by Cindy Rasicot

Beep-beep-beep, an alarm clock rings, softly. I open my eyes to darkness.

“Turn the light on,” a voice says.

The alarm goes off ten minutes late. We’re all wrestling to get out of our sleeping bags, confused, sleepy and anxious. Even though I know the routine, it’s hard to wake up so early. Why do I keep coming back?

“We have to hurry if we’re going to make it for morning meditation in fifteen
minutes,” I say, pulling on the white gauze shirt and cotton pants I laid out
the night before.

We are a group of eight international women living in Bangkok doing an overnight stay at Wat Songdhammakalayani Temple, an international monastery for women Buddhists. This is the fourth time I’ve stayed overnight, the first time for the others. I like the anonymity of coming here. No expectations, no roles to fulfill─mom, ex-pat wife─just me.

Our room is spacious, but bare of furniture. There are six ceiling fans, a stack of square padded cotton mats for sleeping, and fourteen glittering golden Buddha statues sitting peacefully on a wooden platform along the side wall. This is our home for the next twenty-four hours.

Walking down steep concrete steps, I make my way to the main temple in grey, hazy pre-dawn light. I see the outline of two slow moving figures in the distance. One is sweeping the front path to the main temple, the other is carrying a bowl of flowers, an offering for morning prayers. As I get closer, I see they’re wearing white cotton robes. These women are maejis (pronounced maa-chis). There are approximately 10,000 maejis living in Thailand, women who shave their heads, dress in white, live at the Temple, and take on vows.

I slip off my sandals, setting them on the wooden shoe rack before entering the temple. A few of the maejis are in line waiting for Thailand’s first fully ordained female Theravada Buddhist monk. She is the reason we are here, to experience monastic life and pray with Venerable Dhammananda.

“Tong-gg, Tong-gg,” A gong announces that morning meditation is about to begin. I look to the end of the line.

Venerable Dhammananda, tall by Thai standards, strides in the room, head lowered, not speaking, gathering her saffron robes in her right hand. Her head is a round, black fuzzy crown of shaven hair. Her face is smooth, relaxed. Taking her place at the head of the line, she leads us in silent procession up the stairs. Venerable Dhammananda is the abbot and spiritual leader of the Temple. A scholar and healer, she is deeply committed to training and educating Buddhist women at her monastery.

In Thailand, there are approximately 300,000 male monks and only six female monks called bhikkhunis (pronounced pee-khu-nees). Venerable Dhammananda, age sixty, is the first woman to be openly ordained in the Thai Buddhist Theravada tradition. She traveled to Sri Lanka to be ordained in 2003 since this is prohibited in Thailand.

Morning chants are recited on the third floor of the main temple. In front, are three rows of Buddha statues sitting in lotus and half lotus positions. A table is set to receive offerings of food and flowers which will be laid out after alms rounds. The room is long and wide with padded mats lined up neatly in rows on the floor. I have seen 50 to 100 people from the community praying in this room Sunday midday, but early morning is reserved for the women living in the monastery. Dhammananda takes her chair in front.

Two female monks dressed in saffron robes step forward to light tall, red ceremonial candles and incense. Curls of incense drift out into the room, leaving a smoky scent like a campfire burning. The two monks kneel down in front. They lead the chanting, blessing the food that we are about to collect during Sunday alms rounds. The maejis sing their responses in unison.

I close my eyes and listen. I love the harmonious sound of women chanting. My breathing deepens and slows. It’s like being in a theatre with surround sound. Soon, I’m floating, being carried downstream in their humming voices. Venerable Dhammananda speaks softly in the microphone.

“Now we will do sitting meditation,” she says. “Breath in through your nose and exhale through your mouth. Follow your breathing.”

We meditate in silence. It takes me five to ten minutes to stop worrying about my fourteen year-old son who is in Bangkok with friends, and my husband who is traveling in the U.S. I practice weeding my thoughts out one at a time, plucking them, laying them aside, clearing my mind of distractions. I discover a deeper, richer peace of mind when I meditate with the monks. After about twenty minutes of meditation my mind is calmer. I sink down into a dark, quiet, inner space, coming to rest.

“Tong-gg, Tong-gg,” A quiet gong rings, telling us that meditation is over. I slowly open my eyes, lifting my gaze, surveying the room.

After meditation, Dhammananda explains what we do during alms rounds. “Walk in silence and keep your heads lowered like we do,” she says. “Meet in the garden in ten minutes.”

Giving alms and receiving alms is a two way exchange. Even though Dhammananda has done alms rounds every Sunday for the past five years, she looks forward to seeing people each week..

“They wait for me,” she says. “I bless them and they bless me. The male monks just walk away when they say their blessing, but we like it, we stay.”

She counsels sick people, older people living alone, or families where there is a marital problem. She knows their personal stories. In one family the father had a drinking problem, but after four years, he is back home no longer drinking.

“Two women we visit today have cancer,” she says. “We say a healing blessing for them.”

We gather silently in the garden. The sky is gray, dense, heavy with moisture. A maeji tells us that we are going to make an offering to the monks. She hands us a package of biscuits, shows us how to bow with our hands pressed together at our chests, making the Thai “wai” a gesture of greeting and respect. I’ve been on alms rounds before, but never made a personal offering to Dhammananda. I want to do everything in the right sequence, showing the appropriate respect.

