I’ll let the teachings speak for themselves. My part in this is just to offer a brief introduction to a good Dhamma friend. I met Ajahn V. in 1978, when I came over to England from Thailand. I was then a bhikkhu of two "Rains" (we count our seniority in the Sangha by the number of Rains Seasons we have spent in the Order), and he had passed three. We were living in London, under the guidance of Ajahn Sumedho, who had eleven Rains. The tiny community that he was supervising had only been in Britain for little more than a year at that time, so it was early days for all of us. Fortunately we were all offered the opportunity to spend the Rains (approximately the Summer) on a country estate in Oxfordshire, where things would be quieter than London, and we could focus more fully on meditation and training.

In the "elder brother" set-up of our group, Ajahn V. became a mentor to me, coaching me in the do’s and don’ts of the training, as well as being someone I could check in with from time to time through the ups and downs of spiritual life. A friend indeed; so I was grateful for that, especially as I had determined that the Rains we spent there was going to be my big push to get up to speed with the more austere modes of practice. In particular, I had determined to refrain from lying down at any time, day or night, for this period. This practice, to encourage effort, has some side effects: because one barely sleeps, one can feel drowsy at any time, and often cat-naps whilst sitting up.

Anyway, out of gratitude to my elder brother, I decided to offer a little service in washing the cover for his alms bowl, a lovely piece of crochet-work that he had fashioned over many hours. And having done so, I planned to dry it by my fire as I sat through the night so that it would be ready to use the next morning. So I hung it on the fire-guard as I took up the night-meditation vigil – alert, ardent and mindful… . Can you imagine my horror when I came to and realized what a certain smell signified? There, dangling over the fire-guard, was Ajahn V’s beautiful bowl cover – burnt to a crisp.

Oh, no. Only one thing for it. First thing after daybreak, I knocked on his door, and as he opened it, I bashfully waved the heap of frazzled yarn. "I have no excuse," was all I could say. He looked at me, with my head down and this sorry item in my hand. "I want you to let go of that," he said, with a gentle smile.

Laconic, that’s his style; those few words expressing no concern for himself, let alone his belongings, just an immediate empathy for the other person’s predicament. And a pragmatic response that was utterly simple, genuine, and right on the mark. That’s Ajahn Viradhammo’s Dhamma, and over the years I came to see and appreciate a lot more of it. I hope this book can bring a taste of it your way.