Once a young professor was making a sea voyage. He was a highly educated man with a long tail of letters after his name, but he had little experience of life. In the crew of the ship on which he was travelling was an illiterate old sailor. Every evening, the sailor would visit the cabin of the young professor to listen to him lecture on many different subjects. He was very impressed with the learning of the young man.

One evening as the sailor was about to leave the cabin after several hours of conversation, the professor asked, "Old man, have you studied geology ?"

"What is that, Sir?"

"The science of the earth."

"No, Sir, I have never been to any school or college. I have never studied anything."

"Old man, you have wasted a quarter of your life."

With a long face the old sailor went away. "If such a learned person says so, certainly it must be true," he thought. "I have wasted a quarter of my life !"

Next evening again as the sailor was about to leave the cabin, the professor asked him, "Old man, have you studied oceanography?"

"What is that, Sir ?"

"The science of the sea."

"No, Sir, I have never studied anything."

"Old man, you have wasted half your life."

With a still longer face the sailor went away: "I have wasted half my life; this learned man says so."

Next evening once again the young professor questioned the old sailor: "Old man, have you studied meteorology?"

"What is that, Sir? I have never even heard of it."

"Why, the science of the wind, the rain, the weather."

"No, Sir. As I told you, I have never been to any school. I have never studied anything."

"You have not studied the science of the earth on which you live; you have not studied the science of the sea on which you earn your livelihood; you have not studied the science of the weather which you encounter every day? Old man, you have wasted three quarters of your life."

The old sailor was very unhappy : "This learned man says that I have wasted three quarters of my life ! Certainly I must have wasted three quarters of my life."

The next day it was the turn of the old sailor. He came running to the cabin of the young man and cried, "Professor Sir, have you studied swimology."

"Swimology ? What do you mean ?"

"Can you swim, Sir ?"

"No, I don’t know how to swim."

"Professor Sir, you have wasted all your life ! The ship has struck a rock and is sinking. Those who can swim may reach the nearby shore, but those who cannot swim will drown. I am so sorry, Professor Sir, you have surely lost your life."

Moral of this story...Of course the professor may have studied astronomy, oceanology, or meteorology, but the most important thing a sailor need to be mastered is learning how to swim. Similarly, the most important thing we need to be mastered in life is not learning about electronics, cars, technology, but how to keep the head still above the water in the stream of life and a wave of uncertainty life. There are calm days in life, yet there are also stormy day ini life. But have you learned how to swim if your ship is sinking ? When you lose all your properties, the stock market crashed, abandoned by spouse, lost a dear one ? If you have not learned yet, then disappointment and sorrow will drown you.

So what does "swimming" mean ? Knowing how to care, compassionate, and knowing what is really important in life. At the time, you will never sink.

by Ajahn Brahm

An uneducated old man was visiting a city for the first time in his life. He had grown up in a remote mountain village and now he was enjoying his first visit to his children’s modern homes.

One day, while he was being shown around the city, the old man heard an awful noise. He had never heard such noise and he wanted to find its cause. He found that the grating sound came from a room in the back of a house where a small boy was practicing on a violin. When he was told that it was a “violin”, he decided he never wanted to hear such a horrible thing again.

The next day, in a different part of the city, the old man heard a sound that was enchanting. He also wanted to find its cause. Following the delightful sound back to its source, he came to a room in front of a house where a maestro was performing a sonata on a violin.

At once, the old man realized his mistake. The terrible sound that he had heard the previous day was not the fault of the violin, or even the boy. It was just that the young man had yet to learn his instrument well.

The third day, in a different part of the city, the old man heard another sound that surpassed in its beauty even that of the maestro on her violin. What was that sound that moved the old man’s heart more powerfully than anything before? It was a large orchestra playing a symphony.

It was the same with religion. When we come across a religious enthusiasts causing strife with his beliefs, it is incorrect to blame the religion. It is just that the novice has yet to learn his religion well. When we come across a maestro of her religion, it is such a sweet encounter that it inspires us for many years whatever their beliefs.

When every member of an orchestra was a maestro of their own instrument and they had further learned how to play together in harmony, then it would be the most beautiful sound in the world.

by Ajahn Brahm

Once upon a time, 5 children were playing the wishing game. The child who came up with the best wish would win the wishing game.

First was a young boy, maybe seven or eight, and he said if he could have any wish he would wish for a McDonalds hamburger with double fries (because his mother was Buddhist and wouldn’t allow him to eat hamburgers.

