Introduction by Khun Runjuan Indrakamhaeng
Ajarn Khun Runjuan and Khunying Chamnongsri
Touched by Rain, Reached by Thunder is an introspective memoir of poetry inviting deep contemplation. Boredom and loneliness are familiar feelings, yet few people explore them deeply, foregoing the opportunity to witness how they devour our purpose for living, constantly sucking the heart’s energy as they slip by unattended.
By undertaking a journey within one discovers how with little effort such processes reveal themselves naturally. But these contemplative adventures can be unpleasant, especially when one fears encountering something they are unwilling to admit exists—easier to allow the mind to stay a slave to boredom and loneliness.
Khunying Chamnongsri Rutnin’s poetry explains the wonders of grappling with the interplay of thoughts and feelings as they unfolded during a meditation retreat she undertook at Suan Mokkhabalarama. It is a captivating struggle of a Dhamma practitioner, who is also a public intellectual, writer and social organiser — personas all vying for attention in a seemingly unstoppable mind. Highly skilled in observation, analysis and criticism, it is a mind that allows no thoughts to pass unscrutinised, nor the resulting imbalances brought on by strong emotions that may trail in their wakes.
Such an outward-inclined mind, however, presents an obstacle to Dhamma practice, distracting it from venturing within where the fruits of practice await. Khunying Chamnongsri finds navigating this U-turn formidable, as it necessitates fighting an inertia her mind sought comfort from throughout her life.
The challenge is daunting. Knowing to peer inside is just the beginning, because once there, it can be an uneasy place to dwell. In contrast, remaining outside one finds an infinite array of characters and constructs to frame stories about, “…remarkable intelligence and sharp analysis. Yes, I’m truly brilliant, what an ego boost.”
Returning inward, there are no companions to join in the journey. There is neither praise nor admiration, only silence and noise alternating for attention. To observe and contemplate them is difficult. Where does the noise stop and the silence begin?
Across 40 brief passages, Khunying Chamnongsri chronicles the mishaps and marvels when witnessing all that emerges, lingers then exits the mind. It is a perpetual carousel ride that ceases only when practice leads to abandoning any quest to acquire, and the mind becomes calm, cool, clear and content.
Until that day arrives, the mind remains Touched by Rain, Reached by Thunder. But so long as one does not abandon the training, continues on the journey within and forgoes anticipation and expectation along the way, that day will come.
The melodic writing style is engaging, allowing readers to gather insight as they float along in the flow of thoughts and feelings. In sharing these personal experiences from her own Dhamma practice, Khunying Chamnongsri hopes they might aid others, an intention I trust she fulfils.
Runjuan Indrakamhaeng
Suan Mokkhabalarama, Chaiya District
25 February 1992
(Translated by Nantiya Tangwisutijit)
Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa and Khunying Chamnongsri
Epilogue
“Touched by Rain, Reached by Thunder” is a collection of writings selected from a daily journal I endeavoured not to keep while abandoning the city for seven months in the countryside.
The Buddha teaches that the root of suffering resides in the mind. So too must the end of suffering be sought from the mind. City life, however, with social opportunities and material wealth lure one to rely on friends, money and things for life’s “solutions”. Unfortunately, grasping such solutions routinely lengthens the problems’ tail.
In 1989 I became entrapped by a conflagration of seemingly unsolvable problems burning inside me. Attempts to dampen the flames succeeded only in stranding my mind on an endless loop of entangled thoughts. The sole way off, I eventually concluded, was to step away from my family, my friends and the comforts of urbanity. I would seek refuge in a far-away forest monastery — a decision I remain thankful for to this day.
I was not running from my problems. I was heading toward an opportunity to cultivate strength and understanding within my mind so that it could become calm and cool. Upon my return to the city, I would try to embrace my dilemmas with loving kindness to both myself and others.
The journey began when I committed to stay at Suan Mokkhabalarama (Wat Suan Mokkh) in Chaiya District, Surat Thani Province. When I arrived in October that year, Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa had been unwell for some time.
Initially, I took part in Anapanasati meditation training offered at Wat Suan Mokkh International Dharma Hermitage.
Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa designated this hermitage to be a Dhamma meditation destination for people of all nationalities and faiths. The 150-rai hermitage was about two kilometres from the main monastery. It was surrounded by verdant hills. A natural hot spring fed a creek that meandered through the grounds, much of which was covered by a peaceful coconut grove. This provided habitat for a wide range of wildlife. Butterflies, ants, and frogs seemed ever-present, but all manner of birds, insects, amphibians and reptiles, particularly snakes, made themselves known.
The beauty and freshness of these surrounding combined with practice to understand the nature of body and mind nurtured a greater friendship with these creatures. They were here before us. For aeons they have gone through birth, reproduction and death. After all, we and they were not too different — swimming in circles full of suffering we want to avoid, pleasantries we try to cling to, and all the while generally oblivious to the ever-changing realities both inside and out.
The hermitage structured the trainings as 10-day residential retreat courses. They were offered twice per month, once in Thai and once in English.
Many mornings we were on the move by 4:30 a.m. We had to walk the two kilometres to the main monastery to hear sermons from Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa. He was punctual, starting his talks precisely at 5:00 a.m. He delivered them from what was called the Stone Bench Courtyard in front of his kuti. This name came from the polished concrete benches available for his audiences. I, however, quietly renamed this area Kanikar Clearing. I chose this because of a night blooming jasmine tree that produced beautiful, tiny white flowers with bright orange pistils. The blooms were wonderfully fragrant at dawn. Tan Ajarn explained how night blooming jasmine originated from India, and was the flower of the Buddha. I have always remembered this, and my mind returns to that clearing whenever someone mentions Kanikar.
Tan Ajarn’s sermons focussed on Paticca-samuppada (Dependent Origination). They went on for two hours. It generally took him three to five sermons to convey all he wanted to share on the topic, depending on his health and the language of the retreat attendees. For Thai participants, he usually covered the material over three days, but if translation into English by a western monk was required, five visits to the courtyard might be necessary.
In the beginning, as I was completely unaccustomed to rising before dawn, I could not follow his talks. I was repeatedly dozing off, catching only bits and pieces of what he was saying. My alertness gradually improve though. And finally, with help from the dogs and chickens that were always on hand and messing about, I could remain awake and absorb every word.
After concluding six retreats, I felt I needed more specific guidance and practice. I asked my teacher, Ajarn Khun Runjuan Indrakamhaeng , if I could stay on for another month. Ajarn agreed, but advised me not to specify a timeframe, only to take things day by day.
Indeed, her advice led me to remain for three months instead of one. It would have been longer, but an obligation awaiting in Bangkok could not be ignored. Those months turned out to be the most valuable educational experience of my life — learning from inside myself, not from what I was told.
Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa allowed me to stay in the upasaka section of Suan Mokkhabalarama, under Ajarn Khun Runjuan’s supervision. Ajarn recognised my intention to practice intensively so assigned me to an isolated cottage. She also instructed me to neither speak nor write. I was only to observe what happened to my own body and mind.
Keeping silence in speech was crucial to understanding the nature inside. It created an atmosphere for continuous observation of the effects of thoughts and feelings.
The silence helped to reveal how extremely hard it could be to stop thinking. Even without anyone to speak with, the mind would churn out dialogue continuously. Day after day thoughts persisted to engage me in conversation. With no one to speak with I turned to writing. I would communicate on paper, and “Touched by Rain, Reached by Thunder” became an unplanned result.
My first month alone I stirred like a newly-captured wild animal, constantly pushing up against the walls of its cage. Gradually, a soothing energy I felt raining down on me from the tall trees above, tamed me.
Suan Mokkhabalarama’s ambience was even more enriching than what I experienced during meditation trainings at the hermitage. The canopies created by all the large trees engulfed the grounds in tranquil shade. Sounds of the wild were constant companions day and night. I saw the largest scorpion I had ever seen, as large as a man’s hand. I shared my cottage with a gigantic spider and a gecko almost a foot long. And I could never count the number of large rats that ran in and out at will.
I became acquainted with many of the abandoned dogs and cats that found homes on the monastery grounds. Their presence caused me to contemplate more intensively themes that I saw us sharing in our respective cycles of suffering and survival. As a result, things like birth, love, jealousy, striving, attachment, sickness and death all found a deeper place to rest near my heart thanks to these cast offs.
My life as a whole felt comparatively unimportant relative to my views about life when living in the city. I noticed the less important life felt, the lighter the load of suffering that accumulated atop my shoulders. This further helped to calm the mind, making mindfulness practice easier.
