it's 5:30am. the dawn rays slowly filter through the cloudy charcoal sky. worshipers place flowers, light incense, and pray at the concrete "altar" that surrounds the temple, then lay out mats and wait. suddenly, a monk begins to chant in a monotone over the loudspeakers, which the people repeat. prostrations. hands clasped in prayer. more chants. @ one point, 2 candles are lit. some memorized prayers they sing-song in unison.
the night before, was the final procession into the temple to welcome the wandering spirits of the deceased. unbridled joy, because the dead shouldn't see you mourning. people dancing to portable boombox speakers, carrying huge towers of yellow flowers in the shape of a beehive, crisp bills tied together, flapping in the wind, along with incense and candles. a massive crowd clambers through a 10-foot wide entrance to circumambulate the holy temple 3x, once for the Lord Buddha, another time for his teachings, and lastly for the monks: the mediators of merit, mystical knowledge, bringing good luck and warding off the bad.
The almsgiving to the monks happens each morning at 6am as they walk from house to house, or every 15 days at the temple, when the spirits roam again. But on this special day, and in this special place, the merit received is even greater. for such a transcendantally-oriented belief system , there is a curious emphasis on time and place.
All for a better rebirth in the next life. The rich have expensive bills, the poor have bills worth less than a dime. Folded + tucked neatly in their ornate metal bowls, along with boiled eggs, sticky rice, snack cakes for the monks, and a bottle of water (or an M-150 energy drink) for a drink offering, made for the thirsty spirits of deceased relatives.
The serious ceremonies of the pre-dawn are for the devout, while the rest of the day is for the common folks. Families sprawled out on bamboo mats, vendors selling chicken and noodle soup and chilies and meatballs frying in woks. Even bumper cars blasting loud rap music. Combine the excitement of a county fair with the solemnity of an Easter mass, in a culture that is uberly-proud of its heritage.
During some of the early morning chants, I caught some of the words. But others, were spoken in an ancient dead language that even some of the monks merely memorize. It made me think of how easily ritual can override meaning. I remember having to explain the significance of St. Patty's Day to a foreigner once: "Umm...you wear green + you get drunk." Perhaps that's how Christmas can morph into shopping + gluttony. Instead of the spiritual transforming the secular, the two become indistinguishable. + the holy day becomes nothing more than a holiday.
