..续本文上一页y. If you die, I”ll cremate you myself. I”ll cremate you right here in the monastery. You won”t need to go anywhere else.” This is how I dealt with it. Speaking like this gave them strength of mind. There was a lot of fear to deal with.

　　Conditions were pretty rough. The laypeople didn”t know much. They would bring us plah rah (fermented fish, a staple of the local diet), but it was made with raw fish, so we didn”t eat it; I would stir it and take a good look at it to see what it was made from, and just leave it sitting there.

　　Things were very hard then, and we don”t have those kinds of conditions these days—nobody knows about it. But there is some legacy remaining in the practice we have now, in the monks from those days who are still here. After the rains retreat, we could go tudong right here within the monastery. We went and sat deep in the quiet of the forest. From time to time we would gather, I would give some teaching, and then everyone returned into the forest to continue meditating, walking and sitting. We practiced like this in the dry season; we didn”t need to go wandering in search of forests to practice in, because we had the right conditions here. We maintained the tudong practices right here.

　　Now, after the rains, everyone wants to take off somewhere. The result is usually that their practice gets interrupted. It”s important to keep at it steadily and sincerely so that you come to know your defilements. This way of practice is something good and authentic. In the past it was much harder. It”s like the saying that we practice to no longer be a person: the person should die in order to become a monk. We adhered to the Vinaya strictly, and everyone had a real sense of shame about their actions. When doing chores, hauling water or sweeping the grounds, you didn”t hear monks talking. During bowl-washing, it was completely silent. Now, some days I have to send someone to tell them to stop talking and find out what all the commotion is about. I wonder if they”re boxing out there; the noise is so loud I can”t imagine what”s going on. So again and again I have to forbid them to chat.

　　I don”t know what they need to talk about. When they”ve eaten their fill, they become heedless because of the pleasure they feel. I keep on saying, when you come back from almsround, don”t talk! If someone asks why you don”t want to talk, tell them, “My hearing is bad.” Otherwise it becomes like a pack of barking dogs. Chattering brings about emotions, and you can even end up in a fistfight, especially at that time of day when everyone is hungry—the dogs are hungry, and defilements are active.

　　This is what I”ve noticed. People don”t enter the practice wholeheartedly. I”ve seen it changing over the years. Those who trained in the past got some results and can take care of themselves, but now hearing about the difficulties would scare people away. It”s too hard to conceive of. If you make things easy, then everyone is interested, but what”s the point

　　 The reason we were able to realize some benefit in the past is that everyone trained together wholeheartedly

　　The monks who lived here then really practiced endurance to the utmost. We saw things through together, from the beginning to the end. They have some understanding about the practice. After several years of practicing together, I thought it would be appropriate to send them out to their home villages to establish monasteries.

　　Those of you who came later can”t really imagine what it was like for us then. I don”t know who to talk to about it. The practice was extremely strict. Patience and endurance were the most important things we lived by. No one complained about the conditions. If we only had plain rice to eat, no one complained. We ate in complete silence, never discussing whether or…

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