Why have I come to this desolate place? Why have I kept pushing myself to find the ultimate 'truth'? Why did I launch myself on this quest, why didn't I just ignore my doubts, close my eyes and enjoy the bliss of uncaring ignorance? Such were my thoughts as I struggled up the muddy path, against a bitterly wet wind, towards the cloud shrouded hills.
My destination was a Dharma retreat, famed for its great libraries of wisdom, its gifted enlightened teachers and its diligent monks and nuns. I was desperate to believe that this place would be my final destination, the place where I would discover exactly what the 'truth' really is.
The skies grew darker, the damp drizzle turning to driving rain as I concentrated on every step , my mind running through its rut of thoughts again and again, I looked up and saw a huge oak tree away to the left of the path with a welcoming shelter of massive spreading boughs. Coming closer, I spied a small figure sitting on one of the gnarled roots that bulged out of the ground near the tree, and beckoning to me to come and sit there. Approaching through the sheets of rain I saw that the figure was dressed in a shimmering maroon robe and wore a marvellous golden helmet which spread out over his shoulders. On his lap was a white bundle wrapped with a red sash and he was surrounded by a mysterious haze. Was this a wandering Rimpoche, on his way to the monastery, carrying the texts of the Dharma teaching?
Only as I reached the shelter of the tree, did I realise that the splendid helmet was a huge brass wok, that the mysterious haze was clouds of smoke billowing forth from a small clay pipe that the stranger was puffing and that the shimmering effect of his robe was due to a random sprinkling of flour which appeared to have come from the large sack which he held on his lap, under the shelter of the rim of the wok. Who was this rogue?
I sat down beside him, but he continued to stare into the rain sodden landscape with puffs of smoke wafting from under the wok over his head. In a silence filled with the sounds of rain, wind, the creaking of the trees branches and the occasional chimes of drops of water falling from an overhead branch onto the wok, we sat together.
Impatient to get to my goal, thirsty for more information about it, I decided to use my time in conversation.
'Terrible weather today, its not fair on living souls!!!'
'Hmm', came a snarl that I took for a reply.
'Do you know of the great monastery in the hills ?'
'Hmm', another grunt.
'Is it far from here ?'
'No', he snapped.
'Have you ever been to the monastery ?'
'Yes', came the reply, followed by a cloud of smoke.
'Is it a wonderful place ?'
'Yes', he sighed.
'Why did you go there?'
'Because I am a cook in the kitchen, where I bake the bread for everyone who stays there', came the whispered reply, followed by another cloud of smoke.
'Do you not wish that you were up in the meditation hall, with all the diligent monks and nuns, hearing the teachings of the venerable masters, rather than by the oven, baking bread?'.
The cook took his pipe out of mouth and tapped the bowl against the root of the oak tree. Satisfied that only ash remained, he carefully placed the pipe in a small cloth pouch attached to his belt. Then he turned and looked me in the face. Under the rim of the wok, behind the cook's mess of hair, were a pair of clear wizened eyes, filled with an ocean of calm love. A smile swept across the cook's face and then he spoke,
'I know what you are looking for and what you would like to know, for I have also looked for the same and I have seen many others searching like you and me, but now I will tell you what I have learnt whilst baking bread. Sit, listen and please do not disturb me with any more of your questions.'
So I sat quietly and heard the cook's tale.
'Just as there is always the quest to fully understand our lives, there is always a need for bread for there are always hungry bellies to fill. Baking bread never ends. A long time ago, a sage said that it is wise to empty the mind and fill the belly. There is truth in these words, good foods fill the belly, nourishing the heart and allowing for the emptying of the mind. You need to have sorted out your belly, before you can sort out your heart and mind. You can only use the method of fasting when you have had enough food to set the heart and master the mind. Food is a necessity for life, just as life is a necessity for understanding; you need to eat to live just as you need to have tasted the joys, sorrows, love, hatred, gratitude and anger of life, before you can understand the great Meaning of all things.
