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Most of the stories so far come from Ajahn Brahm. We are working our way through all the talks the Buddhist Society of Western Australia (BSWA) has posted over the years, and stories from Ajahn Chah and Thich Nhat Hanh will follow.
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1,164 complete Buddhist wisdom stories, each with the teacher's own telling and a link to the original talk. See all stories A–Z.
In brief: When people in Indonesia worry about the world ending in 2012, Ajahn Brahm offers to bet his monastery against their…
At the retreat people were telling me about 2012 when the world is going to end. The tectonic plates are gonna shift, there's gonna be tsunamis, there's gonna be earthquakes. So forget about having a mortgage, you don't have to pay it off in another two years. Of course it's not gonna end in two years' time or whatever it is. You don't think about that. In fact I saw in Indonesia, people were talking about it even in Indonesia, in the islands over there. I said, "Look, I volunteer my monastery and the whole Buddhist Society of Western Australia with all its assets, against your house. I'll bet if the world ends you get our monastery and the Buddhist Society of Western Australia's assets. If it doesn't end we get your house." No one took me up on it. Of course you don't, that's not much of a deal.
In brief: Every morning a cat takes Ajahn Brahm's milk and walks off without thanks; he gives anyway because he loves giving.
every morning when I'm having my breakfast the cat comes up to steal my milk. So you know usually I've got enough but sometimes I go without, at least I have half instead of the whole which I usually have. So the cat, so I give to the cat, do I get anything back in return for the cat? No, licks its thing, sniffs and goes away, never says "thank you", not even a meow from the cat, you know what cats are like, so proud. But anyway who cares whether the cat lets me pat it or stroke it or whatever, I don't care, I just love giving.
In brief: Walking back from alms round, Ajahn Chah picks up a stick and asks the young Ajahn Brahm whether it is heavy, then…
The first way of letting go, it was starting off with an old experience with my teacher Ajahn Chah, a long time ago, we were walking back from alms round and a great teacher, they always find an opportunity to, sort of you know, give you some teaching, but not these teachings with so many words and big concepts just simple down-to-earth teachings which once you hear, you think "Crikey, that's really good," and you remember it, and it changes much of your life. What he did on this occasion walking back, he picked up this stick, there's forest all over the place, picked up a stick, turned around and says "Brahmavamso, is this heavy?" Is this heavy? [throws stick away] Not now. I was very careful, I didn't throw that too far, wonder what it's gonna bust. It's only heavy when you hold it. But if you let it go it's got no weight at all. Profound, simple, and unforgettable.
In brief: Covered in concrete, Ajahn Brahm is asked by a well-dressed visitor where the abbot is; he sends her to the hall,…
Tell the story once with doing concrete work, when you do concrete work, even as a monk, you get it all splashed all over you. So you know just boys being boys, I'm still a boy you know, still just maybe a bit old to be a boy, but I still like getting myself all dirty. So I got all this concrete on top of me, as I was walking back to my hut to have a shower, I passed a Sri Lankan woman and she was in this really expensive sari, she was visiting the monastery. She came up to me and I'll never forget this, she said, "Uh... I've come to see the abbot Ajahn Brahm." I thought very quickly and I said, "Madam, if you go to the hall over there he'll probably be there in about fifteen minutes." That was enough time for me to go to my room, get a shower and get changed into some clean robes. So I went up to the hall, and there she was waiting, and I said, "Oh! I'm Ajahn Brahm," you know she never recognized me. That's how dirty I was. I gave her a nice talk, you know about the monastery and about Buddhism, what we're doing here and she was really impressed, so just before she left she said, "You know you've got a really good monastery, are you're a really good monk, but if you don't mind me saying this, I saw this really dirty monk when I came here and I think you should do something about that." I said, "I'll talk to him later, Ma'am". Which I did.
In brief: In a remote Thai village where no one had seen a Westerner, villagers stare so hard while offering food that it falls…
I remember one occasion going on alms round in the morning, and I was the first white man they'd seen in the village, and so they were putting food in the bowl, and it's a big bowl and but they were looking at me and all the food was falling outside, the dogs were eating it all, thank you very much, because I was the first Westerner they saw.
