Reflection on lay life

I have now been out of robes for more than five days, and the transition is going smoothly for the most part. I have not given much time to reflect on how radically different my life is now. In some ways, it feels as if the five months I spent as a monk simply disappeared, and I'm suddenly back where I was five months earlier. This is true, in a certain sense, as I am returning to where I left off in the research work, but the sense of disconnect between my life as a monk and as a layman is hard to get my head around. My studies of Khmer Buddhism actually made much more progress during the time I was a monk than they did in the months preceeding my ordination. In the little time that remains, my increased knowledge and experience allows me to accomplish a great deal more than before, but it is just as easy to get too busy in research and other work that I forget to actually slow down and look carefully at things.

When I was a monk at Wat Bo, the environment was full of noise and distractions, and it was hard to find a quiet space, both inside (in my heart/mind) and outside (within the temple grounds). Eventually, I chose to live alone inside of the old main temple, which was the most quiet place I could find, and through carefully increasing my effort I was doing sitting or walking meditation almost the entire day (15-16 hours), with a couple of hours for begging, eating and washing up and four hours for sleeping. It was not an easy time for me, but slowly my mind began to settle out and I could see its contents and nature a little bit more clearly. I also remember being filled with radiant joy during this time, a feeling that I had not experienced for long periods of time before.

But little by little, I let distractions creep in and my practice began to weaken. In May, my teacher went to America and I decided that it would be a good opportunity to switch temples. Yet it took another month and a half at the new temple to settle into an intensive meditation practice again. As a layperson now, the distractions are infinite in variety, and it takes much more effort to settle the mind. I recognize, however, that slowing down and looking carefully at each moment is a source of great peace and happiness for me, and it allows so many for opportunities to be truly useful to others. But I have found that training this mind and heart, especially during transitions in our lives, is not easy for me, and that I need to learn to be patient on this path.

Return to Phnom Penh

Dear friends,

I have now officially left the monkhood and am back at work at Cambodian Living Arts (a non-governmental organazation (NGO) that supports many Khmer arts projects, including studio and field recording, music, theatre and dance classes for children and young adults, and commissioning new work from Cambodian artists) and my own research work. It is an unusual transition to be wearing pants, shoes and a shirt again, but I have succeeded in keeping my clothes on.

I suddenly have found myself very busy again, running between meetings and enthusiastically searching for books and manuscripts. It is somewhat of a cliché that everything takes longer to accomplish in Cambodia, as snafus of all kinds are a daily affair. Nevertheless, each day has endless suprises too. I may go to bookstore looking for a certain book and get into a 2-hour conversation with the manager about Khmer arts in Vietnam or about the subtleties of Cambodian Buddhist traditions. In the end, keeping my eyes and ears open is the best way to learn. No matter how much I study, there is so much knowledge about Cambodian culture that I am only scratching the surface of.

Below is a brief summary I wrote on smot chanting. I hope it clarifies some of what I write about on this blog.


Smot Chanting

The word smot literally refers to a style of chanting Khmer poetry or Pali Buddhist scriptures that has parlicularly long and flowing melodies. For Khmer poetry, there are around 60 melodies used for recitation today, with many regional variations, although some of the melodies are much shorter and less complicated and are more often called me sot. The shorter melodies are generally used for narration and happier passages, and the longer melodies are more often associated with serious texts or lamentations. The melodies used for chanting Pali, as distinct from those used for Khmer poetry, are generally less-known, longer and more complex; at least 10 melodies are still used today, and regional variations are much more numerous.

The smot chanting of Khmer poetry is used both in the performance of short poems as well as longer pieces of literature (such the Reamké or the Jataka stories of the Buddha's former births) and in Buddhist ceremonies. When smot chanting is used to chant secular poems, a tro or flute may accompany the singer. The large shadow-puppet performance of the Reamké includes narration in the smot chanting style, generally in between musical selections by the pin peat orchestra. Other traditional performance style may include smot as well.

Smot also is used in more religious contexts. Indeed, the popular understanding of the word smot associates it most directly with Buddhist funeral ceremonies, but it is also used in a wide range of other rituals, such as inviting monks to preach, dedicating a new Buddha image, offering flowers to the Buddha, or when a person is preparing for death. For these occasions either monks or laypeople may chant Khmer texts, generally poems translated from the Pali Buddhist scriptures, or Pali texts, although the use of the latter is much rarer today and generally more reserved for the monks.