"My bread is served at every meal, with breakfast porridge, lunch time soup and supper time stew, it is the common base to every meal. The bread fills the last corners of the belly, where the porridge, soup and stew do not reach. I am truly grateful for the opportunity to provide this vital ingredient for the work of the monastery. By providing sustenance for their long journey I have the opportunity to serve all these sentient beings, to help many along the Path. I am a very fortunate seeker for my teacher is the mysterious magic of baking bread. The teaching never stops, as every time I bake bread, it is always eaten and it is time to bake again.
"Right now, I am returning to the monastery, having collected a fresh sack of flour from the miller and with the rain coming, I took shelter here under the oak tree, as should my sack of flour get wet, it would be ruined, useless for baking bread. When one is carrying a sack of flour, it is not the time for heroic dashes, through the rain and mud, so I rested here to enjoy the tranquillity of the desolate weather and smoke my pipe. I saw you in your cursing struggle along the path and knew that you too needed to rest a while, so I beckoned you here. Why rush when everything is here?"
The cook beamed a smile across his face from ear to ear and he gave his sack a hefty thump, so that swirls of white flour flew up and settled on his robes.
'In the monastery, the bells ring for rising, for working, for sitting, for bowing, for eating and for sleeping; the cook's work has no start and no finish, simply continuing with doing what has to be done. The moment comes when it is time to bake bread, there is only one loaf left in the bread bin, there are hungry bellies that will need feeding, there are seeking hearts that will need their strength sustaining and there are wandering minds that will need holding still.
"Baking bread is not work that can be rushed or hurried, it needs time, a joining of moments of action and inaction. When it is time to bake bread, I clear and clean a large space on the kitchen table ready for my work. I gather all the ingredients, the flour, the sunflower, sesame and poppy seeds, the salt, the sugar, the oil and the yeast. I arrange all the utensils, the mixing bowl, the kneading board, the wooden spoon and the baking tins.
"I check the fire in the grate to see how much life it has in it, whether it has the heat to bake bread and if needs be, I riddle the grate, clear the ashes and add a measure of coal to give it the boost that it will soon need. So many things, of so many qualities, from so many places, laid out before me.
"Into the mixing bowl goes the flour (enough for the five loaves that will fill the oven to capacity, no more and no less), the five pinches of salt, the ten handfuls of sunflower seeds, five handfuls of roasted sesame seed and two handful of blue poppy seed. But the flour is cold, it must first be warmed up to make it ready to welcome the busy yeast. I must put the mixing bowl onto the warm shelf above stove and leave it there till the flour has lost its chill. Now I must wait for the heat from the stove to do its work, it is time for cook to sit.
"'Just sitting' is not work that can be hurried, it needs time, a joining of moments of action and inaction. When it is time to sit, I go to the zendo, I bow to the Buddha, I go to my place, I bow to the other seekers in the zendo, I unfold my blanket and arrange my cushion, I sit and settle into a comfortable, stable posture, I bow to the wall, I am ready for my work.
"Up comes the cornucopia of thoughts and feelings that is my life. There in the front of my mind are the dancing phantoms of my desires, my worries, my plans for the future, my feelings of guilt about the past. My life unfolds in front of me as a collection of items, like the bread ingredients and the baking utensils on the kitchen table. There is my desire to see the enticing dakini smile of the miller's daughter, my worry as to whether I will have enough sesame seed to last until the travelling merchant comes by again, my plans to bake some cakes and my guilt over the terrible state I got into last time I visited the miller and indulged in his excellent wine. As the thoughts and feelings arise, I pour them into the great mixing bowl of the Silence that surrounds me.
"I sit watching the mixing bowl fill and then overflow. I just sit and let the resonance of the Silence do its work.
"Sitting in Silence is my preparation for life's practice, just as the chopping of vegetables is the preparation for the cooking and tasting of soup. Whilst sitting I have time and space to remind myself of the true nature of awareness, of the essence of being, of the purpose of the stillness of my posture and the surrounding communal silence of the Zendo. The practice of awareness, being and purpose does not end when the sitting ends; it continues when I rise from my sitting; the sitting in silence is only a period of apprenticeship for my life work. Just as I have to stand still to light a match to light the fire and let the flame establish itself before carrying it to the grate, in the same way, must I sit still to experience the path of practice within me.
