Retro: "May we exist with the purity of a lotus in muddy waters."

 "May we exist with the purity of a lotus in muddy waters."

A Zen Buddhist chant is recited at the end of ritual ceremonies, such as the Full Moon ceremony, when Bodhisattvas take or reaffirm their vows before the Seven Buddhas. Before Shakyamuni Buddha. Before the Bodhisattva Manjushri, personification of infinite wisdom and clarity of knowledge. Before Avalokiteshvara, the embodiment of ultimate compassion and loving-kindness was known as Kuan Yin in Chinese cultures and Kanon Daibosatsu in Japan.

In today’s world, the collective human mind seems to have grown too weary or distracted to think beyond survival. God, gods, angels, demons—these seem like luxuries of thought, reserved for those with time to spare. We’ve become spiritually myopic.

I began turning my gaze inward—examining my practice, my actions, my thoughts and dreams, my pride and prejudices. And in that introspection, I found my gods and demons hiding in every corner of my consciousness. It has been a grueling journey, but not without moments of clarity and grace. Mountains climbed, rivers crossed—and still the road stretches on, so long as there is breath. The show must go on.

Then comes the third great Bodhisattva, Samantabhadra—manifestation of infinite strength and fortitude in practice. This is the perfection of the act of practicing. In Islam, I would call it Amalan. In the monastic life, it’s simply discipline—be it chopping wood, cooking rice, or sitting silently in meditation. Even writing, when done without attachment, is a form of this practice.

That chant—“May we exist with the purity of a lotus in muddy waters”—leapt out at me one quiet afternoon at the Green Gulch Zen Center Library. It struck like thunderless lightning, etched into my consciousness, returning to me again and again over the years. I’ve since tried to understand it more deeply.

The lotus roots itself in the muck and decay at the bottom of stagnant ponds, yet rises, unblemished, to bloom as a symbol of purity, beauty, and wisdom.

In many ways, my life has mirrored that of the lotus. I was born in a mangrove swamp—a world of mudskippers, monitor lizards, siput lokan, ikan tembakoi, and belangkas (horseshoe crabs). I swam in waters littered with garbage and human waste, especially when high tides rolled in, carrying whatever the sea could drag in. We grew used to the stench of rot, of things long dead. But we played, we thrived, and we learned.

Today that world is gone. Much of what lived then may now be extinct. But it shaped me.

Imagine surfacing from a dive with a turd on your head—unseen and unfelt, until someone else points it out. Then what do you do? In Zen, this would be a great koan, a test of presence and humility: How does one rid oneself of the turd on one’s head while still in the water?

Later, I was made to move to the East Coast due to certain complications with religious authorities. I won’t revisit those details—I’ve written enough on them. But life in Terengganu, as a teenager, was a step up. I learned resilience. I adapted. I stood my ground against bullies and humiliation. I didn’t graduate with honors, but I walked out of high school free—an independent spirit.

My move to the U.S. with my wife and son marked the next evolution in my journey. It began in hardship, but slowly became a life of discovery. I was free—free to choose, to become who I wanted to be. I flowed with life, tasting both its bitterness and its sweetness. I found my path, my calling. I asked the big questions: Who am I?

Three years in Japan taught me about relationships, about cultural nuance, about patience. My time in Dubai, living with my son the pilot, offered me a taste of wealth, luxury, and worldly success.

From the muddy waters of Kampung Selut to the glass pinnacle of the Burj Khalifa, I bloomed like a lotus.