The long and flowing melodies of smot are considered to be quite melacholy, whether or not the text itself is actually sad. Thus smot, especially in the context of funeral ceremonies, has the power to bring tears to many people's eyes. It should be noted, however, that the purpose of smot in Buddhist funerals is not to cause people to cry or become fearful of ghosts, but rather to "shock" (in Pali, samvega) the listeners into realizing the impermanence of life and renew their efforts to do good, avoid evil and purify their minds in accordance with the teachings of Buddhism.

Smot chanting is known to be one of the most difficult vocal styles because its technique requires precise control of the vocal cords to produce the correct sound. The style is also known for its gentle vibrato, subtle falsetto breaks, and the large breath support required to complete the long phrases typical of smot melodies. The melodies themselves, while frightening to some people, are widely-known for their beauty and the powerful atmosphere they can create. Today, there are few living masters of smot chanting, either in sacred or secular realms, and most who want to learn must learn from cassette tapes.

More on life as a monk

I am now approaching the end of my time as a monk here, after nearly five months in robes. I am not sure how I will cope with the adjust back to lay life, but right now I am trying to appreciate these last few weeks.

To ordain as a novice monk in the Theravada tradition means to shave one’s head and eyebrows, don the monastic robes, take refuge in one’s preceptor and in the Buddha, the teaching, and the community, and vow to follow ten major precepts, 30 minor precepts, and 75 rules of training, as well as many other rules and conventions which organize monastic life and the behavior of monks.

I am now residing at Wat Campuh K’aek, a rural temple close to Phnom Penh, and am now focusing mostly on learning the ancient chants preserved in the tradition there, rather than the meditation I was focusing on when I was a monk in Siem Reap. It was a difficult transition at first, but I growing in appreciation for this community.

Every day I am vividly reminded of how my life is intimately supported by the kindness of other living beings. When I make mistakes, people are forgiving and willing to smile and laugh with me. When I lose something they gather to help me search and expect nothing in return. All day I receive gifts—smiles, greetings, toothbrushes, jackfruit, unexpected visits, unexpected help. I don’t know hoe to repay all this. I am only constantly reminded to be a good person, not only on the outside, but also to transform whatever unwholesome energies are present within me, that so that wisdom and compassion have a chance to grow and blossom. This may be the work of thousands of year, but it is, after all, the purpose of becoming a monk or nun.

The precepts and discipline of the monastic life are invariably illuminating my bad habits, and my hidden greed, hatred and delusion. The precepts themselves are a precious treasure of mindfulness. There have been times when I have struggled to follow them, thinking that they were too detailed and restrictive or desiring to follow my old cherished habits. But when I take time to step back and reflect, I am very grateful for the discipline and the support of the monastic community.

Nissaya, part three

The following is a continuation of the previous two posts.

Many others talked about my nissaya in different ways. A Khmer American, Arn Chorn-Pond, after I given a talk on the funeral chanting I was studying to a group of foreigners at a hill temple near Prum Ut’s village, said to me, “I am not Buddhist. My adoptive father is a Christian minister, and I don’t consider myself religious. But in Khmer we say that maybe you have nissaya, “destiny,” for this place. Maybe you were a monk here in times past, and that coming back here to study Buddhism and these chants is your destiny.” This incident revealed to me that the concept of nissaya is so important to Khmer culture to even non-Buddhists and those who have spent most of their lives abroad still affirm its meaing. Arn’s words also point to the possibility that nissaya can refer to places and landscapes, not only to people and relationships.

Once I actually became a monk, encounters with laypeople proved to be an especially rich ground for learning about nissaya. The delightful older generation of pious Buddhist believers in Cambodian—old men and women dressed simply in black and white who live mostly at the temple—often had strong reactions to seeing me in saffron robes. I can recall many occasions where an elderly stranger would walk up to me when I was in meditation, take me by the hand or grasp my forearms, look deeply into my eyes and say, “Oh, his nissaya is very strong,” not seeming to care whether or not I understood their language or not.

There were, of course, many more people who laughed, cursed, quietly giggled, stared, pointed or did not dare to speak with me. But my memory of those who approached me, with bright eyes and wide smiles, is much stronger. Their faith was not really about me as an individual, but rather for the robes and the religion, and their respect to me was simply part of faith rather than an explanation about my supposed spiritual progress. But in almost every case, these laypeople, and even some monks, brought up nissaya as the only explanation for my presence. I remember that when I went walking in Phnom Penh, even when I was not specifically going out to beg for food, laypeople would approach me and offer requisites, saying "there is nissaya." It was never entirely clear that they were talking about the nissaya they saw in me, or simply that they felt we had nissaya together. In a way, however, the two interpretations are not fundamentally different. To give is to build nissaya with someone we respect, and to give may also be an expression of our previous connection.

