An interesting story by Chan Master Nan Huaijin
When I was studying Buddhism in China, I had a friend who was meditating one
day and something extraordinary happened…
In Chengdu, there was a monastery that we, the students from the Central
Military Academy, knew well. The academy was located at Chengdu’s North Parade
Ground and Manjushri Monastery, a large monastic complex, was just nearby.
(Note: Master Nan served in the military when he was young.)
After classes, the students would sometimes sneak out. Even as officers, we
occasionally slipped out to relax. I lived at Mt Wudan near the North Parade
Ground, it was only a short distance to the monastery—just a turn and you’d be
there. The monastery was huge, with hundreds of monks, and I was very familiar
with every one of them. Whenever I went, they would call out, “Come over here!”
I could visit any monk’s room.
So our group of Buddhists often gathered there. It was really a matter of
merit—how else could one have such a conducive environment for learning Dharma?
I went to the monastery frequently. When the bugle sounded, I could run back to
the academy in time without any problem, therefore I never neglected my duties.
Behind the monastery was a vast garden with towering nanmu trees. They were
incredibly tall—if you tilted your head up while wearing a cap, the cap might
fall off! The trees were beautifully arranged, and their leaves seemed to
embody kindness and humility. Each leaf grew in such a way that when it
approached another leaf, it naturally gave way, leaving a small gap between
them. It was indescribably wonderful—a genuine practice place of Bodhisattvas,
no way else to describe it!
There was also a pig enclosure behind the monastery. People might think that
the monks were raising pigs to eat, but that wasn’t the case. These were
“liberation pigs” (animals released to be spared from slaughter). A monk in
charge of growing vegetables—whom we regarded as a living Arhat—took care of
them. He worked tirelessly, filthy all day from labor. Two monks grew food to offer to hundreds of
monks. This monk carried manure and did all the dirty work—truly an Arhat or Bodhisattva!
He fed leftover food from the kitchen to a pair of pigs, one male and one
female. Under the protection of two monks, they reproduced continuously, and
soon there were many piglets. We would joke with him, “Gardener monk! How about
giving a couple to our military academy?”
He would reply, “No! You soldiers would just kill and eat them!” And he kept
the gate tightly shut, not even letting us look at the pigs. We said that we
just wanted to play with them and not eat them.
The monk only relaxed after we left. He was afraid we would kill the
pigs and eat them.
So, as I was saying, one of our friends practiced Chan meditation. One day,
while sitting in meditation, he suddenly felt himself slip into a state of
unconsciousness for a while. In this state, he saw a familiar elderly woman
appear before him, saying, “Come, come, I’ll treat you to tea.”
In Sichuan, people love tea. After drinking the tea, she led him to a place of
incredible beauty—clear mountains, flowing water, birds singing, flowers
fragrant—everything was perfect. The old woman said, “There’s an even better
place. Follow me!”
She led him somewhere that felt both familiar and unfamiliar. Eventually, they
arrived at a grand mansion which was high-class and magnificent, with large red
gates and bronze rings that clanged when struck. (In Chengdu there were such old mansions that
belonged to extremely wealthy families of high position and great power.)
She said, “Come in.” He hesitated: “This is someone’s home. I don’t even know
them—why are you bringing me in?” “It doesn’t matter,” she said.
Inside, it was splendid with corridors and gardens like something out of the
novel “Dream of the Red Chamber”. Then she led him to a private chamber and
told him, “Go in and take a look.”
He protested, “This is someone’s bedroom! How can I just go in?” She replied,
“If you want to go, go. If not, I can’t force you.” He felt annoyed—why was she so improper,
bringing him here? But as he turned to leave, curiosity got the better of him.
He opened the window and peeked inside. Inside, a woman was giving birth.
He was startled and disgusted: “What bad luck! Why did you bring me here to see
this?” He immediately turned and ran away.
At that moment, he woke up from meditation, covered in cold sweat.
He thought, “I’ve never fallen asleep during meditation before. This shouldn’t
have happened. Even if it wasn’t an out-of-body experience, it was still a kind
of demonic state, like a dream. It was a
state of unclarity and ignorance. Something’s wrong.”
He went to Manjushri Monastery and wandered to the back garden where the
vegetable-growing monk was. The monk said, “Ah! Our old sow has just given
birth!”
“How many?”
“Six. One was stillborn.”
“Where?”
“Over there—go take a look.”
When he went to look, he saw a red paper sign posted at the pigpen’s entrance.
It was exactly the same sign he had seen in his “dream” with the same
handwriting by the monk. It said, “Do not enter—sow is giving birth.”
Except, in his dream, he saw “Do not enter—mother is giving birth.”
He was shocked. “My goodness! If I had gone in, I would have become one of
those piglets!”
Out of the six piglets, one had been born dead. He believed that was because
his “bardo body” had not entered it. This brief lapse into sleep had almost led
him there.
Just think it as me babbling a fairytale! (Audience laughed.)
This story shows that when beings are reborn in the animal realm, they don’t
feel like they’ve become animals. They still feel like they are humans. In the
desire realm, craving and desire are extremely strong. This force of desire is
irresistible—stronger than magnetism. Once it pulls you, you are drawn in
instantly. Space and time pose no difficulty or obstruction.
That is how frightening attachment and desire truly are.
