Monastic Women Leaders Say

Monastic Women Leaders Say

Poignant poems leave a record of what were on monastic women leaders' minds, how they make their hearts their new homes and their heartfelt expressions of seeing things as they really are. What they say sometime in the fifth century B.C. was documented as a collection of 73 poems two centuries later in the third century B.C. In this Therigatha collection, the Buddhist nuns or bikkhunis shared their inner struggles and triumphs on their path to enlightened wisdom. 

Note 1: Here is a sampling translated from the Pali by Bhikku Thanissaro. 

On what it meant to be truly liberated:

  So freed!

So thoroughly freed am I!

from three crooked things set free:  from mortar, pestle, & crooked old husband. 

Having uprooted the craving that leads to becoming, I'm set free from aging & death. 

Therigatha, I.11 - Mutta

On What Really Matters Inspite of Aging Physical Beauty:

Black was my hair — the color of bees — & curled at the tips;

 with age, it looked like coarse hemp. 

The truth of the Truth-speaker's words doesn't change. 

Fragrant, like a perfumed basket filled with flowers: 

With age it smelled musty, like animal fur. 

The truth of the Truth-speaker's words doesn't change. 

Thick & lush, like a well-tended grove, 

made splendid, the tips elaborate with comb & pin. 

With age, it grew thin & bare here & there. 

The truth of the Truth-speaker's words doesn't change. 

Adorned with gold & delicate pins,

and it was splendid, ornamented with braids. 

Now, with age, that head has gone bald. 

The truth of the Truth-speaker's words doesn't change. 

Curved, as if well-drawn by an artist, 

my brows were once splendid. 

With age, they droop down in folds. 

The truth of the Truth-speaker's words doesn't change. 

Radiant, brilliant like jewels, my eyes: 

With age, they're no longer splendid. 

The truth of the Truth-speaker's words doesn't change. 

Like a delicate peak,

my nose was splendid in the prime of my youth. 

With age, it's like a long pepper. 

The truth of the Truth-speaker's words doesn't change. 

Like bracelets — well-fashioned, well-finished — 

my ears were once splendid. 

With age, they droop down in folds. 

The truth of the Truth-speaker's words doesn't change. 

Like plaintain buds in their color, 

my teeth were once splendid. 

With age, they're broken & yellowed. 

The truth of the Truth-speaker's words doesn't change. 

Like that of a cuckoo in the dense jungle, 

flitting through deep forest thickets: 

sweet was the tone of my voice. 

With age, it cracks here & there. 

The truth of the Truth-speaker's words doesn't change. 

Smooth — like a conch shell well-polished

my neck was once splendid. 

With age, it's broken down, bent.

The truth of the Truth-speaker's words doesn't change. 

Like rounded door-bars, both of them 

my arms were once splendid. 

With age, they're like dried up patali trees. 

The truth of the Truth-speaker's words doesn't change. 

Adorned with gold & delicate rings, 

my hands were once splendid. 

With age, they're like onions & tubers. 

The truth of the Truth-speaker's words doesn't change. 

Swelling, round, firm, & high, 

both my breasts were once splendid. 

In the drought of old age, they dangle like empty old water bags. 

The truth of the Truth-speaker's words doesn't change. 

Like a sheet of gold, well-burnished, 

my body was splendid. 

Now it's covered with very fine wrinkles. 

The truth of the Truth-speaker's words doesn't change. 

Smooth in their lines,

like an elephant's trunk, 

both my thighs were once splendid. 

With age, they're like knotted bamboo. 

The truth of the Truth-speaker's words doesn't change. 

Adorned with gold & delicate anklets, 

my calves were once splendid. 

With age, they're like sesame sticks. 

The truth of the Truth-speaker's words doesn't change. 

As if they were stuffed with soft cotton, 

both my feet were once splendid. 

With age, they're shriveled & cracked. 

The truth of the Truth-speaker's words doesn't change.

Such was this physical heap, now: 

A house with its plaster all fallen off. 

The truth of the Truth-speaker's words doesn't change. 

Thig 13.1 PTS: Thig 252-270

Note 2: Matty Weingast gave a different nuance to the translation of these poems in her book, The First Free Women: Poems of the First Buddhist Nuns.

                                (...A real hero walks the Path to its end. Then shows others the way)

Friend, 

Full of trust you left home, 

and soon learned to walk the Path

making yourself a friend to everyone 

and making everyone a friend. 

When the whole world is your friend,

fear will find no place to call home. 

And when you make your mind your friend, 

you’ll know what trust really means. 

Listen. I have followed this Path of friendship to its end. 

And I can say with absolute certainty

it will lead you home. 

In Tissa, the Third a challenge was thrown:

Why stay here in your little dungeon? 

If you really want to be free...

make every thought a thought of freedom. 

Break your chains!

Tear down the walls!

Then walk the world a free woman.

When in Doubt About Walking the Path 

When everyone else was meditating, 

I’d be outside circling the hall. 

Finally I went to confess. 

"I’m hopeless", I said. 

The elder nun smiled. 

"Just keep going", she said. 

        Nothing stays in orbit forever. 

If this circling is all you have, 

why not make this circling your home? 

I did as she told me, 

and went on circling the hall. 

If you find yourself partly in and partly out,

if you find yourself drawn to this Path and. 

also drawing away...

I can assure you, 

you’re in good company. 

"Just keep going"

Sometimes the most direct path isn’t a straight line.