This more open interpretation of nissaya was revealed in other instances as well. My other chanting teacher, Keot Ran, was perhaps the most intimate in her treatment of nissaya. She would always call me “Venerable Child” or “Venerable Son,” and would about how my presence inspired her to develop her “bright and clear” heart for the Dharma. She also lamented, due to here blindness, that she could not see me in my robes. And she spoke with such gentleness and fervent respect that I was often moved to tears by her presence. No had ever respected me in such a way before, and even though I never it came from a sense of intimate connection rather than an attempt to put me on a pedestal, it was still very difficult to receive, because it was so sincere and rooted in a common Dharma. In a way, nissaya was the linking concept between my spiritual journey and my research in Cambodia. Yet the Cambodians around me insisted that nissaya was not the linking concept in this case; for them, it was a real and tangible link, one that connected them and their own spiritual paths to my own. Our connections burrow into the past like intertwined roots and stretch into the future like branches, and in the present, I am learning to call this whole tree nissaya, something which is alive and nourishing to all.

Nissaya, part two

The following is a continuation of the previous post, "Nissaya, part one."

A month later, I began to live full-time with Master Prum Ut and his family. He always seemed especially proud of the fact that I was going to become a monk, and would mention occasionally to relatives and visitors that I had nissaya. From my point of view, it was hard to tell where he got this idea from, whether it was a quality in my personality or simply that I was young, a foreigner and captivated by Buddhism. But he sensed it nonetheless, and seemed to be moved by it. None of his six sons had ever ordained as a monk, and the addition of me to the family seemed to provide another opportunity. He taught me the rudimentary Pali chants, required for monastic ordination, with vigor and enthusiasm. I felt like I had a hard time learning them because they were difficult to pronounce and had no meaning for me as I had never studied Pali. But he said I learned them faster than anyone he had ever known, and rather than attributing this to a simple gift of memory, he pointed to my supposed nissaya. I tried hard not to believe, but his insistence on this point still had an effect on me. I was worried that it would foster false pride and vanity, but it certain ways it began to effect a moral transformation. I knew, from a spiritual perspective, that if in this life I had good roots, was a human being and had a chance to meet the Buddha’s teaching and become a monk, then I should be very careful not to waste this life.

One incident that illuminated this for me occurred during a chanting class in the village one afternoon. I was sitting close to my master as he was writing at the board that was hung at the front of the class. Feeling an unusual sensation, I glanced down at my hand and noticed that a beautiful green hing, a Cambodian amphibian somewhat between a frog and a toad, had wrapped itself around one of my fingers. I felt its warmth and a big smile burst out on my lips. Prum Ut noticed and said, slightly under his breath, “His nissaya must be very strong. Even the animals love him.” I could not help but be moved by such a statement, even though it was inherently unbelievable. My master even took my vegetarian diet as a sign of nissaya, when I mostly understood to be “Mahayana (or Northern Buddhist) cultural baggage.” But I began to take the signs he gave me as a signal that I should really wake up. I knew that if me nissaya was indeed strong, I could have taken the opportunity the amphibian creature gave to me to really wake up and transform my habit energies. But transformation is a slow process, one that in Buddhism is said to take place over many lifetimes.

My ordination stills seems to have been the most important day in my life, even though I knew it to be temporary. Buddhism felt very real and alive that day, and all the liberative taste of the Dharma was present for me. I did not seem like the stale, ritualized, politicized form of Buddhism I was used to seeing in Cambodia. During the ceremony, the Ven. Pin Sem, my teacher and preceptor, gave a short speech, which may have been translated into English for the benefit of the foreigners present at the event, though I do not remember clearly. I do, however, remember the gentleness of his words, and his “warm hand to warm hand” welcome into the Buddha’s family. Though I admit I do not recall this point, Prum Ut recalled that the Ven. Pin Sem had said that my karma, my nissaya, was that of the leader of all nations, and that this day is very important for Buddhism, one that is unprecedented in our (Khmer) history.” I only heard from my master Prum Ut several months after my ordination, and promptly considered it to be one of the largest exaggerations I had ever heard. After all, it was not something I ever could live up to. But I knew Prum Ut was not lying, and that he clearly believed. All this made me feel as if I had a enormous debt to pay to my parents, teachers, friends and all beings.

However, my master’s words about nissaya were much more revealing about his personality than my own, and through him I developed a much clearer sense of the important place of nissaya in Khmer culture.