"America." He smiled. "Ah, I student of English!"

He handed me a book on Buddha's four noble truths. As I flipped through, my eyes came to rest on a page dealing with the origin of suffering. Buddha says that the root of all suffering comes from attachment - to ourselves, to our possessions, to our activities, to our opinions. I looked at Eri. Here we were, two boys, ages 44 and 14, on a father-and-son journey to new places and new ideas, an opportunity to explore the world with real hands, eyes, smells and tastes - things you can't get through textbooks and television. We were wandering in southeast Asia, our backpacks full with camera, clothing, tape deck and assorted garbage.

I looked up at the shaven-headed monk. Reading the wisdom of Buddha's words, we found ourselves nodding in mutual agreement to the principles of non-attachment. This man was clearly happy. He smiled.

"I sit here," he said. "I sleep there," motioning to the small hut behind him. "I eat there," indicating the kitchen across the temple yard. "I study. I talk to people who come by. Would you like some tea?"

This young man seemed to have something special going for him. And it surely didn't come from his possessions - orange tunic and sandals, a few books, and a mattress and blanket. No, he wore his happiness inside out. It came through his eyes, through his smile, from somewhere deep inside.

I was curious. "How old are you?"

"I am 23," he said, trying to pronounce each word correctly.

"When did you become a monk?"

"When I was thirteen," he said looking at Eri.

My fourteen-year-old son and I looked at each other, stunned. At an age, even younger than Eri, he had made such a momentous choice, a definite rite of passage alien to the average American teenager - or his father, for that matter.

It felt good just sitting there, the three of us. I reflected on attachment. Life does seem to get easier when I let go a bit. There are the little things like giving away old clothes or tossing out old files after years of pack ratting.

I know the difficulty that most pack rats like myself have when it comes to throwing out that shirt we haven't worn in years or an old magazine article. But once the grief and pain of tossing it into the trash bin ends, a feeling of freedom begins. And with luck, we can remember that feeling and go on a roll - maybe even including things like letting go of trying to move cars mentally during rush hour traffic or of wishing that we didn't have a cold or of holding onto even bigger attachments to relationships, youth, health. There is simply a greater sense of freedom after letting go of the clinging.

After a pleasant afternoon, it was time to bid good-bye to our new friend. Eri and I climbed into our open jeep, waving to our smiling monk as we drove off. As we turned the corner, our camera slid off the dashboard, smashing on the ground behind us.

"Stop!" Eri shouted.

Too late. A few seconds later, he returned carrying what was left of our expensive Nikon camera which had fallen out of the Jeep. A flash of anger arose in both of us as we looked for some way to justify this, something to accuse or blame. Then we caught each other's eye. The first test of the Buddha's principle of non-attachment had occurred within the first five minutes of learning.

Although we didn't turn to look, the image of the monk still beaming and waving at us with his heart wide open framed the absurdity of the moment. The thought, "Let go," flashed through my mind, along with, "If not now, when?"

Thus began our new discipline of letting go. It would last for a while and then, the thought of the camera would come up and I would notice the angry feeling beginning to rise - but so did the monk's smile, Buddha's words and an old prayer.

Breathing in, I calm mind and body

Breathing out, I smile

Dwelling in the present moment

I know this is the only moment

The test for letting go was just beginning. Each day, it was something else - misplaced keys, passport, scuba mask and more. It kept the pressure on to really let go. After a couple weeks, we thought we had it made, the principle of letting go firmly established. So much so, we even purchased a new camera. Ah, yes, we had paid our dues, nothing could hook us now. Let go, and let God.

It was late afternoon on the 10th hole of a jungle golf course. Eri and I are both avid golfers and if there is one other constant in life, besides change, it is that golf can be played anywhere, even in the jungles of southeast Asia. I was about to nail my approach shot to the green when a monkey came out of the jungle in back of us and began to cross the fairway. Eri and I had never seen a monkey in the wild before and Eri immediately took out our new camera.

