   I   am   able   to   approach  
others   in   a   more   tactful   way,   and   to   be   more   tolerant   of   others,   their  
views,   and   their   opinions.   With   mindfulness,   I   am   no   longer   closed   to  
the   worlds   in   which   other   people   live   and   work,   or   to   the   reasons   for  
their  speech  and  action.  
 Despite  the  diagnosis  of  Asperger’s  Syndrome,  I  really  like  being  the  
way   I   am.   I   greatly   value   some   of   the   characteristics   and   abilities   that  
the  condition  has  given  me.  If  a  “cure”  for  my  condition  were  to  become  
available,   I   would   not   accept   it.     Nor   would   I   ever   deny   having   the  
condition  as  this  would  only  distance  me  from  truth.  The  development  
of   mindfulness   through   meditation   practice   has   enabled   me   to   be   a  
person   with   Asperger’s   Syndrome   while   simultaneously   helping   me   to  
become   more   aware   of   my   surroundings,   and   more   tolerant   of   myself  
and  others.    

  51  
    
AN  OCTAVE  OF  JHĀNAS:  
‘The  three-­‐fold  and  four-­‐fold  jhāna,    
and  the  one  remaining  jhāna’  
 
We   usually   think   of   the   8   jhānas   in   two   groups   of   4   –   rūpa   and  
arūpa,   4   jhānas   of   form   and   4   of   the   formless   sphere.     However,   an  
alternative   formula   describes   the   sphere   of   jhāna   tantalizingly   as   ‘the  
triple-­‐quadruple   (or   three-­‐fold   and   four-­‐fold)   jhāna   and   the   single  
remaining  jhānas.’  What  might  this  mean?  2  
One  way  to  understand  the  ‘triple’  or  ‘three-­‐fold’  jhāna  is  to  see  the  
process   of   development   from   the   first   to   the   third   jhāna   as   directly  
related.     Just   as   we   develop   the   5   factors   –   vitakka,   vicāra,   pīti,   sukha  
and   ekaggatā   (or   initial   application   of   mind,   sustained   application   of  
mind,  rapture,  happiness  and  one-­‐pointedness)  –  in  order  to  attain  the  
first  jhāna,  so  we  develop  the  jhānas  by  gently  dropping  those  factors.    
The   first   jhāna   consists   of   a   mind   unified   with   all   five   factors   as   its  
object;   the   second   of   a   mind   unified   with   pīti,   sukha   and   ekaggatā   as   its  
object;  the  third  of  a  mind  unified  with  sukha  and  ekaggatā  as  its  object.    
All   three   are   characterized   by   the   increasingly   subtle   development   of  
blissful  feeling  –  by  the  presence  of  sukha.  
The  shift  to  the  fourth  jhāna  is  also  a  process  of  dropping  a  factor  –  
sukha   –   so   that   only   ekaggatā   remains.     But   in   addition   to   this  
movement   (which   belongs   to   the   same   process   as   the   ‘triple   jhāna’   of  
the   first   to   the   third),   we   must   add   a   factor,   upekkhā   –   equanimity   –  

2
  See   Visuddhi   Magga   (henceforth   Vism.)   IX.119.     In   this   context,   it   might   be   said   that   the   most  
likely  meaning  is  related  to  two  alternative  systems  for  describing  the  jhānas  of  form  (as  four-­‐fold,  
i.e.  triple-­‐plus-­‐one,  and  five-­‐fold,  i.e.  quadruple-­‐plus-­‐one,  in  each  case  the  one  being  what  we  know  
as   the   ‘fourth   jhāna’).     However,   the   formula   is   also   applied   at   Vism.   IX.119   in   a   context   which  
explicitly  discusses  the  arūpas  as  well  as  the  rūpas,  prompting  the  thoughts  that  follow.    