The first month in the cottage I had no desire to hold a pen. Perhaps the mind was too unsettled. But as the second month began, an urge to write arose, and it intensified the more I tried to suppress it. I began to feel destined to fail miserably in heeding Ajarn Khun Runjuan’s repeated warnings about maintaining silence. She stressed that no writing was allowed either, since both speaking and writing sent the mind outside.
But I gave in. I began to chronicle my thoughts every day. Then after a month, this need to write suddenly vanished.
When Trasvin Jittidecharak from Silkworm Books became aware of this journal, she found it fitting for a book. She had the text rearranged into chapters, and published it in 1992.
During the book’s preparation, I was repeatedly asked about its title by readers. At Suan Mokkh, Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa had a large pond dug. A small island was left in the middle for a solitary coconut tree. He called it the Nalikae Pond to draw attention to an old southern lullaby containing a profound Dhamma teaching.
“Dear Little One, There is the Nalikae coconut tree, Growing there in the sea of wax. Neither touched by rain, Nor reached by thunder. There, in the middle of the sea of wax, Reached only by the one who’s free.”
Nalikae is a coconut species cultivated in Southern Thailand. Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa explained that the Nalikae in the lullaby represents Nirvana. Nirvana is not a place but a state of mind. It stands in the middle of a sea of wax — the nature of the mind that is ever-changing — liquid and impassable when hot, solid like a bridge when cool.
But the lonely Nalikae tree standing tall amidst the sea of wax, remains unchanged — undisturbed by its environment. “Neither touched by rain, Nor reached by thunder” represents a state beyond merit — no attachment to anything even the “boon” or good merit many Buddhists aspire to accumulate. It symbolises one who lets go completely.
As a Dhamma practitioner still adrift in my own sea of wax, “Touched by Rain, Reached by Thunder” seemed a fitting tribute to my time there.
Bhudthong Hill, which I mentioned in the Visaka Bucha chapter, was the ubosot of Suan Mokkhabalarama. Atop it sat a small, pure-white plaster Buddha image serving as the ubosot’s main feature. Boundary stones helped to demarcate a natural amphitheater facing the statue. There were no other man-made structures. Tall trees surrounded everything, furthering an atmosphere harkening back to the time of the Buddha.
Prior to leaving Suan Mokkhabalarama for Bangkok, I planned to come back to the temple and further my training once my task in the city was completed. Ajarn Khun Runjuan, however, observed that I had begun to cling to the place: its routine, its atmosphere and its teachers. She felt that I created an illusion that this was my place to practice, and I thought it was the best. Instead, she recommended that I continue my practice at a forest monastery in the Northeast so that I could gain perspective and further open up my mind.
When I went to pay respects and say good-bye to Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa, I informed him of my plan to take my practice to the Northeast. He proceeded to spend several hours lecturing me about Dhamma practice, and answering all of my questions in great detail. This experience differed immensely from our brief interactions when my training began months earlier. He repeatedly stressed that Dhamma learning must emphasise practice. Only after practicing could one develop sufficient grounding to put forth truly beneficial questions.
I returned to Suan Mokkhabalarama just a handful of times to pay respect to Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa before his passing. When I presented him “Touched by Rain, Reached by Thunder” he complimented me on my writing, adding that it was useful. I felt tremendous relief.
My last opportunity to pay respect to Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa was when I said good-bye to him as his body lay atop his cremation pyre on Bhudthong Hill. The intense yellow flames flashing in front of me fought hard to push through the rain coming down from the sky. From a loudspeaker nearby, my ears heard a recording of Tan Ajarn Buddhadasa’s own voice speaking of death, while my eyes witnessed his charred body turning to ash.
I will forever remember how Tan Ajarn taught us about awareness of death until his own last second.
Khunying Chamnongsri (Rutnin) Hanchanlash
(Translated by Nantiya Tangwisutijit)
Publishcation Data
Author : Chamnongsri (Rutnin) Hanchanlash
1st Published : 1992 , Silkworm Book
2nd Published : March 1996, Foundation for Children Publishing
3rd Published :December 2005 ,Tongplu Publishing
4th Published : January 2006 ,Tongplu Publishing
5th Published : October 2015 ,Paega Publishing