Mind What You Say

§ Normally, Ajaan Fuang was a man of few words who spoke in response to circumstances: If the circumstances warranted it, he could give long, detailed explanations. If not, he’d say only a word or two — or sometimes nothing at all. He held by Ajaan Lee’s dictum: “If you’re going to teach the Dhamma to people, but they’re not intent on listening, or not ready for what you have to say, then no matter how fantastic the Dhamma you’re trying to teach, it still counts as idle chatter, because it doesn’t serve any purpose.”

§ I was constantly amazed at his willingness — sometimes eagerness — to teach meditation even when he was ill. He explained to me once, “If people are really intent on listening, I find that I’m intent on teaching, and no matter how much I have to say, it doesn’t tire me out. In fact, I usually end up with more energy than when I started. But if they’re not intent on listening, then I get worn out after the second or third word.”

§ “Before you say anything, ask yourself whether it’s necessary or not. If it’s not, don’t say it. This is the first step in training the mind — for if you can’t have any control over your mouth, how can you expect to have any control over your mind?”

§ Sometimes his way of being kind was to be cross — although he had his own way of doing it. He never raised his voice or used harsh language, but still his words could burn right into the heart. Once I commented on this fact, and asked him, “Why is it that when your words hurt, they go right to the heart?”

He answered, “That’s so you’ll remember. If words don’t hit home with the person listening, they don’t hit home with the person speaking, either.”

§ In being cross with his students, he’d take his cue from how earnest the student was. The more earnest, the more critical he’d be, with the thought that this sort of student would use his words to best effect.

Once a lay student of his — who didn’t understand this point — was helping to look after him when he was ill in Bangkok. Even though she tried her best to attend to his needs, he was constantly criticizing her, to the point where she was thinking of leaving him. It so happened, though, that another lay student came to visit, and Ajaan Fuang said in a passing remark to him, “When a teacher criticizes his students, it’s for one of two reasons: either to make them stay or to make them go.”

The first student, on overhearing this, suddenly understood, and so decided to stay.

§ A story that Ajaan Fuang liked to tell — with his own twist — was the Jataka tale of the turtle and the swans.

Once there were two swans who liked to stop by a certain pond every day for a drink of water. As time passed, they struck up a friendship with a turtle who lived in the pond, and they started telling him about some of the many things they saw while flying around up in the air. The turtle was fascinated with their stories, but after a while began to feel very depressed, because he knew he’d never have a chance to see the great wide world the way the swans did. When he mentioned this to them, they said, “Why, that’s no problem at all. We’ll find a way to take you up with us.” So they got a stick. The male swan took one end of the stick in his mouth, the female took the other end in hers, and they had the turtle hold on with its mouth to the middle. When everything was ready, they took off.

As they flew up into the sky, the turtle got to see many, many things he had never dreamed about on the earth below, and was having the time of his life. When they flew over a village, though, some children playing below saw them, and started shouting, “Look! Swans carrying a turtle! Swans carrying a turtle!” This spoiled everything for the turtle, until he thought of a smart retort: “No. The turtle’s carrying the swans!” But as soon as he opened his mouth to say it, he fell straight to his death below.

The moral of the story: “Watch out for your mouth when you enter high places.”

§ “Litter” is Thai slang for idle chatter, and once Ajaan Fuang used the term to dramatic effect.

It happened one evening when he was teaching in Bangkok. Three young women who were long-time friends happened to show up together at the building where he was teaching, but instead of joining the group that was already meditating, they found themselves an out-of-the-way corner to catch up on the latest gossip. As they were busy talking, they didn’t notice that Ajaan Fuang had gotten up to stretch his legs and was walking right past them, with an unlit cigarette in his mouth and a box of matches in his hand. He stopped for a second, lit a match, and instead of lighting his cigarette, tossed the lit match into the middle of their group. Immediately they jumped up, and one of them said, “Than Phaw! Why did you do that? You just barely missed me!”

“I saw a pile of litter there,” he answered, “and felt I should set fire to it.”

§ One day Ajaan Fuang overheard two students talking, one of them asking a question and the other starting his answer with, “Well, it seems to me...” Immediately Ajaan Fuang cut him off: “If you don’t really know, say you don’t know, and leave it at that. Why go spreading your ignorance around?”

§ “We each have two ears and one mouth — which shows that we should give more time to listening, and less to speaking.”

§ “Whatever happens in the course of your meditation, don’t tell it to anyone except your teacher. If you go telling other people, it’s bragging. And isn’t that a defilement?”

§ “When people advertise how good they are, they’re really advertising how stupid they are.”

§ “If something’s really good, you don’t have to advertise.”

§ Thailand has a number of monk magazines, somewhat like movie-star magazines, which print the life stories and teachings of famous and not-so-famous monks, nuns, and lay meditation teachers. The life stories tend to be so heavily embellished with supernatural and miraculous events, though, that they are hard to take seriously. From the occasional contact he had with the editors and reporters responsible for these magazines, Ajaan Fuang felt that, by and large, their primary aims were mercenary. As he put it, “The great meditation teachers went into the wilds and put their lives on the line in order to find the Dhamma. When they found it, they offered it free of charge on their return. But these people sit in their air-conditioned offices, write down whatever comes into their heads, and then put it up for sale.” As a result, he never cooperated with them when they tried to put him in their magazines.

Once a group of reporters from a magazine named People Beyond the World came to visit him, armed with cameras and tape recorders. After paying their respects, they asked for his prawat, or personal history. Now it so happens that the Thai word prawat can also mean police record, so Ajaan Fuang responded that he didn’t have one, as he had never done anything wrong. But the reporters were not easily discouraged. If he didn’t want to give his life story, they said, could he please at least teach them some Dhamma. This is a request no monk can refuse, so Ajaan Fuang told them to close their eyes and meditate on the word buddho — awake. They turned on their tape recorders and then sat in meditation, waiting for a Dhamma talk, and this was what they heard:

“That’s today’s Dhamma: two words — bud- and dho. Now if you can’t keep these two words in mind, it would be a waste of time to teach you anything else.”

End of sermon. When they realized that that was all, the reporters — looking very exasperated — gathered their cameras and tape recorders and left, never to bother him again.