  52  
whose  feeling  is  neutral  (but  shaded  to  the  ‘warm’  in  that  it  must  not  be  
‘indifference’   which   is   the   ‘cold’   near-­‐enemy   of   upekkhā).     That   is,   the  
move   to   the   fourth   jhāna   involves   something   additional   to   the   dropping  
of   a   jhāna-­‐factor.   The   attainment   of   the   fourth   jhāna   constitutes   a  
profound   change   in   the   process   of   development,   one   might   say   a  
change  of  lineage  to  a  mind  fully  rooted  in  equanimity.    This  is  not  only  
because   it   ‘adds’   a   factor   as   well   as   ‘dropping’   one,   but   because   the  
nature  of  the  mind’s  investigation  must  change.    Effectively,  in  the  triple  
jhāna  of  the  first  to  the  third,  the  mind’s  investigative  process  rests  on  
vitakka   and   vicāra   and   the   pīti   and   sukha,   which   arise   as   a   result   of  
those  first  two  factors.    But  in  the  fourth  and  the  later  jhānas  (which  all  
share   the   two   factors   of   ekaggatā   and   upekkhā,   one-­‐pointedness   and  
equanimity),  the  base  of  investigation  must  be  upekkhā  and  there  is  no  
arising  of  happiness  (sukha).    Instead  of  the  5  factors  of  rūpa  jhāna,  the  
mind’s  investigative  process  proceeds  by  the  7  bojjhaṅgā  (or  factors  of  
awakening)   –   starting   with   mindfulness   and   the   investigation   of   the  
states   of   mind   (sati   and   dhamma-­‐vicaya),   balanced   and   developed   by  
the   long   hard   looking   of   viriya   (vigour)   which   may   give   rise   to   pīti  
(rapture,   joy,   energization)   every   bit   as   strong   as   in   rūpa   jhāna   but  
settling  not  as  sukha  or  happiness  (as  in  rūpa  jhāna)  but  as  passaddhi  (or  
tranquilization).     The   developed   flavour   of   arūpa   jhāna   –   the   quality  
around  which  union  of  the  mind,  samadhi,  in  arūpa  jhāna  can  take  place  
–   arises   in   passaddhi,   as   a   result   of   the   investigation   and   energizing  
process   of   the   first   4   bojjhaṅgā.     The   fruit   of   that   samadhi   is   a   still  
deeper   or   more   peaceful   level   of   upekkhā,   equanimity,   which   is   the  
base  for  exploring  the  next  arūpa  jhāna.  
It   is   worth   pausing   on   equanimity.     Although   rūpa   jhāna   is   rarely  
described  in  terms  of  upekkhā  (since  so  much  emphasis  lies  on  joy  and  
happiness),   it   is   striking   that   in   the   Visuddhi   Magga’s   account   of   both  
the  first  and  especially  the  third  jhānas,  upekkhā  figures  very  large.3    It  is  
not  one  of  the  qualities  of  the  object  on  which  or  within  which  the  mind  
absorbs,  but  the  quality  of  the  subject  as  he  or  she  observes.  
There  must  be  very  powerful  upekkhā  –  equanimity,  or  willingness  
for   anything   to   happen   without   any   kind   of   reaction   or   resistance   or  

3
  For   the   first   jhāna,   see   Vism.   IV.114-­‐118   –   a   strong   account   of   the   intensification   of   equanimity   in  
the  observer  as  he  or  she  looks  ‘looks  on  at  the  mind  that  is  purified’.    For  the  third  jhāna,  see  Vism.  
IV.153-­‐71,   a   striking   passage   in   which   discussion   of   equanimity   features   larger   than   any   other  
quality.  