As he approached the animal, it growled, bared its teeth and made an ugly swipe with its hand. Eri backed up and froze. Then out of the forest emerged four baby monkeys and another female. The threatening gesture must have been to protect the babies. We smiled at the unique sight, something never seen at St. Andrews or Pebble Beach. Finally, a large male with full beard and a Clint Eastwood squint emerged and slowly began to knuckle his way directly towards us. With all my years of martial arts training I suddenly realized I was devoid of Aikido techniques for monkeys. One look at the size of his arms made me thankful I was holding a 5-iron. With each step that he took towards us, we backed away. Eri had followed my lead and was now holding a 3-iron. We stayed calm and relaxed rather enjoying the encounter. The monkey seemed more relaxed also and had developed an interest in my golf bag. He began touching the clubs, picking up my ball and tossing it.

I said to Eri, "This will make some great photos."

Just then, at the same moment, all three of us saw THE CAMERA on the ground near the golf bag where Eri had left it when he picked up the 3-iron.

Our intensive practice in letting go was suddenly forgotten. We had a recurrence of the case of the clings as I saw this hairy primate approaching my camera. So much for my unattached attitude. All fear vanished. I stepped forward to reclaim what was rightfully mine, but was frozen in my tracks by one fixed *make-my-day glance.* So much for my power of intention. The monkey reached down and swooped up the camera - my brand new camera!

"That's my camera, not your camera," I mentally lasered into his primitive skull.

So much for mental telepathy. He nonchalantly removed the case, tossed it over his shoulder, took the camera and held it up to his eye.

Now, I know this sounds like too much artistic license and I'm sure if I didn't have a witness to collaborate the story, I wouldn't trust myself with repeating it. But I swear this monkey, this hairy primate with beady eyes began to mimic a professional fashion photographer, as if working on the proper angles and lighting.

"Beautiful, beautiful, you two look great; beautiful!!"

After a minute or so, satisfied, he wrapped the camera strap around his wrist and ambled off into the jungle.

The ultimate test for a case of the clings. There, at dusk, were father and son, with 5-iron and 3-iron in hand, walking through the jungle in southeast Asia following a monkey who had stolen our camera. To what strange karmic past did I owe such a teaching?

Exposing more human inadequacy, the monkey gracefully and swiftly ascended 60 feet up a tree. We agonized as he swung happily from branch to branch, banging our camera along with him. Mercifully, an idea surfaced.

"Remember the book, Caps for Sale?" I asked.

"Of course," he replied, "you read it to me a hundred times when I was little."

It was a child's story about a hat peddler who carried 20 hats in a stack on his head. At lunch, as he slept against a tree, 19 naughty monkeys steal his hats and climb up the tree. The peddler explodes in anger and the monkeys mimic everything he does. He waves his arms, they wave theirs. Finally in total frustration, he throws his remaining hat on the ground - and viola - 19 hats come flying down before his eyes.

The solution was obvious. We began to throw clubs, coconuts, rocks, golf balls, and sunglasses to the ground, all with one eye on our hairy friend. He began to look intently at our antics.

"We've got him now," I proudly exclaimed as he looked down at us and back at our camera.

He began fingering it intently. Then, in the honored lineage of all the great masters, he broke our clinging. He opened the battery compartment and in a frivolous gesture, removed the two batteries and tossed them at our feet.

The sun had set. Two boys, ages 44 and 14, lay laughing on the jungle floor, looking up at a bemused hairy relative. They had been forced to give up a killer case of the clings. Let go, let God. Relax and enjoy, everything is unfolding perfectly. Such joyful thoughts danced in our brains.

And as soon as we really let go, what do you think happened? Did we end up getting what we wanted with the monkey throwing down our camera? It would make a nice ending, yes? But, alas, the last principle of letting go is that it is not a manipulative technique to control the universe. Bucky Fuller once said, "You did not create this universe and you do not control it." However, if you find a monkey somewhere in southeast Asia carrying a Nikon camera, it's mine!! A reward is offered.

Reprint by permission of AikiWorks

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