So they asked the second child if she could you think of a better wish. And the second child was a young girl and she said that she would wish for a McDonalds restaurant so she could eat as many hamburgers as she wanted.

Then came to the third boy. He had more time to think as the others and he said that he wants a billion dollars. So he could buy a McDonalds restaurant, then buy a video game store and play all the video games he wants. Then he would buy a school so he could spend all day playing video games then give himself good grades. Then he’d buy a university and pass himself through that too. Then he still has enough money for the rest of his life. So he asked if anyone could think of a better wish than that. The fourth child, a girl, had to think very deeply and she came up with a better wish.

The fourth girl was very clever. She said if she had a wish, she would wish for 3 wishes. With the first wish she would wish for a McDonalds restaurant, with the second wish she would wish for a billion euros, and for the last wish she would wish for 3 more wishes. So she was clearly winning the wishing game.

But there was one boy left, and he would go on to win the wishing game. But how can you find a better wish than an infinity of wishes? Well, this boy was named Buddha, and he said, “If I had one wish, I would wish that I was so content that I would never need another wish again.” And that wish won the wishing game.

by Ajahn Brahm

A newly married couple went for a walk together in a wood, one fine summer's evening after dinner. They were having such a wonderful time being together until they heard a sound in the distance: 'Quack! Quack!'

'Listen,'said the wife, 'That must be a chicken.

'No,no. That was a duck,' said the husband.

'No, I'm sure that was a chicken,' she said.

'Impossible. Chicken go "Cock-a-doodle-doo", ducks go "Quack! Quack!" That's a duck, darling,' he said, with the first signs of irritation.

'Quack! Quack!" it went again.

'See! It's a duck,' he said.

'No dear. That's a chicken. I'm positive,' she asserted, digging in her heels.

'Listen wife! That is a duck. D-U-C-K, duck! Got it?' he said angrily.

'But it's a chicken,' she protested.

'It's a blooming duck, you,you.'

And it went 'Quack! Quack!' again before he said something he oughtn't.

The wife was almost in tears. 'But it's a chicken.'

The husband saw the tears welling up in his wife's eyes and, at last, remembered why he had married her. His face softened and he said gently, 'Sorry, darling. I think you must be right. This is a chicken.'

'Thank you, darling.' She said and she squeezed his hand.

'Quack! Quack!' came the sound through the woods, as they continued their walk together in love.

The point of the story that the husband finally awakened to was, who cares whether it is a chicken or a duck? What was much more important was their harmony together , that they could enjoy their walkl on such a fine summer's evening. How many marriages are broken over the unimportant matters? How many divorces cite 'chicken or duck' stuff.

When we understand this story, we will remember our priorities. The marriage is more important than being right about whether it is a chicken or a duck. Anyway, how many times have we been absolutely, certainly and positively convinced we are right, only to find out we were wrong later/ Who knows? That could have been genetically modified chicken made to sound like a duck!

by Ajahn Brahm

Complaining is finding faults. Wisdom is finding solutions.

by Ajahn Brahm

The biggest thing in the world is mind.

by Ajahn Brahm

It’s only heavy when you hold it. But if you let it go, it’s got no weight at all.

by Ajahn Brahm

You are your own teacher. Looking for teachers can't solve your own doubts. Investigate yourself to find the truth - inside, not outside. Knowing yourself is most important.

by Ajahn Brahm

With even a little intuitive wisdom we will be able to see clearly the ways of the world. We will come to understand that everything in the world is our teacher.

by Ajahn Brahm

A visiting Zen student asked Ajahn Chah, How old are you? Do you live here all year round? I live nowhere, he replied. There is no place you can find me. I have no age. To have age, you must exist, and to think you exist is already a problem. Don't make problems, then the world has none either. Don't make a self. There's nothing more to say.

by Ajahn Brahm

Just know what is happening in your mind - not happy or sad about it, not attached. If you suffer see it, know it, and be empty. It's like a letter - you have to open it before you can know what's in it.

by Ajahn Brahm

How does the dharma teach the proper way of life? It shows us how to live. It has many ways of showing it - on roots or trees or just in front of you. It is a teaching but not in words. So still the mind, the heart, and learn to watch. You'll find the whole dharma revealing itself here and now. At what other time and place are you going to look?

by Ajahn Brahm

Dhamma is in your mind, not in the forest. Don't believe others. Just listen to your mind. You don't have to go and look anywhere else. Wisdom is in yourself, just like a sweet ripe mango is already in a young green one.

by Ajahn Brahm

If you listen to the Dhamma teachings but don't practice you're like a ladle in a soup pot. The ladle is in the soup pot every day, but it doesn't know the taste of the soup. You must reflect and meditate.

by Ajahn Brahm

I arrived early to lead my meditation class in a low-security prison. A crim who I had never seen before was waiting to speak with me. He was a giant of a man with bushy hair and beard and tattooed arms; the scars on his face told me he'd been in many a violent fight. He looked so fearsome that I wondered why he was coming to learn meditation. He wasn't the type. I was wrong of course.

