I am aware that I have been absent for nearly a month and have not carried on with my tale in that time. Much has happened that pertains to this story. Allow me to begin where I left off and bring you up to the present. I find I must go away for quite some time, perhaps forever, and I must finish telling you this story before I go or I will never forgive myself.
After the death of January, the work could not continue, of course. Ruth was in prison and Clara retreated yet further into that parallel world in which she believed much more than this one. My grandmother returned to her parents' house to, as she thought, live out her life as a spinster, for the one vow that had not yet been broken was that, to the best of their ability, these powers would die with the sisters. There was, though, a young man who worked for hire in the fields around town. I have seen paintings of him and one old photograph my grandmother keeps in a drawer of her desk. He was a beautiful boy and reportedly could sing like an angel. But my grandmother kept her vow not to marry and did all she could to discourage him from pursuing her, in which she was not entirely successful.
Though rarely coy, my grandmother is as silent as the grave about the circumstances of the conception of my father and will not even reveal the name of her paramour. Of course, modesty forbids her from being explicit, but one would like to know what the circumstances of such a seduction were, how they overcame her great resistance. I have proposed to her the idea that, while she had every intent to remain childless and unmarried, she need not therefore remain virgin. After all, a single sexual encounter would surely not yield a child, would it? She may have been naive enough, or sufficiently passionate, to have convinced herself of this. Her only response, though, is "perhaps, perhaps," with a musing and amused look on her face. I suspect she would say the same were I to propose that a flight of angels came to her bed, so we will never know. Very frustrating for the historian I consider myself to be.
Nonetheless, a conception there was, and my father, Jacob, was born nearly 85 years ago. That the boy who engendered the pregnancy offered to marry my mother is beyond doubt, but she turned him away time and again until, disheartened, he left for the city and never returned to see his child. Whether he be living or not, or where he may be is lost to us. Perhaps my mother thought that in naming my father Jacob she might bookend our lineage, for she had every intention to raise her child to succeed where she had failed and to ask him to choose a life of celibacy.
My father was a contemplative child, seemingly born with a deep wisdom, as one can sometimes see even from the day of a child's birth; he was not unique in this. Photos from that era show a boy with dark, deep-set eyes peering with uncommon gravity at the viewer. The effect is disconcerting, as if he could see into the core of one's being. He has never entirely lost this characteristic. As he grew, my grandmother made certain he received only instruction that would incline him to the life she intended for him. She was well aware that such attempts to mold the nature of a child often backfire and create exactly what was intended to be avoided, but Jacob was a tractable boy and took to the discipline of Buddhist thought in particular when it was taught to him. Though it is common in the Eastern world to make a monk of one who is still a child, it is rare in the West, but an exception was made for this remarkable child who showed such great promise. He was sent to Thailand to live in one of the forest monasteries there. He has said that it was only when he arrived there that he finally felt at home. Perhaps there is some truth to the idea of rebirth, who knows? Perhaps he truly had been there before in a previous life, as he claims.
In any case, that is how my father came, at the age of ten, to be an acolyte and finally a fully ordained monk of the Thai Forest order. He was renamed Ajahn Mehta and renounced the world entirely and with a full heart, or so it seemed. For a full fifty years he lived this life, in the fullness of time becoming the abbot of his monastery. He was, by all accounts, a sober, upright, firm, yet humorous and loving teacher, beloved by all those who lived, worked at, or visited this place of peace and calm.
At the age of sixty, while sitting in meditation, much as he had always done, my father became fully enlightened. No one was more astonished than he himself at this turn of events. Decades ago he had ceased seeking such a state, for he knew that in the seeking was the source of suffering. He had lost all desire for this, even the sneaking thought in the back of his mind, for he sought more than anything the clarity of being content in the present moment as it was. Yet it was clear to all those who came near him that he was utterly transformed. He had a glow about him, so they say, and suddenly seemed to know all there was to know.
But most astonishing of all was that, laughing and capering as he never had before, he declared that his new, deep understanding was leading him away from the monastery and into the life of a householder, a life he had never known. Such consternation this caused in the order! That one of their own should become enlightened, only to leave the confines where this had been made possible! It was a scandal! Could this actually be?
With great merriness, my father assured them that it was so and that he intended to leave as soon as his successor as abbot could be named. He did name him and, no surprise, his choice was a young, impulsive monk whose choosing caused no end of surprise and horror. Yet, it could not be gainsaid, and abbot he was and still is (and a fine one, as it turns out).
Most horrifying of all to the members of his order, he made it known that one aspect of his new-found way of knowing was to take a wife and beget children! He has told me since that it was the very awareness of the powers carried in our family line that made it clear to him that, far from being right that it should end with him, every attempt should be made to carry it on. It did not take long for a man of his accomplishments and shining demeanor to meet and marry a strong, merry woman, my mother, Theresa, nearly 35 years his junior who has, to this day, borne him ten children, of which I am the eldest.
Now it is my turn. I am Jacob, too. I have been called to go to a place far, far away from here and my father has blessed my going to do what I can. I have some ability to heal, it seems, and kindness still is my watchword. I have the tendency to gain weight that most of my antecedents share, but know that acts of kindness can keep this in check.
I know this is an inadequate story, for it is not my calling to be able to write such things. I thank you for your patience if you have come this far with me. We, my siblings and I, have great work to do. What my father seeks is that we spread the love contained in our hearts as far and wide as we can and I, for one, intend to honor this intent. It is his hope, and mine, that the world thereby be made a better place. This can come to pass, we hope, if all of us, those of us truly descended from him as well as all of you, should think of ourselves as Jacob's children.