  53  
slumping   –   for   rūpa   jhāna   to   take   place.     The   shift   to   the   fourth   jhāna  
might  be  seen  as  transforming  that  quality  of  looking  into  the  quality  of  
the   object   in   which   one   absorbs.     The   four   arūpas   thus   represent   an  
ever  more  intensive  and  deepening  process  of  upekkhā  as  a  key  factor  
for   liberating   the   mind.   Indeed,   given   the   emphasis   on   upekkhā   in   the  
accounts   of   the   first   and   third   rūpa   jhāna,   one   might   argue   that   the  
entire  process  of  all  eight  jhānas  is  a  gradual  refinement  of  equanimity  –  
first  in  the  subject  looking  (the  mind  as  it  contemplates  in  the  first  three  
jhānas)  and  then  in  the  union  of  subject  and  object  (in  the  fourth  rūpa  
and  the  four  arūpa  jhānas).  
The   last   chapter   of   the   Visuddhimagga’s   account   of   the   Brahma-­‐
vihāras,  or  divine  abidings,  lists  the  four  abidings  in  an  interesting  way.4    
The   usual   list   arranges   them   in   relation   to   the   4   rūpa   jhānas:   metta  
(loving   kindness)   with   the   first,   karuna   (compassion)   with   the   second,  
mudita  (gladness)  with  the  third,  upekkhā  (equanimity)  with  the  fourth.    
But   the   last   chapter   deals   with   where   the   four   abidings   appear   ‘in   the  
highest’   –   which   either   means   in   the   strongest   and   most   profound  
extent,  or  in  the  seed  out  of  which  each  is  rooted,  or  both.    Here  metta  
is  placed  ‘in  the  beautiful’,  which  is  to  say  in  the  third  jhāna  (at  the  top  
of   the   three-­‐fold   group).     Karuna   is   placed   with   space   –   the   first   arūpa   –  
a   profound   teaching   in   daily   life,   since   what   is   above   all   needed   to   bring  
about  compassion  is  a  mind  free  of  the  hindrances,  seeing  the  suffering  
of   beings   and   allowing   enough   space   for   compassion   to   arise  
spontaneously.    Mudita  is  placed  with  consciousness  –  the  second  arūpa  
jhāna  –  also  a  wonderful  teaching,  since  if  one  can  see  any  situation  in  
which  one  happens  to  be  as  just  the  flow  of  consciousness  (one’s  own  
and   that   of   other   beings)   gladness   arises   spontaneously.     The   highest  
place   for   upekkhā   is   in   nothingness   –   the   third   of   the   arūpas.     This   is  
very  interesting,  since  it  raises  questions  about  the  fourth  arūpa.    If  the  
level   of   upekkhā   established   in   the   third   arūpa   jhāna   (the   sphere   of  
nothingness)   is   the   base   for   the   fourth   arūpa   (‘neither   cognition   nor  
non-­‐cognition’),  what  is  its  outcome  as   the  bojjhaṅga  process  develops?    
Here   the   great   question   of   where   the   path   may   begin,   and   where  
enlightenment  itself  may  lie,  begins  to  shape  itself.  
It   may   have   been   noticed   by   those   with   some   familiarity   with   the  
esoteric  law  known  as  the  ‘law  of  seven’  or  the  ‘law  of  the  octave’  that  

 Vism.  IX.119-­‐24,  following  the  Buddha’s  words  in  the  Haliddavasana  Sutta.  
4

  54  
the  ‘three-­‐fold,  four-­‐fold  and  one’  formula  might  be  seen  as  a  version  of  
this   –   presenting   the   eight   jhānas   as   an   octave.5     Here   the   first   three  
represent   a   smooth   process   (mind   you,   only   easy   if   there   is   full  
mastery!)  which  needs  the  ‘shock’  adjustment  to  a  new  way  of  working  
in  the  fourth  jhāna  (‘the  one  remaining’)  in  order  that  a  further  smooth  
process   may   take   place   in   the   movement   of   the   four   arūpas.     The  
‘interval’   between   the   first   three   rūpa   jhānas   and   the   four   formless  
jhānas   is   here   represented   by   the   shift   in   the   way   of   working   (from   a  
development   by   jhāna   factors   to   a   development   by   bojjhaṅgā,   from   a  
process  rooted  in  joy  and  happiness  to  one  rooted  in  equanimity),  and  
the  fourth  jhāna  is  the  means  of  accomplishing  that  shift.    The  octave  is  
incomplete   in   two   ways   –   neither   the   ‘shock’   necessary   at   the   ‘second  
interval’   after   the   fourth   arūpa   nor   the   final   point   in   the   octave   are  
given.    We  may  say  that,  at  the  full  attainment  of  the  fourth  arūpa,  the  
readiness  is  all  and  the  meditator  must  simply  wait  in  equanimity  until  
what  can  be  revealed  reveals  itself  (not  so  unlike  waiting  in  equanimity  
for   any   of   the   jhānas   to   develop   to   full   absorption).     One   may   wonder   if  
the   arising   of   insight   is   not   the   necessary   shock   to   transcend   the   second  
interval.    One  may  also  wonder  –  following  the  accounts  of  the  Buddha  
going   through   all   eight   jhānas   but   then   returning   to   the   fourth   before  
his   enlightenment   and   parinibbāna   –   if   the   return   to   the   ‘one   remaining  
jhāna’  is  not  in  fact  the  completion  of  the  octave  but  now  as  a  perfect  
union  of  insight  and  tranquil  abiding,  of  vipassana  and  samatha,  which  is  
the  final  and  necessary  stage  for  entering  the  path.  
 

5
  For   an   account   of   the   ‘law   of   seven’,   see,   e.g.,   P.D.   Ouspensky,   In   Search   of   the   Miraculous:  
Fragments  of  an  Unknown  Teaching  (London:  Routledge,  1950)  122-­‐40.  