In brief: A disciple walking with Lao Tzu breaks the rule of silence to exclaim at a sunset and is never taken walking again;…
That's why there's this old simile, it's an old meditation story of Lao Tzu. Every evening he would go on a walk and he'd choose one of his disciples, only one could go on a walk with the great master. There was a golden rule, if you went on a walk with the great Taoist master you have to be quiet, you weren't allowed to speak, not even one word. One day this young man was going on a walk with the master and they got to a ridge in mountains at sunset and it was one of these amazing gorgeous sunsets and the young man couldn't help himself but say, "Wow, what a beautiful sunset." He broke the rule. Lao Tzu turned around, went back to the monastery, would never allow that young man to go on a walk ever again. The young man's friend pleaded for him, said "Look, it was only one sentence, give him a break, cut him some slack what's the big deal anyway, of keeping silent?" And that's when the master said this very profound explanation. He said, "When that young man said 'what a beautiful sunset,' he wasn't watching the sunset anymore, he was only watching the words, he wasn't watching the sunset, he was only watching the words."
In brief: Each visit Ajahn Brahm brings his mother another stuffed Australian animal; when the big wombat arrives, everything…
I told a story a long time ago about my mother's mantel shelf. She's an English woman, well she's in a home now, she's very old, but in her house like many English people's house they had a fireplace, and above the fireplace they have a mantel shelf and on that mantel shelf they keep the knick-knacks, the mementos, the photographs and all the things which which bring back happy memories. And so that one day I had just been in Australia for a few years and I went to visit my mother, and so I brought her a gift, and what sort of gift do you bring? Someone gave me a stuffed kangaroo, you know a little fluffy toy, really cute. So I brought that back and gave it to my mother, and she liked it very much, and she put it on her mantel shelf. Next time I went over there someone managed to get me a koala and so I took that back, and she said "Oh, it's so beautiful, everytime I see this I can remember you in Australia." So she put it on her mantel shelf next to the kangaroo. The next time I managed to get a kookaburra, the time afterwards a platypus, and the fifth time I went, I managed to get a wombat. The trouble was the wombat was so big, she tried to put it on the mantel shelf and all the other ones fell off. She spent about an hour trying to balance it on her shelf and everything else fell off. I said, "Why don't you throw those other things away?" She said, "Noooo, these are nice, they remind me of you." You had so much rubbish on that shelf and I said, "Mother, this is like the person, they get one more thing in their head, they have a nervous breakdown, your mantel shelf's having a nervous breakdown." That's what happens, we collect so many thoughts and so much stuff. So if that was my mantel shelf, everytime, if I got a kangaroo, I just put that on, everything else would be clear. The next time someone gave me something else, I'd throw that one away and get something new. So one thing at a time in your head. And then your mantel shelf inside your brain never, ever has a nervous breakdown.
In brief: On a teaching tour of Indonesia, Muslims attend his talks and a veiled family rushes to the airport to have him sign…
Even like Indonesia, my trip to Indonesia, that's where all the Muslim terrorists are, you know all the Bali bombers, they came from over there, but I had such a wonderful time with the Muslims, they came to all my talks, we had photos together, got interviewed and photographed in the Muslim newspapers. Even one Muslim family, they came to the airport, they just caught me in time, said "Oh, Ajahn Brahm, Ajahn Brahm you must sign our book, it's the best book we've ever had." So this whole Muslim family in the veils and everything, me in the middle with the book, having a last photograph taken together. Isn't that wonderful, when people of different religions can have so much fun together.
In brief: A caller keeps asking how much she must pay to attend Ajahn Brahm's talk; told repeatedly it is free, she finally asks…
There was somebody rang me up once from here, it was a Polish lady, actually I remember her, and she rang me up and said, "Are you giving a talk tonight?" I said, "Yeah, I'm given a talk tonight" here in this centre. She said, "How much do you have to pay to get in?" I said, "Nothing, you don't have to pay anything to get in," you all know that, and she stopped awhile and she said, "You don't understand me, how much money do you have to pay to get through the door?" I said, "Madam, you don't have to give any money to go through the door. You just come in and listen, if you don't like it you go out again." Then she paused again, she said, "LISTEN, how much dollar and cents do I have to cough up to come listen to your talk?" I said "Madam, you don't have to cough up anything. You don't have to pay any money to go in, you don't have to pay any money to go out, we don't give you sort of brochures and propaganda, you know, which would ask you money afterwards, it's totally for free, just come in and listen and you go out again afterwards." And then she paused, I always remember this pause because I knew that she was really surprised, and then she asked with utmost sincerity, "Well, what do you guys get out of this then?"