"The bells chime, I bow and rise and return to the kitchen. It is time to continue making the bread. The heat from the stove has done its work and chased the chill off the bowl of flour. I fetch a jug and half fill it with warm water, by carefully mixing hot water from one of the steaming kettles on the stove and the freezing cold water from the tap, so that the water is slightly warmer than my body temperature, to provide the ideal environment for the yeast to carry out their busy work of eating, excreting, respiring and multiplying. I stir a couple of generous tablespoonfuls of sugar into the warm water, to feed the ravenous yeast and then I sprinkle in five teaspoonfuls of dried yeast, followed by two more teaspoonfuls of dried yeast for luck and a good rise. One last good stir of the warm yeasty water and I put the jug on the warm shelf above the stove. Millions of yeast cells are suddenly cast into their short life of intense action. The yeast cells' lifetime is such a short one, but then my own lifetime is not that much longer, so I smile at the good example set by the energetic yeast, who waste no time in getting on with their lives.
"I prepare more warm water in a large saucepan, refilling the kettle which I have used. I smear the insides of bread tins with oil and put them on the shelf above the stove, to warm them up, ready to receive the dough. The yeast starts to froth in the jug, a spiral of thoughts swirl around in my mind, the flour sits still in the mixing bowl. I dig a well in the centre of the flour and pour the frothing yeast water into it, slowly turning the flour into the pond of cloudy water, so that the water does not spill out over the dry flour. The knot of thoughts in my head comes, tangles, unwinds and goes again. My hands are busy pouring water from the jug and turning the spoon, all of my attention must be given to the work in front of me. What was once a collection of separate ingredients, spread upon the kitchen table, slowly becomes a sticky ball of dough. What were once my multiple state of being, the collection of my thoughts, my emotions, my worries and my expectancies, slowly combine to be simply me turning the spoon in the mixing bowl, feeling the resistant, stiffness of the dough. I add more warm water, not too much now, the dough must not become too wet and sloppy. The dough is ready for kneading, I can not turn the spoon any more, it is time to use my hands. I sprinkle a generous amount of flour onto the kneading board and empty the lump of dough out of the mixing bowl onto the board. I sprinkle flour over the great lump of dough, as it settles and spreads to become a half globe in front of me. I roll up my sleeves, I cover my hands with the soft flour, I take a deep breath, I lay my floury hands on the warm dome of dough and I start to slowly fold, push and knead the dough. The secret of baking good bread is in the kneading.
"A good flour, milled from the best wheat, produces a strong dough, where all the ingredients cling tightly together, but to make bread dough that will rise and give an even light texture, the dough must be kneaded until it becomes soft, supple and smooth. It takes most of my strength to pummel, fold and push the dough into its final state, ready for the bread tins. As the sweat rolls down my back I may have to take my robe off, all my strength must be applied with caring hands, massaging the yielding dough with all the love and feeling of a lover caressing a partner. If my muscles are exerted with feelings of anger, hate or even indifference, then the dough with become hard, lumpy and uneven in texture. The bread from dough kneaded without love and care will not fully rise and on baking, it will produce inedible, jaw breaking bricks, which even the hungry ghosts can hardly eat. I have baked loaves like this in my time and when this happens, I have to throw the loaves out and start afresh with a full heart of love rather than the wrath of desire and frustration. Is not the Path to find the Truth the same as kneading dough? True progress is only made when the heart is full of the ever flowing love of life, rather than the burning, frustrated, expectant, overriding desire to find something special. My life is filled with its pains and joys, combined in its own particular fashion, but like the lump of dough, I need to treat myself with love and care, before I can realise and resound with the great Truth of the deep compassion of the Buddha's heart.