He told me that something had happened a few days before that had spooked the hell out of him. As he started speaking, I picked up his thick Ulster accent. To give me some background, he told me that he had grown up in the violent streets of Belfast. His first stabbing was when he was seven years old. The school bully had demanded the money he had for lunch. He said no. The older boy took out a long knife and asked for the money a second time. He thought the bully was bluffing. He said no again. The bully never asked a third time, he just plunged the knife into the seven year-old's arm, drew it out and walked away.

He told me that he ran in shock from the schoolyard, with blood streaming down his arm, to his father's house close by. His unemployed father took one look at the wound and led his son to their kitchen, but not to dress the wound. The father opened a drawer, took out a big kitchen knife, gave it to his son, and ordered him to go back to school and stab the boy back.

That was how he had been brought up. If he hadn't grown so big and strong, he would have been long dead.

The jail was a prison farm where short-term prisoners, or long-term prisoners close to release, could be prepared for life outside, some by learning a trade in the farming industry. Furthermore, the produce from the prison farm would supply all the prisons around Perth with inexpensive food, thus keeping down costs. Australian farms grow cows, sheep and pigs, not just wheat and vegetables; so did the prison farm. But unlike other farms, the prison farm had its own slaughterhouse, on-site.

Every prisoner had to have a job in the prison farm. I was informed by many of the inmates that the most sought-after jobs were in the slaughterhouse. These jobs were especially popular with violent offenders. And the most sought-after job of all, which you had to fight for, was the job of the slaughterer himself. That giant and fearsome Irishman was the slaughterer.

He described the slaughterhouse to me. Super-strong stainless steel railings, wide at the opening, narrowed down to a single channel inside the building, just wide enough for one animal to pass through at a time. Next to the narrow channel, raised on a platform, he would stand with the electric gun. Cows, pigs or sheep would be forced into the stainless steel funnel using dogs and cattle prods.

He said they would always scream, each in its own way, and try to escape. They could smell death, hear death and feel death. When an animal was alongside his platform, it would be writhing and wriggling and moaning in full voice. Even though his gun could kill a large bull with a single high-voltage charge, the animal would never stand still long enough for him to aim properly. So it was one shot to stun, next shot to kill. One shot to stun, next shot to kill. Animal after animal. Day after day.

The Irishmen started to become excited as he moved to the occurrence, only a few days before, that he had unsettled him so much. He started to swear. In what followed, he kept repeating, " This is God's f...ing truth!" He was afraid I wouldn't believe him.

That day they needed beef for the prisons around Perth. They were slaughtering cows. One shot to stun, next shot to kill. He was well into a normal day's killing when a cow came up like he had never seen before. This cow was silent. There wasn't even a whimper. Its head was down as it walked purposely voluntarily, slowly into position next to the platform. It did not writhe or wriggle or try to escape.

Once in position, the cow lifted her head and stared at her executioner, absolutely still.

The Irishmen hadn't seen anything even close to this before. His mind went numb with confusion. He couldn't lift his gun; nor could he take his eyes away from the eyes of the cow. The cow was looking right inside him.

He slipped into timeless spaces. He couldn't tell me how long it took, but as the cow held him in eye contact, he noticed something that shook him even more. Cows have very big eyes. He saw in the left eye of the cow, above the lower eyelid, water begin to gather. The amount of water grew and grew, until it was too much for the eyelid to hold. It began to trickle slowly all the way down her cheek, forming a glistening line of tears. Long-closed doors were opening slowly to his heart.

As he looked in disbelief, he saw in the right eye of the cow, above the lower eyelid, more water gathering, growing by the moment, until it too, was more than the eyelid could contain. A second stream of water trickled slowly down her face. And the man broke down.

The cow was crying.

He told me that he threw down his gun, swore to the full extent of his considerable capacity to the prison officers, that they could do whatever they liked to him, " BUT THAT COW AIN'T DYING! "

He ended by telling me he was a vegetarian now.