In brief: A monk teaching at a high-security prison describes monastery life (4 am rising, one meal, hard work, no TV, sleeping…
And this particular story is an anecdote when one of our monks, when I was too busy doing all these other things, we used to go teaching in prisons, but another monk started teaching in prison. When he started teaching in prison, this was in Casuarina Prison, at one of the top-security jails. After a while the prisoners there said "Can you stay back a bit longer, we want to sort of talk to you, just find out about you." So he stayed back a little bit longer, they gave him a cup of tea and some chocolate now if you give a monk a cup of tea and chocolate, they're gonna stay forever, so he stayed behind for a bit of tea and chocolate. They started asking him questions about life in a Buddhist monastery in the West. What do you guys do? Have you ever wondered what we do in our monastery? So he said, "Okay, the day in the life of a monk, we get up at four o'clock in the morning." And just at that the prisoners were aghast. "Four o'clock in the morning! Even in prison, you don't have to get up at that time." And the monk he did actually make a qualification, he said, "Actually it's voluntary, it's optional, getting up at four o'clock in the morning," which is true, it's optional, you can always get up earlier, if you want to, that's the option. "And then what do you do?," and he told them, "We meditate." They said, "Can't you just watch the end of the late night movie?" He said, "No, we don't have TVs." "You don't have TVs in the monastery, we have TVs in our cells in prison, that's terrible. So what you do then, you have your breakfast?" We do have a breakfast at the monastery, we usually have just one cup of cereal in it and that's about it, or you know someone, you know has his noodles, but it's only one cup, that's all. They said, "Wow, you know in Casuarina Jail we can have bacon, we have pancakes, we can have cereal, you have everything there, whatever you want." And they said, "Why don't you do that in the monastery?" "No, no, we only have a bit of cereal and that's it." "And then what do you do in the morning?" "And then we work hard at Bodhinyana Monastery." We do these amazing chores, you know building, and even I do that, and if you go down to the retreat centre, we're doing this ramp and I was spending two days cutting the bricks, it was a huge angle grinder, really heavy work, getting myself all dusty. I like some joining in when there's any concrete work. Tell the story once with doing concrete work, when you do concrete work, even as a monk, you get it all splashed all over you. So you know just boys being boys, I'm still a boy you know, still just maybe a bit old to be a boy, but I still like getting myself all dirty. So I got all this concrete on top of me, as I was walking back to my hut to have a shower, I passed a Sri Lankan woman and she was in this really expensive sari, she was visiting the monastery. She came up to me and I'll never forget this, she said, "Uh... I've come to see the abbot Ajahn Brahm." I thought very quickly and I said, "Madam, if you go to the hall over there he'll probably be there in about fifteen minutes." That was enough time for me to go to my room, get a shower and get changed into some clean robes. So I went up to the hall, and there she was waiting, and I said, "Oh! I'm Ajahn Brahm," you know she never recognized me. That's how dirty I was. I gave her a nice talk, you know about the monastery and about Buddhism, what we're doing here and she was really impressed, so just before she left she said, "You know you've got a really good monastery, are you're a really good monk, but if you don't mind me saying this, I saw this really dirty monk when I came here and I think you should do something about that." I said, "I'll talk to him later, Ma'am". Which I did. So that's actually how hard we work, and when the prisoners heard this, again they were really surprised, 'cause yeah, in prison you have to do jobs, but they take it real easy in those jails in Australia. They said, "They'll never get us to work that hard." They said "And then you have your lunch?" Yeah, we have our lunch, many of you have been to our monastery, we eat it out of a bowl, everything goes in one bowl. Sometimes it's true you do get curry on spaghetti. No sorry, I got that wrong, you got custard on spaghetti. That's right, you ever had custard on spaghetti? Why do you say "yuck" for, you've never eaten it, but actually you're right, it is gross. Sometimes you have custard on spaghetti. I've had ice cream on curry, chocolate ice cream, yeah, that's also yucky. 