"As I knead the dough, it starts to soften and move with my folding and rolling. I can feel the rewards of my caring exertions. I constantly sprinkle showers of flour over the ball of dough and the kneading board, to ensure unrestrained movement, free from sticking. I do not have to force the dough, it responds to all my contortions. The great ball of dough is now ready to be split up into loaf size chunks. I knead each loaf size ball of dough, until it becomes completely soft, even and pliable, just like glazier's putty, before carefully placing it into one of the warm bread tins on the shelf above the stove. I brush oil over the top of each loaf-to-be and sprinkle each one with blue poppy and sesame seeds. Now it is time for the yeast, coaxed along by the gentle wafts of heat rising from the stove, to do their work and make the dough rise ready for the baking. Now to tidy and clean up the kitchen, putting all the unused ingredients away, washing the utensils and the kitchen table, ready for the next round of kitchen work. The bread tins are neatly lined up on the shelf above the stove, covered with a damp cloth; the kitchen is tidy; the hidden yeast are busy raising the dough; the fire is rising inside the stove; everything is as it should be; how could it be otherwise? It is now time for the cook to sit. I go to the zendo, I bow to the Buddha, I go to my place, I bow to the other seekers in the zendo, I unfold my blanket and arrange my cushion, I sit and settle into a comfortable, stable posture, I bow to the wall, I am ready for my work. It is all of me that is sitting on my cushion on the zendo floor now. My thoughts are me, my emotions are me, my worries are me, my plans are me and my fears are me. Just me, sitting in front of the wall. All the ingredients that make me, are mixed together as one, like the dough rising in the bread tins on the shelf above the stove. A smile arises, some tears fall, an ache sets in, a bird sings in a tree, someone sneezes, I am just sitting in front of the wall. The silence is doing its work. The yeast is raising the dough in the bread tins. A second, a minute, an hour passes, a bell rings, the sitting breaks, a bell rings and the sitting starts, time flows on unnoticed in its silent passage. My thoughts, desires and worries move me this way and that way, they are me, theircomings and goings are my comings and goings, I am just sitting in front of a wall. The noise of silence is all around and within me.
"The bell chimes, I bow and rise and return to the kitchen. The yeast has done its work, the dough has risen in the bread tins, I can now see the shape of the loaves that will be. The coals in the grate are flaming away, the oven is hot, I open the oven door and quickly put the dough filled bread tins in and close the oven door. The spell is now cast, the baking of the bread has begun, there is no going back from here. The heat of the oven now has to do its hour of work.
"The bread is baking in the oven, unseen behind the cast iron oven door. I sweep the kitchen floor, the wind shakes the leaves on the trees in the kitchen yard, a blackbird sings on the fence post, a coal in the stove whistles and crackles. A waft of the smell of cooking dough spreads through the kitchen, I wash the porridge pot, a sheep in the field coughs and splutters, some drops of rain patter against the kitchen window.
"To an onlooker, it is might appear that the process of baking bread only involves the periods of the cook's action, the gathering, preparing and mixing of the ingredients, the kneading of the dough, the greasing and filling of the bread tins and the putting of the tins in the oven. But the process of baking bread also includes the periods of the cook's inaction when the stove warms the flour, when the yeast raises the dough and when the oven bakes the bread. In fact the process of baking bread is continuous, so even though you may see me sitting in the zendo or sweeping the kitchen floor or collecting water from the stream or washing the pots, I am also baking the bread.
"All too often, the seeker will focus only on the periods of action that seem to be make up the practice, the sitting in meditation, the chanting of the sutras and mantras, the reading of the literature, the listening to the words of teachers. In focusing only on the moments of action, the seeker will fail to see that the Path is continuous, that the 'Truth' is ever present and that the development of awareness of the moment is an endless process, happening all of the time. Just as when the bread is baking unseen in the oven, filling the kitchen with its warm, welcoming, appetising smell, whilst I sweep the kitchen floor and wash the porridge pot, the unseen Path of my life is continuously unfolding and my awareness is forever growing, the thought free understanding of the moment which has always been present within me, although often hidden, is also slowly baking within me, fusing and integrating into my everyday existence.
