Janet lived in Amaravati, a Buddhist monastery in the UK with a branch monastery in New Zealand, and that’s where I was headed; New Zealand, a perfect place to train. He would support Janet by training in the same monastic tradition as his, except she would be safe half a world away!
However, before leaving for the southern hemisphere, he needed a place to practice for a while, to get back on track, and he knew the perfect place; at the Bhante Gunaratana monastery outside Washington, DC. The Bhavana Society (bhavana in Pali translates to mental development) is tucked away in the picturesque hills of West Virginia, just down the street from Johnstown, Pennsylvania. Bhante Gunaratana is the founder of Bhavana, a Sri Lankan monk who has been wearing robes for nearly seventy years, and a world-renowned meditation master.
When I arrived, Bhante G welcomed me to the monastery and retreat center in the same warm way that all serious seekers are welcomed in Theravada Buddhist organizations, never charging fees and only asking that the seeker seriously meditate and assist in community no matter how you want it. or she can.
My mind quickly calmed down in Bhavana and time passed quickly. I kept myself busy felling trees and chopping firewood, working in the kitchen and then collaborating and helping with the construction of the new meditation hall, and in fact I would have stayed with Bhante G and ordained as one of his monks if I hadn’t wanted to. support Janet by becoming a part of Amaravati.
It was peaceful, waking up every morning at 5am to the big gong and then meditating for an hour and a half before starting our day. I even had my own little cabin. . . with a wood stove! Before I knew it though, on a beautiful fall day where the fall colors were strutting proudly with their red and orange things, and as I was laying the fourth level of blocks for the foundation of the new meditation hall, Bhante G came closer. . He stood on the ditch and looked at me for a long time, his presence always warm and loving, saying a few words of encouragement to me, and saying goodbye too, although I didn’t know it at the time, because just as he was leaving, Sister Sucinta ran out of the office with an email in hand. My travel and visa arrangements were ready. . . and not long after that, I went to New Zealand!
New Zealand was awesome once I got there; the twenty-six hour flight seemed endless. About eighteen hours later, we hit a cloud bank that continued into Auckland, and only later did I discover that it was more or less a stationary phenomenon over the rain-soaked islands. Miraculously, the sun rose the day I arrived and stayed on throughout my 250-mile train journey from Auckland to the Wellington rainforests, which was nothing short of a spectacular series of postcards. Every bend in the tracks, from the mountains to the ocean, past pastoral pastures of grazing sheep, was breathtaking.
Locals insist that if a giant fixed all the wrinkles in New Zealand, it would be the size of Australia! Sure it’s an exaggeration, but the country really has few plains. The South Island even has Colorado-inspired snow-capped mountains! Surprisingly, the houses and streets of Wellington were no different from a middle-class neighborhood in Des Moines, heavily Americanized, but no street signs! When I inquired about this apparent oversight, I was told that I should know where I am going. . . . Hmm.
The monastery grounds were nestled between a series of large folds in the earth covered with rainforest-like foliage. The setting was magnificent and I was lucky enough to hang my hat in a small cabin in the middle of the mountain. The cabin was very luxurious compared to the kutis I was used to in Thailand, and even had a sliding glass door to the patio! At night, the ubiquitous possums that populate the South Island like a blanket (someone forgot that possums have no natural enemies in New Zealand when they inadvertently introduced them to the islands) loved to sit on my porch and stare at me curiously in the darling. afternoons by the patio door while meditating with my candle. It always seemed to attract animals for some reason, no matter where I was.
The cabin was hard to find during the day, let alone at night when I had to climb the mountain in the dark to retreat. A couple steps out of the way without a flashlight and you’d be done, so I always kept spare batteries in my pocket, just in case.
Wellington’s weather was worse than Washington State or the UK. The rain was heavy, incessant, and usually falling sideways in sheets, making my nightly walk from the meditation hall up the side of the mountain to my cabin a study in courage, to say the least. Then, one miserable night, it happened: my flashlight went out halfway. I fumbled in my pocket for the spare batteries muttering, “Thank God, thank God,” but when I swapped them out for the old ones. . . still no light. It was the light bulb, and he didn’t have a spare.
I couldn’t make out anything in the pouring rain and the inky black forest. I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face! So I was left with two options, well three, but he didn’t want to yell at me; that wouldn’t be cool or worthy, and probably no one would listen to me anyway. So I had two choices, really, and both were bad: either curl up where I was for a cold, wet night, or grope through the woods. . .