Who Ordered This Truckload of Dung?: Inspiring Stories for Welcoming Life's Difficulties

perfection and guilt

two bad bricks

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. (There were no mattresses, of course — we were forest monks.)

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. This is bad news for divorce lawyers, but good news for you.

I have told this anecdote many times. After one occasion, a builder came up to me and told me a professional secret. We builders always make mistakes, he said, But we tell our clients that it is ‘an original feature’ with no other house in the neighborhood like it. And then we charge them a couple of thousand dollars extra!

So the unique features in your house probably started out as mistakes. In the same way, what you might take to be mistakes in yourself, in your partner, or in life in general, can become unique features, enriching your time here — once you stop focusing on them exclusively.

the temple garden

BUDDHIST TEMPLES IN JAPAN are renowned for their gardens. Many years ago, there was one temple that was said to have the most beautiful garden of all. Travelers would come from all over the country just to admire its exquisite arrangement, so rich in simplicity.

An old monk once came to visit. He arrived very early, just after dawn. He wanted to discover why this garden was considered the most inspiring, so he concealed himself behind a large bush with a good view of the rest of the garden.

He saw a young gardening monk emerge from the temple carrying two wicker baskets. For the next three hours, he watched the young monk carefully pick up every leaf and twig that had fallen from the spreading plum tree in the center of the garden. As he picked up each leaf and twig, the young monk would turn it over in his soft hand, examine it, ponder over it; and if it was to his liking he would delicately place it in one of the baskets. If it wasn’t to be of use to him, he would drop it in the second basket, the rubbish basket. Having collected and thought over every leaf and twig, having emptied the rubbish basket on the pile at the rear of the temple, he paused to take tea and compose his mind for the next crucial stage.

The young monk spent another three hours, mindfully, carefully, skillfully, placing each leaf and twig just in the right place in the garden. If he wasn’t satisfied with the position of a twig, he would turn it slightly or move it forwards a little until, with a light smile of satisfaction, he would move on to the next leaf, choosing just the right shape and color for its place in the garden. His attention to detail was unparalleled. His mastery over the arrangement of color and shape was superb. His understanding of natural beauty was sublime. When he was finished, the garden looked immaculate.

Then the old monk stepped out from behind his bush. Wearing a broken-toothed smile, he congratulated the young gardening monk, Well done! Well done indeed, Venerable! I’ve been observing you all morning. Your diligence is worthy of the highest of praise. And your garden… Well! Your garden is almost perfect.

The young monk’s face went white. His body stiffened as if he had been stung by a scorpion. His smile of self-satisfaction slipped from his face and tumbled into the great chasm of the void. In Japan, you can never be sure of old grinning monks!

What d…do…you mean? he stuttered through his fear. "What do y…you mean, almost perfect? and he prostrated himself at the old monk’s feet. Oh master! Oh teacher! Please release your compassion on me. You have surely been sent by the Buddha to show me how to make my garden really perfect. Teach me, Oh Wise One! Show me the way!"

Do you really want me to show you? asked the old monk, his ancient face creasing with mischief.

Oh yes. Please do. Oh please master!

So the old monk strode into the center of the garden. He put his old but still strong arms around the leafy plum tree. Then with the laugh of a saint, he shook the hell out of that poor tree! Leaves, twigs, and bark fell everywhere, and still the old monk shook that tree. When no more leaves would fall, he stopped.

The young monk was horrified. The garden was ruined. The whole morning’s work was wasted. He wanted to kill the old monk. But the old monk merely looked around him admiring his work. Then with a smile that melts anger, he said gently to the young monk, Now your garden is really perfect.

what’s done is finished

THE MONSOON IN THAILAND is from July to October. During this period, the monks stop traveling, put aside all work projects, and devote themselves to study and meditation. The period is called Vassa, the Rains Retreat.

In the south of Thailand some years ago, a famous abbot was building a new hall in his forest monastery. When the Rains Retreat came, he stopped all work and sent the builders home. This was the time for quiet in his monastery.

A few days later a visitor came, saw the half-constructed building and asked the abbot when his hall would be finished. Without hesitation, the old monk said, The hall is finished.

