EXCERPT: SEEKING SPIRIT: A Vietnamese (Non)Buddhist Memoir

Excerpted with Permission from Guernica Editions

On the same tour that Má and Jen and I took in Vietnam after the end of the mourning period for Bà Ngoại, we travelled from Hà Nội to Hạ Long Bay. Sitting in a boat on the bay, I was mesmerized by the cobalt clear water rippling across the crystal surface. Jagged grey limestone peaks emerged from the depths. Luminous azure sky stretched and expanded into empty spaces.

Everything here had been sculpted by nature, carved and moulded by the earth, as if directed by the dragons. The cool and distant beauty of the rocks was clouded by mist. It was a work of art, nature’s art, touched by the hand of creation across the wide canvas of the world. I could only imagine the view from the sky; birds must see a mesmerizing puzzle of glittering jewels.

I imagined dragons playing in the water of the bay, glimmering in the mist, slithering around the rocks. I wasn’t surprised this place wooed and enthralled the mighty creatures. The cliffs and the clear water echoed an ancient time, shifted from a fantasyland into this world, out of enchantment and into reality. It seemed like no other place in Vietnam I had visited before. Maybe there was no other place like this on earth.

Endless islands emerged from the misty water. As the boat moved forward, another rock formation would arise, then another, then another. The veil of mists at Hạ Long Bay was enchanting. The essence of Vietnam was infused in these rocks that emerged from the endless sea.

The power of the mists spun a cocoon around me. A sense of well-being, of peace deep inside, overcame me. My whole body became lighter than the air around me. I was caught up by the mists, shifting into the spirit land, up past the misty cliffs of this place of enchantment.

The boat sailed closer to the formation of Incense Burner Islet—a massive square-shaped stone that rose out of the water on four pins that were only visible at low tide. There were deep grooves in the stone running diagonally that made me think of slash marks the dragons could have made as they clawed their way out of the depths of the bay to perch upon the rock for sunbathing. Perhaps they also used it for cúnging. It felt right to me to find a symbol of spirituality, the incense holder, in the bay of dragons—the origin story of my ancestors—as I sought answers about my own origins.

***

High on the mountain top at Delphi where the eagles met, and low in the bay at Hạ Long where the dragons descended, I have been blessed to bear witness to the beginnings of sacred spaces. Spaces created first by the hand of the universe, after which humans explained the power of these spaces as divine intervention. Otherwise, the spaces may not be grasped or comprehended within the limits of human understanding. Such are the stories we tell ourselves.

Vietnam, where I was born in the city of Sài Gòn. Born into Vietnamese traditions, language, and spiritual practices. How does my birth in that country inform who I am?

“What are you?”

“Ummmm … Canadian.”

“No, I mean where are you from?”

I sigh and cast my eyes downward. Here we go again, would any answer be enough? If I am struggling with that question myself, how can I answer anyone else?

“I was born in Vietnam” is my go-to response. The “I was born” part is factual. Vietnam is the country where I was born and the country I left to come to Canada.

But I am equally from the Canadian prairies. How does my journey to Canada define my beginnings? Reborn into Canadian traditions, language, and spiritual practices? What is the impact on a child of immigrants living in the inner city of a prairie town?

To self-identify as belonging to a race—to check a box—oversimplifies the complex and rich nature of cultural background. That sort of identification does not convey the intricacies and nuances I navigate on a daily basis. That sort of identification sets up limits and expectations I do not embrace or internalize. “I’m Vietnamese” does not take into consideration my upbringing in Canada and it does not speak to the influences of other cultures on me. It doesn’t fit me.

Travelling to these places, collecting the threads:

What is my origin story?

***

At each sacred space, I collected a rock, a physical remembrance of space and time, and these became threads. Beyond my personal experience, I’d also collected threads found in different spaces of the world, in different time periods. I was the raw material, bits and pieces, but without the binding elements to put myself together. I still needed to know if I had collected the right number and the right types of threads. I had embarked on an external journey. I wondered what was next, what other journey lay ahead—the journey I would need to travel to help weave the threads together.

By experiencing sacred spaces firsthand, I’d absorbed the energies of those places and in return I left my energy in those places. I feel connected for eternity to those spaces. Reaching back through history and mythology, I see clearly that seeking has been a universal need since the beginning of the world. I continue to be struck by the power of the parallels. The interconnections. The same stories over and over again.

What will happen when I pass from this life?

What is my purpose in life?

What is my beginning?

These universal questions are contemplated not just by me. The need to connect to spirit is universal. My senses have been opened to the patterns of this need around the world. And ultimately, my senses have opened to the patterns in my own life. Now I am face to face with myself.

My travels through the sacred inform how I live and compel me to ask these questions of myself. I may ask these questions all my life. These questions may not have answers, but the connection to spirit lies in the questioning.

What is my origin story?

How am I the hero of my life?

What happens at the end?