Back Out in the Outback: A Letter from Australia

Venerable Kovido left Amaravati last summer to live in Bodhinyana Monastery in Western Australia. Here are some of his comments on the change of scene.

I guess one of the most recurrent experiences has been seeing my perceptions - of what the monastery, the people, the country would be like - fall and collapse. It started the day I arrived, which happened to be the day before Vassa. I expected that we would be going into a strict regime - but much to my surprise, we had two weeks to settle in, recover and take it easy. In fact, the whole retreat was quite relaxed with a lot of time to oneself. And, for the first and last month, some teaching engagements and a few funerals still occurred.

Another perception to go was the weather. 'Western Australia,' I thought, 'land of sunshine, boiling in the summer and warm in the winter.' I'm glad Venerable Abhinyano encouraged me to bring some warm clothes because it gets quite cold here. I mean relatively - not that cold by European standards, 5-6ºC. But except for in the eating hall and the boiler room, there isn't any heating. Well there is in the Dhamma Hall, but that isn't used because it makes the room damp and gives people headaches. So until I learned that, I would sit in the Hall battling the cold and my aversion to it and staring at the heaters. And to make it worse, everybody would say 'Oh, give it 4-6 weeks and it will be beautiful.' Some days it has been quite cold with rain and clouds for several days at a time. However, now it does go up to 30ºC in the daytime.

But then, just as it gets pleasant to sit outside, out come the flies, and during the month of November more and more of them. Not that they bite, but they like to land on your face and crawl up into your mouth, your nose, or into your eyes. A little too friendly for me I'm afraid, and I resort to fly repellent or the 'Australian salute'!

During the retreat we had about 15-20 people staying here: 6 monks, 5 anagarika / laymen, 5 anagarika / lay women, and regular weekend visitors. Amongst this group were 4 Thai maichee [8 precept nuns]; this was the first time I had experienced Thai maichees. One would see them during the day pottering about - sweeping a few leaves, doing a bit of weeding, arranging some flowers, etc. - generally just pottering about. And they also helped in the kitchen - often sitting on the floor preparing food, cooking, speaking Thai or washing up.

It was the Uposatha day, the last day of Ajahn Jagaro's solitary retreat and a Sunday. About 60 people had gathered together - Thai, Sri Lankan, Burmese, Chinese/Malay, Australian - to offer dana. It had been raining, not the weedy sort of drizzle of England but a real downpour, inches per hour sort of stuff. So people had parked their cars really close to the dining hall rather than up the hill in the car park. The meal had been offered and everybody was crowded into the dining hall to receive the blessing. We were just about to start chanting when it really started to pour down (and you can hear it on a tin roof). Suddenly there was a very loud cracking noise. A big Kanri tree (a type of Eucalyptus) probably the biggest tree in the monastery, which had been relatively untouched by the fire earlier in the year, had fallen over. But everything seemed all right so Ajahn Brahm continued with the chanting.

The other thing was that a couple of cars were completely covered under the branches of the tree. We were worried about how badly they were damaged, but as the branches were cut away and the cars retrieved, we saw that the branches had fallen in such a way that they were resting on and over the cars, so little damage occurred. As one owner came to look at his car, we wondered if he would sue for the dented roof and broken light. 'Oh no, I take this as an auspicious sign. Five minutes before the tree fell, my children were all playing right here near the car; then they all came in for the blessing. This is very fortunate, they could have been badly hurt. In fact, when I get back I will buy a ticket for the lottery, and if I win, I will give half to the monastery!'

In the morning at Bodhinyana, we have meditation from 4.30-5.30, chanting 5.30-6.00, and then more meditation 6.00-7.00. The first session is usually OK but for some reason, in the second session after the chanting, it is very difficult to keep awake and most people nod gently. For a few days, I battled away against the drowsiness using all the skilful means that I knew, but to no avail. Then I noticed that one or two people would go out and do walking meditation instead. So that's what I did, and I am so glad that I did because at that time of day either dawn was just about to occur or, later on in the year, the sun would be just rising above the trees. What a beautiful time of day with the first birds, usually the kookaburras, breaking the silence of the night. And the rays of light shining on the tree tops, the coloured branches or, of late, the green translucent leaves, emerging out of the monotone darkness.

Also, when it was a bit darker, the kangaroos would be nibbling at the grass a few yards from where I did my walking meditation. Not the big males - they are usually a bit further away and quite edgy - but the females and the young joeys. To begin with, you wouldn't see the joeys, but then as Mum bent down to eat some grass, you would see a little head appear out of the pouch and sometimes eat the grass too. I saw this happen for several weeks and then one day I saw the little chap come out. What a surprise! His head might be quite small but his body was large, comparable to a seven-year-old child in relation to its mother. He was a bit nervous too: if I got too close it would climb back into the safety of Mum's pouch.

Now I don't know whether it's lighter or the plants have changed (they grow very fast out here) but they only come so close. Also the joey can't get in the pouch any more. He tries but more gets left out than gets in, legs and tail sticking out on either side of his head. You can feel that Mum is not really that pleased to accommodate him any more.

It seems to be a bit like that as a human being growing up or as a majjhima monk (such as Ven. Kovido) - having been a monk for between five and ten years. You'd like to be able to go back to Mum or the teacher, hide in the pouch for a while, have a cuddle and some comforting words - but somehow it doesn't seem to be possible any more. It's not that Mum or the teacher is unkind or unreceptive but the relationship has changed and one can no longer get the same hit.

Also, being a majjhima monk is very instructive because you have a chance to see and experience two different roles in succession, that of being in charge and that of being in support. From being in the role of the senior monk, one notices what things people do are helpful or otherwise, and so, you hope, can be more supportive when in the junior role. I guess it would be like being a teacher for a while and then going back to school. You'd probably be a much better pupil!