What do you mean, ‘The hall is finished’? the visitor replied, taken aback. It hasn’t got a roof. There are no doors or windows. There are pieces of wood and cement bags all over the place. Are you going to leave it like that? Are you mad? What do you mean, ‘The hall is finished’?

The old abbot smiled and gently replied, What’s done is finished, and then he went away to meditate.

That is the only way to have a retreat or to take a break. Otherwise our work is never finished.

the idiot’s guide to peace of mind

I TOLD THE PREVIOUS STORY to a large audience one Friday evening in Perth. On the following Sunday, an angry parent came to tell me off. He had attended that talk together with his teenage son. On Saturday evening, his son wanted to go out with his friends. The father asked him, Have you finished your homework yet, son? His son replied, As Ajahn Brahm taught us at the temple last night, Dad, what’s done is finished! See ya.

The following week I told another story.

Most people in Australia have a garden with their house, but only a few know how to find peace in their garden. For the rest, the garden is just another place for work. So I encourage those with a garden to nurture its beauty by working a while and nurture their hearts by just sitting peacefully in the garden, enjoying nature’s gifts.

The first gardener thinks this a jolly good idea. So they decide to get all the little jobs out of the way first, and then they will allow themselves a few moments of peace in their garden. After all, the lawn does need mowing, the flowers could do with a good watering, the leaves need raking, the bushes need pruning, the path needs sweeping… Of course, it takes up all of their free time just to get a fraction of those little jobs out of the way. Their work is never finished, so they never get to have a few minutes of peace. (Have you ever noticed that in our culture, the only people who rest in peace are found in the cemetery?)

The second gardener thinks they are much smarter than the first. They put away the rakes and the watering cans and sit out in the garden reading a magazine — probably with big, glossy pictures of nature. But that’s enjoying your magazine, not finding peace in your garden.

The third gardener puts away all the gardening tools, all the magazines, newspapers, and radios, and just sits in the peace of their garden — for about two seconds! Then they start thinking: That lawn really needs mowing. And those bushes should be pruned soon. If I don’t water those flowers within a few days they may die. And maybe a nice gardenia would go well in that corner. Yes! With one of those ornamental birdbaths in front. I could pick one up at the nursery… That is enjoying thinking and planning. Again, there is no peace of mind there.

Now the fourth gardener, the wise one, considers, I’ve worked long enough, now is the time to enjoy the fruit of my work, to listen for the peace. So even though the lawn needs mowing and the leaves need raking and blah! blah! blah! — not now. This way, we find the wisdom to enjoy the garden even though it’s not perfect.

Perhaps there’s an old Japanese monk hiding behind one of the bushes ready to jump out and tell us that our messy old garden really is perfect. Indeed, if we look at the work we have already done instead of focusing on the work that remains, we might understand that what’s done has been finished. But if we focus exclusively on the faults, on the things that need to be fixed, as in the case of my brick wall in my monastery, we will never know peace.

The wise gardener enjoys their fifteen minutes of peace in the perfect imperfection of nature, not thinking, not planning, and not feeling guilty. We all deserve to get away and have some peace; and others deserve the peace of us getting out of their way! Then, after getting our crucial, life-saving fifteen minutes of peace out of its way, we carry on with our gardening duties.

When we understand how to find such peace in our garden, we will know how to find peace anytime, anywhere. Especially, we will know how to find peace in the garden of our heart, even though at times we might think that it’s such a mess, with so much to be done.

guilt and absolution

A FEW YEARS AGO, a young Australian woman came to see me at my temple in Perth. Monks are often sought out for advice on personal problems, perhaps because we’re cheap — we never charge a fee. She was tormented with guilt. Some six months previously, she had been working in a remote mining community in the north of Western Australia. The work was hard and the money good, but there was not much to do in the hours off work. So one Sunday afternoon she suggested to her best friend, and her best friend’s boyfriend, that they all go out for a drive in the bush. Her friend didn’t want to go, and neither did her friend’s boyfriend, but it was no fun going alone. So she cajoled, argued, and badgered until they gave in and agreed to go on the drive in the bush.

There was an accident: the car rolled on the loose gravel road. The young woman’s girlfriend was killed; the boy was paralyzed. The drive was her idea, yet she wasn’t hurt.

She told me with sorrow in her eyes: "If only I hadn’t forced them to go. She would still