After the death of January, the work could not continue, of course. Ruth was in prison and Clara retreated yet further into that parallel world in which she believed much more than this one. My grandmother returned to her parents' house to, as she thought, live out her life as a spinster, for the one vow that had not yet been broken was that, to the best of their ability, these powers would die with the sisters. There was, though, a young man who worked for hire in the fields around town. I have seen paintings of him and one old photograph my grandmother keeps in a drawer of her desk. He was a beautiful boy and reportedly could sing like an angel. But my grandmother kept her vow not to marry and did all she could to discourage him from pursuing her, in which she was not entirely successful.
Though rarely coy, my grandmother is as silent as the grave about the circumstances of the conception of my father and will not even reveal the name of her paramour. Of course, modesty forbids her from being explicit, but one would like to know what the circumstances of such a seduction were, how they overcame her great resistance. I have proposed to her the idea that, while she had every intent to remain childless and unmarried, she need not therefore remain virgin. After all, a single sexual encounter would surely not yield a child, would it? She may have been naive enough, or sufficiently passionate, to have convinced herself of this. Her only response, though, is "perhaps, perhaps," with a musing and amused look on her face. I suspect she would say the same were I to propose that a flight of angels came to her bed, so we will never know. Very frustrating for the historian I consider myself to be.
Nonetheless, a conception there was, and my father, Jacob, was born nearly 85 years ago. That the boy who engendered the pregnancy offered to marry my mother is beyond doubt, but she turned him away time and again until, disheartened, he left for the city and never returned to see his child. Whether he be living or not, or where he may be is lost to us. Perhaps my mother thought that in naming my father Jacob she might bookend our lineage, for she had every intention to raise her child to succeed where she had failed and to ask him to choose a life of celibacy.
My father was a contemplative child, seemingly born with a deep wisdom, as one can sometimes see even from the day of a child's birth; he was not unique in this. Photos from that era show a boy with dark, deep-set eyes peering with uncommon gravity at the viewer. The effect is disconcerting, as if he could see into the core of one's being. He has never entirely lost this characteristic. As he grew, my grandmother made certain he received only instruction that would incline him to the life she intended for him. She was well aware that such attempts to mold the nature of a child often backfire and create exactly what was intended to be avoided, but Jacob was a tractable boy and took to the discipline of Buddhist thought in particular when it was taught to him. Though it is common in the Eastern world to make a monk of one who is still a child, it is rare in the West, but an exception was made for this remarkable child who showed such great promise. He was sent to Thailand to live in one of the forest monasteries there. He has said that it was only when he arrived there that he finally felt at home. Perhaps there is some truth to the idea of rebirth, who knows? Perhaps he truly had been there before in a previous life, as he claims.
In any case, that is how my father came, at the age of ten, to be an acolyte and finally a fully ordained monk of the Thai Forest order. He was renamed Ajahn Mehta and renounced the world entirely and with a full heart, or so it seemed. For a full fifty years he lived this life, in the fullness of time becoming the abbot of his monastery. He was, by all accounts, a sober, upright, firm, yet humorous and loving teacher, beloved by all those who lived, worked at, or visited this place of peace and calm.
At the age of sixty, while sitting in meditation, much as he had always done, my father became fully enlightened. No one was more astonished than he himself at this turn of events. Decades ago he had ceased seeking such a state, for he knew that in the seeking was the source of suffering. He had lost all desire for this, even the sneaking thought in the back of his mind, for he sought more than anything the clarity of being content in the present moment as it was. Yet it was clear to all those who came near him that he was utterly transformed. He had a glow about him, so they say, and suddenly seemed to know all there was to know.
But most astonishing of all was that, laughing and capering as he never had before, he declared that his new, deep understanding was leading him away from the monastery and into the life of a householder, a life he had never known. Such consternation this caused in the order! That one of their own should become enlightened, only to leave the confines where this had been made possible! It was a scandal! Could this actually be?
With great merriness, my father assured them that it was so and that he intended to leave as soon as his successor as abbot could be named. He did name him and, no surprise, his choice was a young, impulsive monk whose choosing caused no end of surprise and horror. Yet, it could not be gainsaid, and abbot he was and still is (and a fine one, as it turns out).
Most horrifying of all to the members of his order, he made it known that one aspect of his new-found way of knowing was to take a wife and beget children! He has told me since that it was the very awareness of the powers carried in our family line that made it clear to him that, far from being right that it should end with him, every attempt should be made to carry it on. It did not take long for a man of his accomplishments and shining demeanor to meet and marry a strong, merry woman, my mother, Theresa, nearly 35 years his junior who has, to this day, borne him ten children, of which I am the eldest.
Now it is my turn. I am Jacob, too. I have been called to go to a place far, far away from here and my father has blessed my going to do what I can. I have some ability to heal, it seems, and kindness still is my watchword. I have the tendency to gain weight that most of my antecedents share, but know that acts of kindness can keep this in check.
I know this is an inadequate story, for it is not my calling to be able to write such things. I thank you for your patience if you have come this far with me. We, my siblings and I, have great work to do. What my father seeks is that we spread the love contained in our hearts as far and wide as we can and I, for one, intend to honor this intent. It is his hope, and mine, that the world thereby be made a better place. This can come to pass, we hope, if all of us, those of us truly descended from him as well as all of you, should think of ourselves as Jacob's children.
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