'Cause you know, you put it in your bowl, and for me because I'm the senior monk I put it in the bowl myself and I give it to somebody to take up, 'cause that's their duty. By the time, they're not really careful, they just shake it all over the place, you know I put it in the right position when I start, by the time it gets up there it's all over the place, but that's life. And they were saying that even in prison, even when you go to solitary, you get a tray the custard is here, the spaghetti is over there, it's separate compartments. "Don't you have compartments in your bowl?" Have a look at our bowls, we don't have separate compartments, it goes all over the place. They said, "That's disgusting!" "So what you do in the afternoons?" He said, "We meditate." "Can't you sort of play some music, or sort of play a game of footie or something." "No, we're not allowed to play footie, we just meditate all afternoon." They said, "Don't you get bored?" "No, that's what we're supposed to do." "So I suppose you hangout for dinner?" "Dinner? We don't have dinner in our monasteries, we just eat in the morning time, there's no dinner." They said, "Well, even in prison they give you something to eat in the evening and you have snacks throughout the day, whatever you want. So what do you do in the evening then? You know, can you play cards play monopoly or something, pass the time?" He said "No, we can't do that." "Don't tell us" they said, You meditate, don't you?" "Yeah, of course we do." "Oh God, that must be terrible. Then what time do you go to bed?" And the monk said, "Bed? Bed?... we don't have beds, I sleep on the floor." They were absolutely disgusted. Even in prison they put you in that little cot with the mattress on top, not in our monastery, I sleep on the floor. Anyway, the prisoners were actually really surprised. They were really surprised, but not only surprised, they felt sorry for this monk who had been visiting them, and this is true story, one of them was so upset that this man who they got to like was living in such a hard situation, one of them blurted out, "That's terrible in your monastery, why don't you come in here and stay with us instead?" And they had a point, it is actually much more comfortable in any prison in Western Australia than in Bodhinyana Monastery, or even in Dhammasara Nun's Monastery. So why is it that people are trying to get out of jail, and they're trying to break into our monastery, to stay there, waiting lists. That got me thinking, what's the difference between our monastery and the prison? Prison is actually more comfortable, the monastery is much harsher. What's the difference? The only difference is in a monastery people want to be there. In a prison, doesn't matter how comfortable it is, people don't want to be there, that's the only difference.
In brief: A philosophy professor waits two months for a table at an exclusive restaurant, is handed a beautiful parchment menu —…
There was once a professor of philosophy here in Perth, Yeah ... the experience is important, which we are now going to see with the simile of the professor and... Ahh, experience is past when it's interpreted from the knowledge of your past, in other words you take the experience and you compare it with something else, which means it becomes limited by the past. To learn the words actually stand in the way of truth, that's why that in meditation we learn how to be absolutely quiet, to feel and to know, that becomes the truth in the same way that the student of Lao Tzu could actually see... didn't see the sunset, only saw the words, and that great Taoist master made a very good comment that it is the person if they wanna see the sunset they gotta put aside all the words, descriptions, the words, actually block the experience that's it. Okay, back to the professor. There was a professor who of philosophy, in the university... whenever you mention a professor of philosophy in Buddhism they always get a bad rap, so if there are any professors over here, I do apologize, it's just our tradition. But this professor of philosophy, He found out there was a new five-star restaurant opening in Perth, and he wanted to go there to test out the food, so he made an appointment, he rang up, there was a two-month waiting list, that's how popular the restaurant was. And so two-month waiting list, he decided to book his place there anyway, and when he booked his place there, two months later, he walked up at the restaurant. And of course they wanted to see his ID, to make sure he'd really booked a place. And so they checked his ID and yes he was booked in. So he went in, the maitre d' took him to his table, he sat down at the table and a waiter came, you know these really well-dressed waiters, and gave him the menu. And this menu was in thick parchment, and the menu was written in gold letters and calligraphy, even the menu was a work of art, as you would expect in an expensive restaurant, this is no fish and chip shop, this is a top-class five-star restaurant. So he looked at the menu and then he ate the menu and then he paid and left. Because the professor had no idea of the difference between the menu and the food.
In brief: Living nine years at a Thai cremation-ground monastery, Ajahn Brahm saw villagers bring their dead without grieving,…
the monastery I was staying most of the time was a cremation ground. So all the villagers in the local area used that place for the funerals. So we'd do the funeral, we'd see all the villagers, they'd come, bring their dead, we'd do all the chanting and the services, we'd see them that afternoon, that evening, the next day. And there was something very strange, there was no grief, they just didn't cry, not just cry, they weren't even sad when somebody died. This was not suppressing their grief because you saw them every day, they just, wasn't there, it was a culture in which grief was absent and that really shocked me, and I was there nine years so this was no just, short visit, and I thought that was impossible because my learning had said that when you lose someone you love you have to have grief. The truth of the matter, there was no grief there.