..续本文上一页ts, calledium leaves and tubers, stew them until the were mushy, then add salt, rice and pounded chili peppers — leaves, stems and all — and boil it all down together in a pot. This was the sort of fare we had to eat. In all the years since my ordination, this rainy season was the ultimate in primitiveness as far as food was concerned. Even their peppers were strange: When you swallowed one, it would be hot all the way down to your intestines. And yet the hilltribes people themselves were all large and stocky. I had thought that they would be dark and sickly, but they turned out to be fair and plump. They had an admirable culture. There was no quarreling, and none of the people in the village ever raised their voices. They refused to use things bought in the market. Mostly they used things they had made themselves. Their crops were vegetables and wild rice, because there was no level land for growing white rice.

　　After the rains I returned to Mae Rim and then went down to the city of Chieng Mai. The only symptom remaining from my illness was an irregular heartbeat. The lay people who had been most concerned about my condition and had from time to time sent supplies from Chieng Mai to where I was staying in the forest — Khun Nai Chusri and Mae Kaew Run — brought me spice medicine for my dizzy spells. After staying in Chieng Mai at Wat Santidham for a while, I went down to stay at Phra Sabai Cave in Lampang, where a student of mine had spent the rains.

　　While there I began to have the feeling that I would have to return to Bangkok. The Somdet was seriously ill and I”d have to stay with him. But there was something inside me that didn”t want to go. One night I vowed to have an answer to the question of whether or not I should go to Bangkok. I sat in meditation until dawn. At about 4 a.m. I felt as if my head had been cut off, but my heart was bright and not afraid. After that my illness was virtually all gone. I returned to Bangkok and stayed at Wat Boromnivasa. At the time, the Somdet was very ill and gave me an order: "You”ll have to stay with me until I die. As long as I”m still alive, I don”t want you to leave. I don”t care whether or not you come to look after me. I just want to know that you”re around." So I promised to stay. Sometimes I”d wonder about what karma I had done that had me cooped up like this, but then I”d remember the caged dove I had dreamed about in Chanthaburi. That being the case, I”d have to stay.

　　* * *

　　Once I had made up my mind to stay, the Somdet asked me to come and teach him meditation every day. I had him practice anapanasati — keeping the breath in mind. We talked about a number of things while he sat in meditation.

　　One day he said, "I never dreamed that sitting in samadhi would be so beneficial, but there”s one thing that has me bothered. To make the mind still and bring it down to its basic resting level (bhavanga): Isn”t this the essence of becoming and birth

　　"

　　"That”s what samadhi is," I told him, "becoming and birth."

　　"But the Dhamma we”re taught to practice is for the sake of doing away with becoming and birth. So what are we doing giving rise to more becoming and birth

　　"

　　"If you don”t make the mind take on becoming, it won”t give rise to knowledge, because knowledge has to come from becoming if it”s going to do away with becoming. This is becoming on a small scale — uppatika bhava — which lasts for a single mental moment. The same holds true with birth. To make the mind still so that samadhi arises for a long mental moment is birth. Say we sit in concentration for a long time until the mind gives rise to the five factors of jhana: That”s birth. If you don”t do this with your mind, it won”t give rise to any knowledge of its own. And when knowledge can”t arise, how will you be able to let g…

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