My
son teases me because I always identify a destination or goal whenever I do
anything. To-do lists rule my life. Sometimes it seems like getting something
done has become why I exist. I think this may have something to do with my
attraction to travel. My to-do lists are much shorter when I’m on the road: buy
postcards, wash underwear, eat dinner, etc. As the list shrinks, there is more
space and time between items to actually just be in the world.
My
destination the other day was Wat Nong Pa Pong, a Buddhist temple about ten
kilometers outside of Ubon Ratchathani, Thailand. The
temple was founded by a formidable Buddhist monk, known as Phra Chah, in the
‘50s when the area was basically uninhabited jungle. He was interested in the west
and also established Wat Phra Na Na Chat, a forest temple that is home to practitioners
of Theravadan Buddhism from all over the world. Ajaan Chah is quite beloved in Thailand and
over a quarter million people traveled to his deathbed in 1987 to pay their respects.
That is how I was first introduced to him: kneeling by his bed with a
roomful of mourners.
The
temple was not on my city map but I jumped on the #3 songtaew (truck taxi) which
appeared to head in its direction. The driver pulled into a rest stop right at
the Wat Nong Pa Pong sign. The temple was another 3 or 4 kilometers down a
sun-drenched, side road and it was nearing 100 degrees. I walked the stretch of
noodle shops and engine repair shops, with my mastered, smiling yet confused
face. This typically invites the question “pay nay?” (Where are you going?),
and it came from a group of songtaew drivers resting in the shade. One slapped
the seat next to him and said “sit down.” My few words of Thai pleased him and
within a few minutes he was driving me down the road to Wat Nong Pa Pong
chattering away. He offered to arrange a time to pick me up but that would have
meant adding to my to-do list, and I declined.
Leaving
my shoes outside I entered the main building, bowed to Ajaan Chah’s remains and
sat there for a while thinking. A family joined me and our conversation covered
Buddhism, rugby and Niagara Falls;
Then,
I meandered. While the heat was intense, the forest provided shade and there
was a very, very slight breeze. A one-lane, ring road encompassed the main
compound buildings, and there were cement walls here and there sectioning off
the residents’ living quarters. It was calm and quiet except for the cicadas
and occasional construction work. A young monk in rust-colored robes was up
on a roof apparently cleaning the flue of the charcoal-maker.
There
really was nothing to do except just be and explore, and I was entranced by
this simple life. A truck pulled up next to me and the woman at the wheel, dressed
all in white, invited me to the nuns’ residential area of the temple. She
eagerly shared how she, at 62, spends every 7th or 8th
day here – these are called “wun phra,” or “monk days”. She has a foot in two
worlds – regular visits to monastic life arranged around her outer world of
family and neighbors. We visited the home of an ordained nun. She had shaved
her head fifteen years earlier and donned the whites permanently, shedding completely
the outer world and committing to the development of her mind. (This, I
imagine, is much more difficult than keeping up with the longest to-do list). She
said there were 28 nuns currently living at Wat Nong Pa Pong. Her home, like
all the others, was a dark wood structure up on stilts, about 10 feet by 10
feet, with a small porch. Her other set of white clothing was drying on a rack.
We chatted about wun phra, the heat and my travel company, Sweet Mango Tours.
Back
on the temple road, seeking the way out, in no great rush, I noticed a moving swath
of white and I paused. As I stood, a line of fifty or sixty men and women, all
dressed in white, approached slowly and silently. They were circling the main
chedi, practicing walking meditation. I was struck by the thought that everyone is seeking
meaning and by the variety and intensity of the ways that that can be done.
I
returned through the concrete gates to the outer world, and was immediately
engaged by the woman holding up a plastic bag of sweet cold coconut milk. She
and a half dozen other women, were selling sweet, dried coconut strips, fried
pork skin, and thin, crisp, crepe-like cookies. I bought one of each, and took
one seller’s offer of a motorcycle ride back to the main road where I boarded
the #3 songtaew to go home. I wondered what to put on my to-do list for tomorrow.