"The kitchen, the dining area and the shrine room are now filled with the smell of the bread baking in the oven. Unseen behind the heavy iron doors of the oven, the bread is ready. Unseen behind the ephemeral, illusory veil of my thinking mind, the nature of the Universe is resounding throughout my being, the kitchen, the valley, the skies and everywhere beyond. I open the oven doors, to be enveloped by a cloud of bread sodden steam, to behold five brown loaves. Carefully I remove each bread tin from the oven and turn each loaf out of the tin and onto a wire grill to cool off. I always find it a great joy to see the freshly baked loaves, lined up together on the wire grill, each perfectly formed in its own way, the domed top, maybe a fold in the crust, straight sides; each loaf is a resplendent testimony to the fact that the age old process of baking works.
"The bread cools by the kitchen window. The blackbird in the kitchen garden sings a new song. Following the Dharma Path requires a slow, patient, constant turning of the wheel of Samsara. How many turns of the wheel must be made before one can escape? How many expectations must be dropped, how many illusions must be broken, how many desires must be forgotten, before every opposite is united and the silence of the Buddha mind is found? From my patient experience, I know that there will always come the time when the bread is baked, when the Buddha mind is found. Look, the loaves are ready and Buddha mind is all around and within me, how could I ever have doubted this?
"I place a loaf on the bread board and with a razor sharp knife, I cut through the crust, revealing the unseen heart of the loaf, one slice at a time, just as it is. I put the first slice onto the offering plate for the Buddha shrine in the kitchen garden, in grateful recognition of the reason why the bread needs to be baked, the need to give strength to all sentient beings on their journey to become Bodhisatvas. I arrange the rest of the slices on plates for the coming meal, the loaf unveiled, ready for eating. I smile and bow in gratitude.
"Who has made the bread? Was it the cook? Was it the oven? Was it the yeast and flour? Who has created the thoughtless understanding of this moment? Was it the seeker? Was it the Practice? Was it the silent unfolding of the Universe?
"Each had their role to play, each part indivisibly intertwined, but right now, I do not need to know about cause and effect, I am pleased that the bread is ready, I am thankful to be present in the moment, the bell rings for meal time, I put the plates of bread onto the dining tables.
"The tables fill with the diners, sitting in silence, eagerly awaiting their meal. The grace is spoken in unison and the eating begins. I take a bite of the bread and savour the secrets of its taste and texture, the flavour only becomes apparent on one's tongue, always remaining a mystery until that moment of the first bite, even to me, the cook. I take each bite anew; taste each moment anew. Every moment savoured in this way discovers the Buddha mind.
"Where is the flour, seeds, salt, yeast and water now? Where is the dough now? Where is the bread now? Just a few crumbs on the plate and a filled belly. Where is the Truth now? Just a few words receding into the horizon of a bygone time leaving an empty, silent mind. Where is the Path now? Just doing that which is there to be done, with a silently laughing smile, a sparkle in the corner of your eye and a heart that knows no boundaries!"
Somewhere up the valley came the faint echo of a bell, the rain had stopped, a few heavy drops fell from the branches of the oak tree and went ping, ping, ping onto the cook's protective hat. We sat in silence, watching the clouds break up to reveal tiny patches of blue in the sky. A bird whistled a song that raced up and down the scales, jumping from note to note with an instantaneous ease. Nothing needed to be said. Another bell rang out, rippling down the valley as the echo bounced of the hillsides. The cook stood up and slung the sack of flour over his shoulder, securing the weight to his back using the red sash that was wrapped around the sack. He removed the wok from his head and carefully placed and tied it in position over the sack of flour. Looking like a tortoise carrying his precious belongings beneath the protective brass shield, he turned towards me and, making a small bow, he said with a smile: 'The moment has come when it is time to bake bread, there is only one loaf left in the bread bin, there are hungry bellies that need feeding, seeking hearts that need their strength sustaining and wandering minds that will need holding still.'
He set off up the valley, skipping from rock to rock, nimbly avoiding the mud and puddles, with the surefootedness of a mountain goat. I saw the cook only a few times in the monastery as he came and went from the zendo and as he put the platefuls of bread onto the dining tables at the mealtimes. I greatly appreciated the bread at each meal. Indeed it filled the last corners of my belly where the porridge, soup and stew could not reach. Somewhere within me and all around me, I realised that the thought-free understanding of the moment was rising, being baked, being sliced, being tasted.