Before we are ready, Dhammananda slips out the back gate to the side street. The three monks stride forward at a steady pace, their eyes downcast. They wear simple black rubber thongs on their feet. Dhammananda is in front, followed by the two ordained monks. Each monk carries a round alms bowl with a flat lid. The maejis walk behind them in a long procession and we join the end of the line.

One of the maejis walks back to me whispering, “Give them the biscuits,” waving her hands. I walk faster to the front of the line. I wedge my way in so that Dhammananda sees me. I’m starting to sweat because it’s humid and hot, plus I’m nervous. Tiny, sticky drops are sliding down my back and face. I manage to get Dhammananda’s attention. She turns around to face me. I place the biscuits on top of her alms bowl.

“Kneel down,” the maeji urges me on. I press my hands together, bow, and kneel on my knees. They chant a few simple verses for us. Keeping my head lowered, I stand up. Dhammananda turns around and continues walking. I drop to the back of the line, relieved.

We must be quite a sight, three monks, four maejis, eight “farang” (Thai word for foreigner) coiling our way down a narrow side street, trying to walk single file in a straight line. We come from different continents, North America, South America, Eastern Europe, Australia, and Asia. We are Buddhists, Catholics, Jews, Russian Orthodox, and Christians, all walking together in silent alms procession.

Our procession slows down at the first house. A family is waiting, the father and mother holding her squirming young daughter in her arms. An older woman is there too, perhaps the child’s grandmother. People look calmly into Dhammananda’s eyes, like meeting a trusted friend. No words are spoken. The mother sets her daughter at her feet. She lifts spoonfuls of warm rice from a pot and carefully places them in each monk’s bowl.

The older woman collects small plastic bags filled with vegetables in clear broth sitting on a nearby table. She places one bag on each alms bowl. Then she picks up clumps of bananas, distributing them evenly.

The monks pass the food back to us. We’re like a human assembly line of moving hands. We stand close behind them to quickly pass the food to a maeji who walks alongside us rolling a wooden cart to transport the food back to the monastery. The cart fills up with water bottles, food, flowers, fruit, puddings, and sweet, orange and pink colored Thai desserts.

The monks depend upon local Thai people to feed their community. Every Sunday people stand outside their houses from 6 am to 7:00 a.m. to offer food, water, and flowers to the monks. The food must be prepared fresh. They get up early cooking rice, preparing vegetables and tofu in brown curry sauces. They prepare food in small plastic bags sealed with a rubber band. When Thai people give food to monks they call it “making merit.” This action confirms their faith and builds positive “kharma” for their next life.

At the next house, an old woman stands holding a silver rice pot. She closes her eyes and brings the pot to her head, moving her lips silently in prayer. She scoops out rice with a large spoon, placing one in each alms bowl. She picks up a cone of white lotus blossoms carefully wrapped in broad, green lotus leaves, tied together with a thin white ribbon and places it on top of Dhammananda’s bowl.

This woman is too old to kneel down, so the monks deliver their blessing to her standing. She drops her head and closes her eyes. Her face is brown, lined with wrinkles. She has a quiet expression while the monks chant for her. The words sound different from what they sang earlier. Perhaps they’re offering this woman a personal blessing. Dhammananda leans in close to talk with her. As we walk on Dhammananda quietly tells us that this woman has cancer.

I appreciate hearing the people’s personal stories. Most of us live in private neighborhoods, or gated communities back in Bangkok. We don’t get a chance to walk in the Thai countryside. We reside here yet, we don’t really understand how people live. Walking with Dhammananda is like entering a private world that we don’t, normally, see.

The last house we visit sits off the main road down a dirt path. A mother sits next to a young man who Dhammananda describes as very small for his age. I see a young boy seated, but as we get closer his face appears older. He is 35 years old, but his body is small like that of a four or five year old child. His mother is seated to his right, smiling. His father stands beside her. Dhammananda calls us in close. We gather around her. I worry that our large group may be intimidating to the young man. He glances up at us, but our presence doesn’t seem to disturb him. Perhaps he’s seen foreigners walking in alms procession before. He looks up at Venerable Dhammananda, his eyes open wide, a look of wonder on his face.

This is the moment in alms rounds when time slows down, a cloudy veil is lifted from my vision, I see colors and faces more clearly. I call this experience sliding into grace. All eyes and ears focus on this young man. His breath wheezes in and out, in and out. He presses his palms together struggling to breath as his mother lifts a scoop of rice into Dhammananda’s alms bowl. She leans in tipping over him, to receive his offering.

His mother picks up packets of soup distributing them to the monks. As our hands cradle the warm food, we partake in this family’s generous offering. No longer outsiders, we are drawn into their inner circle of trust. We are a human receiving line in an outdoor sanctuary waiting for the next offering. It’s just a momentary flash─Buddhists, Christians, Jews, Thais, Americans─we all come together as one international family.

Accompanying Dhammananda on Sunday alms rounds is like coming home, recognizing a kindred spirit in people who don’t even know my name. Experiencing this loving connection, is why I come back to visit Dhammananda, and why I’ll return again and again as long as I’m living in Thailand.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, May 15th, 2007 at 2:56 pm and is filed under Doing Good or the Kindness of Strangers, First Annual Solas Awards Winners, Great Stories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.