That story was true. Other inmates of the prison farm confirmed it for me. The cow that cried taught one of the most violent of men what it means to care.

Understand the law of karma
Live in this moment,do not go far ahead
Be gentle, generous, peaceful and righteous.

by Ajahn Brahm

Complaining is finding faults, wisdom is finding solutions.

by Ajahn Brahm

When I was a schoolteacher, my attention was drawn to the student in my class of thirty who came bottom in the end-of-year exams. I could see that he was depressed as a result of his performance, so I took him aside.

I said to him: 'Someone has to come thirtieth in a class of thirty. This year, it happens to be you who has made the heroic sacrifice, so that none of your friends have to suffer the ignominy of being bottom of the class. You are so kind, so compassionate. You deserve a medal.'

We both knew that what I was saying was ridiculous, but he grinned. He didn't take it as such an end-of-the-world event any more.

He did much better the next year, when it was someone else's turn to make the heroic sacrifice.

Unpleasant things, like coming bottom of our class, happen in life. They happen to everyone. The only difference between a happy person and one who gets depressed is how they respond to disasters.

Imagine you have just had a wonderful afternoon at the beach with a friend. When you return home, you find a huge truckload of dung has been dumped right in front of your door. There are three things to know about this truckload of dung:

1. You did not order it. It's not your fault.
2. You're stuck with it. No one saw who dumped it, so you cannot call anyone to take it away.
3. It is filthy and offensive, and its stench fills your whole house. It is almost impossible to endure.

In this metaphor, the truckload of dung in front of the house stands for the traumatic experiences that are dumped on us in life. As with the truckload of dung, there are three things to know about tragedy in our life:

1. We did not order it. We say 'Why me?'
2. We're stuck with it. No one, not even our best friends, can take it away (though they may try).
3. It is so awful, such a destroyer of our happiness, and its pain fills our whole life. It is almost impossible to endure.

There are two ways of responding to being stuck with a truckload of dung. The first way is to carry the dung around with us. We put some in our pockets, some in our bags, and some up our shirts. We even put some down our pants. We find when we carry dung around, we lose a lot of friends! Even best friends don't seem to be around so often.

'Carrying around the dung' is a metaphor for sinking into depression, negativity, or anger. It is a natural and understandable response to adversity. But we lose a lot of friends, because it is also natural and understandable that our friends don't like being around us when we're so depressed. Moreover, the pile of dung gets no less, but the smell gets worse as it ripens.

Fortunately, there's a second way. When we are dumped with a truckload of dung, we heave a sigh, and then get down to work. Out come the wheelbarrow, the fork, and the spade. We fork the dung into the barrow, wheel it around the back of the house, and dig it into the garden. This is tiring and difficult work, but we know there's no other option. Sometimes, all we can manage is half a barrow a day. We're doing something about the problem, rather than complaining our way into depression. Day after day we dig in the dung. Day after day, the pile gets smaller. Sometimes it takes several years, but the morning does come when we see that the dung in front of our house is all gone. Furthermore, a miracle has happened in another part of our house. The flowers in our garden are bursting out in a richness of colour all over the place. Their fragrance wafts down the street so that the neighbours, and even passers-by, smile in delight. Then the fruit tree in the corner is nearly falling over, it's so heavy with fruit. And the fruit is so sweet; you can't buy anything like it. There's so much of it that we are able to share it with our neighbours. Even passers-by get a delicious taste of the miracle fruit.

'Digging in the dung' is a metaphor for welcoming the tragedies as fertilizer for life. It is work that we have to do alone: no one can help us here. But by digging it into the garden of our heart, day by day, the pile of pain gets less. It may take us several years, but the morning does come when we see no more pain in our life and, in our heart, a miracle has happened. Flowers of kindness are bursting out all over the place, and the fragrance of love wafts way down our street, to our neighbours, to our relations, and even to passers-by. Then our wisdom tree in the corner is bending down to us, loaded with sweet insights into the nature of life. We share those delicious fruits freely, even with the passers-by, without ever planning to.

When we have known tragic pain, learnt its lesson, and grown our garden, then we can put our arms around another in deep tragedy and say, softly, 'I know.' They realize we do understand. Compassion begins. We show them the wheelbarrow, the fork, and the spade, and boundless encouragement. If we haven't grown our own garden yet, this can't be done.

I have known many monks who are skilled in meditation, who are peaceful, composed and serene in adversity. But only a few have become great teachers. I often wondered why.

