Whatever it was, it was on my porch breathing heavily.
I slowly cracked open the door to have a look, being extremely cautious, after all, the whole kuti shook like an earthquake when it came up the steps! What I saw made me quickly close the door and think, "what the hell is that"? I had never seen anything like it in my life! I rummaged around for my flashlight and slowly opened the door again - believe me, I was hesitant to shine a light on whatever it was, but curiosity had overtaken myfear at this point.
And there it was - a huge bear with the head of a raccoon! Now I was befuddled, so I quietly closed the door and tried to go back to my meditation, with no luck of course, I just sat there listening until the animal, which fell asleep on my porch for awhile, decided to leave.
The next day, I excitedly told my American colleague what happened.
After making some inquiries, he explained that an Asian Bear either had wandered onto the grounds or was let loose in the monastery, and that bears were extremely rare and never known to approach any of the monks, and certainly was never known to climb the stairs of anybody's kuti! Well; I felt a little special! Perhaps the bear liked me and came to keep me company while I meditated.
I was actually looking forward to see if he would return.
That afternoon, after sweeping the paths, I noticed a crowd gathering near the sala.
I went over to see what the excitement was, and there, lying in a ravine, was my bear with an arrow in his side.
He was slowly dying.
I walked up to the ajahn, who was standing with the hunter, and got on my knees.
With tears streaming down my face, I asked, "Why?" He looked at me as if he didn't understand the English word "why," which I'm sure he did, and then, as if my display of emotionalism was unbecoming a monk, he waived me off with the back of his hand.
I later asked my fellow American monk what had happened, but he remained mum.
I could only assume that the ajahn feared for my safety, and had it killed.
How could he have done this? I had become so sensitive to the beings in the forest and their love of life, and this sort of thing, I felt, was unforgivable.
I could no longer kill anything, and yet I now felt as if I had killed the bear myself because of my big mouth.
My heart was breaking; it was finally opening and I could almost hear without the noise of myself driving me crazy, but I couldn't forgive the ajahn .
.
.
and my doubts began.
Janet and I would send letters back and forth, but they would take anywhere from three weeks to never to arrive, meaning that if I asked her a question, it would take six weeks minimum for a reply.
So when Janet wrote that she was bleeding abnormally, and ended up stranded at a hospital after being checked out without transportation back to her monastery, I became concerned.
Her abbot later claimed that he would have sent a car for her, had he known, but nevertheless, I felt that somebody either dropped the ball or was indifferent about a western (farang) nun's welfare.
She had given up everything for me, and I couldn't stand by and let anything stupid happen to her.