I leave my books, notebooks, cell phone, and computer. They put them in a safe. They order me to dress in white.
Mae Chi Siree tells us women how to wear the headscarf, covering our chest as a sign of respect. The self is dissolved, and the detail is paramount. Order. Mindfulness. “You have no excuse for wearing your sabai incorrectly. You have a mirror in your room.” Behind his back, he gathers the right corner of the cloth and throws it over his left shoulder. Tracing a well-practiced geometric pattern with his arms, he fastens a safety pin on his back, also securing his shirt with it so that it doesn't fall forward when he bows in prayer.
The retreatants and the nuns dress in white, completely covered. Not a single knee is visible. The nuns and the rest of the women wear the sabai over their T-shirts, which hide the bulging of our chests. Multiple wrappings of fabric in temperatures over thirty degrees. Tropical climate. The monks, with bare areas but with layers and layers of perfectly arranged textiles of a bright, heavy orange color, look like enormous pumpkin millefeuilles. Attention guides spiritual training and frolics among the harmoniously folded folds of Prah Sukhito's oblique robe, which he arranges with his hand every ten minutes, as if by instinct and with four studied strokes, one of the fabrics under the chest and another under the armpit to keep the strap taut.
On my walks through the temple, I use the bag I've been traveling with for the past few months. In it, I carry my water, my watch, and the notebook where I record my meditation hours. The zipper is broken; it's flimsy and won't close. I enter the shop. I see a magnificent orange bag made of sturdy fabric, with the perfect number of pockets and a zipper that works. I pick it up to buy it. "It's just for monks. You can buy those." He points to a collection of small synthetic bags, shiny white plastic-like fabric, with a handle. On one, there's a sad illustration of a navy-blue teddy bear. Tradition, they say. I leave the shop.
My favorite place to meditate is a small temple with a green tiled floor. In the center, a towering pagoda with climbing plants, separated from the roofed area by a floor of hot, red, sandy stone. Surrounding it are giant pots filled with water lilies. A sign reads, "Ladies are not allowed to step on the pagoda base, thank you." One afternoon, a woman, through sheer mischief, manages to thread the hose from one end of the pagoda base to the other, without stepping on it, so she can clean and water all the water lilies. Tradition, they say.
We, spiritual novices learning to meditate, share the same color of dress as the nuns who have lived at this temple for more than 60 years. White, the color of purity, beginners, and innocence, contrasts with the radiant orange and the "Monk Area" signs in the library and many other parts of the temple. A man can become a monk one day, wear orange, step onto the base of the pagoda, and enter the library. A woman who has been a nun all her life is committed to white and must perfect a hose-throwing technique to water a water lily. Tradition, they say.
White signifies purity, the search for the path, inner peace. It is the white of cooked rice, a white that calls for silence. Women who choose a religious life as mae chi in Thai Buddhism are not officially ordained as nuns: they live celibate, meditate, and follow precepts similar to those of monks, but are not institutionally considered nuns. They do not have full monastic status.
Orange represents total renunciation, surrender to the path. A color born from plant dyes with uneven results that discard the importance of aesthetic criteria and abandon the mundane. Barefoot, the child monks walk clumsily in robes assembled from scraps of fabric, in contrast to the perfectly tailored robes of the more senior monks who walk solemnly and slowly. These heavy, clean cotton fabrics are practical to prevent them from sticking to the skin dampened by the tropical heat. Each robe is a puzzle that imitates the rags the first monks collected from crematoriums. They maintain the patchwork stitching as a reminder: the body is impermanent, as is life.
However, in our meditation group, a visiting Tibetan nun is wearing a loose, flowing burgundy robe. Red, which is associated with intense emotions, colors these sober robes as a sign of control: it represents the mastery and transformation of those energies toward discipline and wisdom.
In Tibetan Buddhism, nuns and monks wear burgundy. They both wear the same robes, recite the same texts, study philosophy, and meditate. There was a time, as in Thai Buddhism, when nuns were unable to fully ordain. They sought support in traditions where the female lineage was still alive—such as Chinese Buddhism. They rebuilt their path, and the ordination of women became possible again over time, with the support of the Dalai Lama and many other leaders.
In the time of the Buddha, there were fully ordained nuns, although with eight special rules ( garudhammas ) that subordinated them to the monks. The order of bhikkhunis died out around the 11th century due to historical, military and political circumstances. When it disappeared and a monk and a nun (who no longer existed) were needed to ordain a new woman, it was argued that there was no longer a valid way to revive the order. Condemned to renounce their colour. Today, these nuns, although not ordained, obey 84 more rules than their male counterparts.
Although the bhikkhuni order has not been formally established in Tibetan Buddhism—women did not receive full ordination—its practice never died out. Ways have been sought to reestablish full ordination with the support of other lineages where women do have it—such as in China or Sri Lanka, where nuns dress in colors very similar to those of monks, gray and ochre.
In Thai Buddhism, a monk can travel the world, from Iceland to Patagonia, but he is always committed to wearing his orange robe—no longer wearing any shoe larger than a sandal. It is this color that demonstrates his faith and maintains his commitment to the precepts.
Walking through the temple, it begins to drizzle. A monk, his robe halfway down his chest, revealing a nipple, moves the metal clothesline filled with orange fabric. He places it under a parking lot roof. How unbucolic. I think of a Mediterranean balcony with the clothesline flapping in the breeze of an ordinary married couple. I think of the white clothes I've just hung in my room after washing them by hand. I think of those sacred robes violently twirling in the washing machine. And of the programmed, unsacred beep that indicates the end. And I feel the color orange laughing at us: that orange that signifies renunciation and smells of the same detergent as my white shirt is actually a symbol of power.
But the truth is, I'm jealous: because it's a really cool orange, because I want to buy the bag, and because I want to be able to step on the base of the pagoda. Tradition, they say.