It seems to me now that those monks who had a relatively easy time of it, who had little dung to dig in, were the ones who didn't become teachers. It was the monks who had the enormous difficulties, dug them in quietly, and came through with a rich garden that became great teachers. They all had wisdom, serenity and compassion; but those with more dung had more to share with the world. My teacher, Ajahn Chah, who for me was the pinnacle of all teachers, must have had a whole trucking company line up with their dung at his door, in his early life.

Perhaps the moral of this story is that if you want to be of service to the world, if you wish to follow the path of compassion, then the next time a tragedy occurs in your life, you may say, 'Whoopee! More fertilizer for my garden!'

by Ajahn Brahm

After we purchased the land for our monastery in 1983, we were broke. We were in debt. There were no buildings on the land, not even a shed. Those first few weeks we slept not on beds but on old doors we had bought cheaply from the salvage yard; we raised them on bricks at each corner to lift them off the ground.

The abbot had the best door, the flat one. My door was ribbed with a sizeable hole in the center where the doorknob would have been. I joked that now I wouldn't need to get out of bed to go to the toilet! The cold truth was, however, that the wind would come up through that hole. I didn't sleep much those nights.

We were poor monks who needed buildings. We couldn't afford to employ a builder — the materials were expensive enough. So I had to learn how to build: how to prepare the foundations, lay concrete and bricks, erect the roof, put in the plumbing — the whole lot. I had been a theoretical physicist and high-school teacher in lay life, not used to working with my hands. After a few years, I became quite skilled at building, even calling my crew the BBC ("Buddhist Building Company"). But when I started it was very difficult.

It may look easy to lay a brick: a dollop of mortar underneath, a little tap here, a little tap there. But when I began laying bricks, I'd tap one corner down to make it level and another corner would go up. So I'd tap that corner down then the brick would move out of line. After I'd nudged it back into line, the first corner would be too high again. Hey, you try it!

Being a monk, I had patience and as much time as I needed. I made sure every single brick was perfect, no matter how long it took. Eventually, I completed my first brick wall and stood back to admire it. It was only then that I noticed— oh no! — I'd missed two bricks. All the other bricks were nicely in line, but these two were inclined at an angle. They looked terrible. They spoiled the whole wall. They ruined it.

By then, the cement mortar was too hard for the bricks to be taken out, so I asked the abbot if I could knock the wall down and start over again — or, even better, perhaps blow it up. I'd made a mess of it and I was very embarrassed. The abbot said no, the wall had to stay.

When I showed our first visitors around our fledgling monastery, I always tried to avoid taking them past my brick wall. I hated anyone seeing it. Then one day, some three or four months after I finished it, I was walking with a visitor and he saw the wall.

"That's a nice wall," he casually remarked.

"Sir," I replied in surprise, "have you left your glasses in your car? Are you visually impaired? Can't you see those two bad bricks which spoil the whole wall?"

What he said next changed my whole view of that wall, of myself, and of many other aspects of life. He said, "Yes. I can see those two bad bricks. But I can see the 998 good bricks as well.

I was stunned. For the first time in over three months, I could see other bricks in that wall apart from the two mistakes. Above, below, to the left and to the right of the bad bricks were good bricks, perfect bricks. Moreover, the perfect bricks were many, many more than the two bad bricks. Before, my eyes would focus exclusively on my two mistakes; I was blind to everything else. That was why I couldn't bear looking at that wall, or having others see it. That was why I wanted to destroy it. Now that I could see the good bricks, the wall didn't look so bad after all. It was, as the visitor had said, 'a nice brick wall.' It's still there now, twenty years later, but I've forgotten exactly where those bad bricks are. I literally cannot see those mistakes any more.

How many people end a relationship or get divorced because all they can see in their partner are 'two bad bricks'? How many of us become depressed or even contemplate suicide, because all we can see in ourselves are 'two bad bricks.' In truth, there are many, many more good bricks, perfect bricks — above, below, to the left and to the right of the faults — but at times we just can't see them. Instead, every time we look our eyes focus exclusively on the mistakes. The mistakes are all we see, they're all we think are there and so we want to destroy them. And sometimes, sadly, we do destroy a 'very nice wall.

We've all got our two bad bricks, but the perfect bricks in each one of us are much, much more than the mistakes. Once we see this, things aren't so bad. Not only can we live at peace with ourselves, inclusive of our faults, but we can also enjoy living with a partner.

by Ajahn Brahm