Ajahn Brahm - Don't Worry, Be Grumpy

The monks immediately took the young man to the elderly abbot in his office. As he told the story, the abbot stopped him and called in his secretary to write this all down.

You see, there was no layman who had the key to that gate. Indeed, that gate is called the Royal Gate, and only the kings and princes of Thailand are allowed to use that entrance. This was the monastery where the kings of Thailand are ordained for temporary periods. The lights cannot be switched on at the place the American described. No layman has the keys to the most sacred building in the whole monastery. And not even the old abbot knew so much about the temple’s murals.

Then the abbot asked the American to describe this elderly Thai gentleman. All the American could say, at first, was that he was wearing traditional Thai dress, not normally seen these days. Then, when pressed for more detail, the young American looked up and stared in amazement. On the wall of the abbot’s office was a portrait of that elderly Thai gentleman.

“It was him!” exclaimed the American. “That’s the man who met me.”

That was a portrait of His Majesty King Rama the Fifth, otherwise known as King Chulalongkorn. He died on October 23, 1910. Now his entry through the Royal Gate made sense, and he knew all the details of the murals because his family members were the main sponsors. A former Thai king, now certainly a heavenly being, had helped a young man pursue his goal of becoming a Buddhist monk.

The former kings of Thailand used to surround themselves with the cleverest people in the land. One such courtier was as sharp as a razor and just as cutting. His fellow courtiers planned to seek his comeuppance by embarrassing him in front of His Majesty.

Their plan was to praise his many abilities before the king, puffing up his ego so much that he would rashly admit to having the ability to read the minds of others. Then they would challenge him to reveal what they were thinking. Even if that smart aleck guessed what they were actually thinking, they would firmly say that he was wrong. Because who can prove what someone is thinking?

Thus, one morning at court, minister after minister praised the great wisdom and abilities of this courtier in the presence of the king. When they thought that his pride had got the better of his prudence, one minister exclaimed, “This man is so gifted, he can probably read the thoughts of others. Is that true?”

“Of course I can,” said the courtier with pride.

The others smiled at each other. He had fallen into their crafty trap.

“Okay. So please tell His Majesty what we are all thinking now.”

They had caught him. There was no escape for that know-it-all.

“Your Majesty,” replied the courtier, “I will tell you what all your ministers are thinking right now. They are all thinking kind and devoted thoughts toward their king.”

The ministers considered for a few seconds and agreed, “Yes, Your Majesty, we are all thinking such thoughts!”

That is omniscience.

The Buddha told the story of a powerful king who was returning to the palace after supervising a training exercise for his army. He passed two mango trees, one of which was dripping with fragrant, ripe mangoes, while the other bore no fruit at all. He spurned the tree without fruit while resolving to return later to the fertile tree, after having changed out of his military uniform, to enjoy a mango feast.

When the king returned, he found that the tree with so many ripe mangoes had been violently stripped of all its fruit. His soldiers had not waited to get changed before gorging themselves. Worse, that tree now had so many broken branches and fallen leaves that it appeared deformed and sickly. The mango tree that had no fruit, on the other hand, was untouched by the army and looked healthy and strong.

The wise king abdicated the next day and went forth as a monk. Being a wealthy king was like being that tree with much fruit. Scheming ministers and princes, and even neighboring nations, coveted his wealth. It was only a matter of time before they would attack and he would be injured or killed, just like that once fruitful tree had been badly disfigured. Better having few possessions, like a monk; then he could live like that tree without mangoes — healthy, strong, and always ready to give cool shade to others.

In my first few months at Wat Pah Pong monastery with my teacher, Ajahn Chah, he would repeat the following story again and again. It was such nonsense that I dismissed it as some cultural anomaly. Yet somehow I remembered it. Later in my life as a monk, I recognized the metaphor as the perfect description of how enlightenment happens, offered by the most brilliant master I ever met.

Wat Pah Pong is a mango orchard, whose trees were planted by the Buddha. The trees are now mature, with thousands of ripe mangoes ready to be eaten. Because of the great wisdom and compassion of the Buddha, monks and nuns today, and lay followers too, don’t need to climb the tree to get a mango. Nor do they need to throw sticks up, or shake the tree, to get a mango to fall.

All one needs to do is to sit perfectly still under the mango tree, open a hand, and a mango will fall into it.

Such is the wisdom and compassion of the Buddha.

I knew mango trees. If you just sat underneath a mango tree, you would have to wait many days for a mango to fall. The birds would probably eat them all first. Moreover, if one did actually fall, it would more likely drop on my bald head, knowing my luck, than into my hand. This was a stupid simile!

Now I realize that it was I who was stupid. Nothing is gained in the spiritual life when you go “shaking the tree” or “throwing up sticks” or “climbing the tree” to make things happen. When you learn to be perfectly still, without a desire in the world, and open up your heart with unconditional love, only then do the mangoes of enlightenment fall softly into your hand.

A poor farmer had a lot of moldy hay. Instead of wasting it, he tried to feed it to his cows, but the cows would rather go hungry than eat the bad-tasting grass.

So the farmer mixed the moldy hay with some fresh hay and gave it to his cows. The cows simply separated the good hay from the bad and ate the good stuff. Still the moldy hay remained.

Then the farmer noticed something strange. Even though there was plenty of grass in the paddock, the cows would often be seen pushing their heads between the wires of the fence to eat the grass just outside the paddock. So the farmer left the moldy hay just outside of the fence, close enough for a cow to reach with a stretch. The moldy hay was all eaten in a couple of days.

Forbidden hay, even when moldy, tastes sweet.

I used this simile to help a good friend who had a problem with her husband. He was a good man but never saw the point in religion, not even in meditation. She told me that he would surely benefit from the practical Buddhist teachings if he would take the time to hear them, but he just wasn’t interested. So she asked for my help.

“Easy,” I said, “just buy one of my books. Take it home and, when you see your husband, tell him to keep his hands off your book. Firmly forbid him from reading it.”

This she did.

Of course, one day soon after, when she was out shopping and her husband was at home alone, her husband thought something like: “What does she mean by forbidding me from reading her book!”

Then he picked up the forbidden book, read the first story, and did not put it down until he had completed the last tale. Now he comes to my temple every week.