Don't Worry, Be Grumpy

Three of My Most Memorable Mistakes

I don’t expect to be perfect. In fact, I like making mistakes. Because when I tell my friends about the stupid things that I have done, it makes them laugh. My stupidity increases the happiness in the world.

1. I had just completed teaching a nine-day meditation retreat in Penang, and my hosts were seeing me off at the airport. They had bought me a yummy coffee drink before I was to board the aircraft. It was strong, thick, and sweetened with ice cream.

I went to suck the delicious nectar through the straw, but nothing came through. I sucked harder. Still nothing. The straw must be blocked. So I sucked really hard. That was when I noticed some of my hosts giggling while the others were holding their hands over their mouths trying, out of politeness, not to laugh. So I removed the straw from the glass, only to realize that it was a plastic spoon.

Where I came from, spoons were metal with wide flat handles, not thin, round, and plastic as in modern coffee shops. And the coffee was too thick to see what was on the end of the plastic thing. Nevertheless, I burst out laughing, allowing my hosts to join in. I had made many people happy.

2. My early training as a Buddhist monk occurred in northeast Thailand under the renowned meditation teacher Ajahn Chah. When I arrived in Thailand, I could speak no Thai, so I had to learn “on the job.”

One day I needed some soap. The routine was to approach the teacher and simply ask, in Thai of course. The Thai word for soap is saboo. I said “sapo,” which happens to mean “pineapple.”

Ajahn Chah asked what I wanted a pineapple for. I answered “to wash with.” Ajahn Chah almost fell off his chair laughing.

He had merriment for days telling his Thai visitors, “Have you seen these Westerners? They wash with pineapples. They’re such an advanced culture.”

My attempts to speak Thai gave many such happy moments to my teacher.

3. On another occasion, I was asked to perform the funeral ceremony for the parent of a Sri Lankan member of my Buddhist temple. I stood at the lectern in the funeral home to welcome all the mourners to the solemn Buddhist ceremony. I began by saying, “We are here today to remember with respect my friend’s mother, who passed away recently.”

Sri Lankan names are so long and difficult for Westerners to pronounce that I called her “my friend’s mother.”

It was then that an old lady sitting in the front stood up, interrupted my welcoming speech, and said indignantly, “It is not me who has died; it’s my husband!”

Everyone laughed. I think even the coffin shook! The service then became a true celebration of the life of the deceased, full of happy memories to the very last.