  55  
 THE  VIEW  FROM  AFAR  
I   recently  watched  a  television  programme  about  satellites  –  their  uses  
and   some   of   the   benefits   they   have   provided.   One   such   benefit   is   the  
availability   of   new   photographic   information   about   previously   unseen  
aspects  of  the  earth.  

 
Satellite  view  of  a  part  of  the  Sahara  Desert  
Photo  courtesy  of  United  States  Geological  Survey  

A  particular  set  of  satellite  photographs  showing  the  Sahara  desert  

led   a   geologist   to   examine   patterns   in   the   dunes,   which,   from   that  
distance,   looked   very   similar   to   river   flows.   On   close   investigation,   he  
realised  that  the  sand  in  the  Sahara  is  not  made  from  the  local  rock.  It  
must,  therefore,  have  been  carried  there,  perhaps  by  the  rivers  hinted  
at   in   the   photographs.   He   concluded   that   rivers   did   at   one   time   flow  
into   the   area   now   called   the   Sahara   desert,   bringing   with   them   silt   from  
the  outlying  areas.    
 

  56  
 Realising  that  the  water  must  have  gone  somewhere,  the  geologist  
postulated   that   it   had   been   absorbed   by   the   rocks   deep   under   the  
desert  and  that  it  might  still  be  there.  To  test  this  theory,  deep  drillings  
were   made   under   the   desert   and,   as   a   result,   much   fresh   water   was  
discovered.   Wells   were   subsequently   drilled   and   the   local   population  
now  has  fresh  water  and  is  able  to  grow  crops.  
What  has  does  all  this  have  to  do  with  meditation  practice?  Perhaps  
this   story   offers   an   accurate   reflection   of   the   differences   between   the  
rūpa  and  arūpa  realms,  and  also  hints  at  the  possible  benefits  of  each.  
If   we   were   to   investigate   the   Sahara   from   our   perspective   as  
inhabitants   of   the   rūpa   realms,   we   might   well   go   there   and   stand  
amongst   the   dunes.   We   might   use   all   of   our   senses   to   investigate    
mindfully.     We   could   see   the   sand,   the   dunes,   the   colours,   and   the  
shadows;  feel  the  heat,  and  the  softness  of  the  ground  underfoot;  hear  
the  wind  and  the  ‘groaning’  of  the  dunes.  The  heat,  the  dust,  the  lack  of  
water,   and   the   difficulty   of   surviving   in   this   terrain   might   lead   us   to  
conclude  that  the  environment,  although  spectacular,  is  so  hostile  that  
only  a  few  specially  adapted  peoples  could  ever  survive  in  it.  
However,   if   we   inhabited   the   arūpa   realms,   we   would   view   the  
desert   from   a   far   distance,   as   in   the   satellite   photograph.   Hence,   the  
only   sense   we   could   use   would   be   that   of   sight,   which   might   at   first  
seem  to  be  smething  of  a  limitation.  However  the  advantage  of  looking  
at   something   from   this   distance   is   the   change   in   perspective   that   then  
becomes  possible.  Much  larger  areas  come  into  view  all  at  once,  making  
it   possible   for   patterns   and   connections   to   appear   that   would   not   be  
detectable   from   the   ‘up   close   and   personal’   perspective   of   the   rūpa  
realms.  The  conclusions  drawn  by  investigating  the  ‘bigger  picture’  may  
well  be  different  from  those  based  on  observation  at  close  quarters,  as  
in  the  example  of  finding  water  discussed  above.  
In   brief,   things   are   not   always   as   they   seem,   even   –   or   perhaps,  
especially  –  when  observed  from  close  at  hand.  
In  order  to  move  from  the  rūpa  to  the  lower  arūpa  realms,  attention  
to  the  body  and  the  localised  senses  has  to  be  abandoned  in  favour  of  
spaciousness,  which  can  bring  an  altered  perspective  and  a  clarity  that  is  
not  possible  from  the  viewpoint  of  the  rūpa  realms.    
 

  57  
 This  shift  of  perspective  can  bring  the  ability  to  know  things  from  a  
different,  less  personal  point  of  view  and  in  a  much  wider  context.  This  
is  a  step  in  the  direction  of  ‘knowing  things  as  they  are.’  
For   these   reasons,   a   visit   to   the   arūpa   realms   may   prove   both  
interesting  and  beneficial.  Return  tickets  are  readily  available!  
 
 
 

 
 
Groundwater  discovered  by  satellite  has  made  agricultural  development  possible  at  
Sharq  Al  Owaynat,  Egypt,  in  the  Sahara  Desert.  
Photograph  courtesy  of  Boston  University  Center  for  Remote  Sensing  
See:  http://blogs.nature.com/cgi-­‐bin/mt4/mt-­‐
search.cgi?search=greening+the+sahara&IncludeBlogs=17&limit=20  
   

  58  
 THE  MESSENGERS  OF  TRUTH  
a  parable  of  the  Buddha  
This   practice   is   like   a   king’s   city,   strongly   built   with   walls   and   towers,  
having  six  gates.  And  that  city  has  a  wise,  watchful  and  discerning  gate-­‐
keeper,  who  keeps  out  enemies  and  welcomes  friends.  
A   pair   of   swift   messengers   comes   from   the   east.     And   they   say   to  
the  gatekeeper,  “Friend,  where  is  the  lord  of  this  city?”    And  he  replies,  
“There   he   sits,   in   the   center   where   the   four   ways   meet.”     Those   twin  
messengers   deliver   to   the   lord   of   that   city   the   message   of   truth   and  
return  along  the  path  by  which  they  came.  
In   the   same   way,   from   the   west,   north,   and   south,   there   comes   a  
pair   of   swift   messengers.     And   they   say   to   the   gatekeeper,  "Friend,  
where  is  the  lord  of  this  city?”    And  he  replies  in  the  same  manner,  and  
they   deliver   to   the   lord   of   that   city   the   message   of   truth,   and   return  
along  the  path  by  which  they  came.      
Now,  brothers,  I  have  told  you  a  parable.    And  the  meaning  of  the  
parable  is  this:  
The  city  is  this  body,  compounded  of  the  four  great  elements,  born  
of   parents,   fed   on   food,   subject   to   corruption,   and   doomed   to   perish  
completely.     The   six   gates   are   the   six   avenues   of   sense.     The   gatekeeper  
is   mindfulness.     The   two   swift   messengers   are   calm   and   insight.6     The  
lord   of   the   city   is   consciousness.     The   four   crossroads   meeting   in   the  
center  are  the  elements  of  earth  and  water,  fire  and  air.     The  message  
of   truth   brought   by   the   messengers   is   nibbāna,   the   unconditioned.     And  
the   path   by   which   the   messengers   come   and   go   is   the   noble   eightfold  
path,   namely,   right   view,   right   intention,   right   speech,   right   action,   right  
livelihood,  right  effort,  right  mindfulness,  and  right  concentration."  
Kindred  Sayings,  4.194  
(freely  adapted  from  the  PTS  translation)  
 
   

6
 In  the  commentary,  the  samatha  meditation  object  is  said  to  be  like  a  “skilled  warrior,”  while  the  
object  of  vipassanā  is  compared  to  a  “wise  minister.’    

  59  
  
 
 
2012  JUBILEE  ISSUE  
a  call  for  contributions    
 
In   August   2012,   we   will   be   celebrating   the   eightieth   birthday   of   Nai  
Boonman  Poonyathiro,  our  founding  teacher.  
During   the   same   year   (2555   of   the   Buddhist   calendar),   we   will   enter  
the  fiftieth  year  of  Samatha  meditation  practice  in  Britain.  
    The  twenty-­‐fifth  anniversary  of  the  acquisition  of  Greenstreete,  now  
established   as   the   National   Samatha   Centre,   by   the   Samatha   Trust   will  
also  occur  in  the  same  year.  
A   special   Jubilee   Issue   of   Samatha   is   planned   to   coincide   with   our  
celebration  of  these  important  milestones.     We  hope  that  the  issue  will  
express   and   embody   the   breadth,   depth,   and   diversity   of   the   Samatha  
meditation  tradition  as  currently  practiced  by  groups  and  individuals  in  
Britain  and  around  the  world.  
Any   and   all   contributions,   both   literary   and   artistic,   will   be   warmly  
welcomed   and   should   be   sent,   preferably   in   electronic   format   to:  
samatha.journal@yahoo.com,  or  alternatively  in  hard  copy  to:  
The  Editor,  Samatha  
5  Eclipse  Court  
Alameda,  CA  94501  
U.S.A.  
(Please   note   that   acceptance   for   publication   is   at   the   discretion   of  
the   Editor,   who   also   reserves   the   right   to   make   any   editorial   changes   he  
decides  are  appropriate.)    
Contributions  to  the  Jubilee  Issue  should  be  submitted  by  or  before  
February  28,  2012.  Early  submissions  will  be  well  received.  

  60