Roots and the River of Memory: Ritual & Community

Theravada Buddhism, Southeast Asia & what my great-grandmother gave me

Buddhism to me was ritual and community. I recited sanskrit at the temple and could understand just the bare meanings of it: kharma, incarnation, suffering. The spaces between my moral knowledge were then filled in by folktales that my great grandmother told me as I fell asleep and Thai fantasy dramas that we rented. Buddhism, animism, and fantastical natural worlds were my culture and my connection to a place that I’ve never known and can never go back to but was a fundamental part of who I am – my roots.

Morning Glories and an Altar in America

My great-grandmother took me to the temple regularly. It was and still is a place for prayer and ceremony, and a place to be gathered with other Lao people. The temple is where our Lao community holds itself together in this place we call America. Here we speak our Lao language and share Lao food that we eat in Lao fashion – sitting on the floor crisscross, knee to knee, around bamboo trays called “khan”, using our hands to handle the sticky rice that accompanies everything else, sharing memories of a homeland we had to leave behind.

At home, she kept a daily practice. She would send my cousin and me into the yard each morning to gather morning glories and dandelions. We’d bring them inside, and she would arrange them at the altar alongside lit candles that she hand-made with simple cotton strands and bees wax, a small offering of sticky rice, and photographs of our family. They were strangers to me, but they were my legacy.

In Theravada tradition, offerings of flowers, incense, candles, and food are acts of dana— generosity — directed toward the Buddha, the Sangha (community), and our ancestors. They are also reminders: mindful and deliberate pauses acknowledging that we are not alone in time. Through this act, we can feel supported by those who came before us, and maybe consider that we will one day leave others behind. We can feel connected to eternity. My great-grandmother never used these words. She simply did the thing, every day, and in doing it, she taught me to see and feel what she did.

What happens when we are uprooted?

I didn’t know that what we practiced was a religion as much as just a way of life. Great grandmother practiced daily rituals to honor our ancestors. As the other adults went out to work to earn income for our living, she maintained the sacred duty of strengthening our connections with our spiritual guardians – and watching us little ones. She was in her late 80’s during this time and was a bridge between a past and a future.

When she passed, my parents went to the temple less. The daily rhythm of ritual loosened and eventually faded. I understand why — modern life is very busy, and demanding. Pauses are a luxury. Luckily, the teachings didn’t leave, they were just dormant as I eagerly pursued a more American lifestyle.

The rituals fell away, but they are a part of how I move through the world, or at least how I want to move through life:

With attention, with gratitude, with the sense that what is impermanent is not meaningless. If anything, it is more precious for being brief – we only get this one chance to be.

Now, as I am in my 40’s, I realize how much of her teachings has shaped me. After she passed, life got more chaotic. She was a sanctuary – calm, steady, gentle and I didn’t have that anywhere in my life anymore. But the rituals and practices that she imprinted in me have protected my psyche through the darkest moments of my life. Whether it was the peace and grounding that the rituals provided, or the connection with the ancestors and spirits themselves – it really doesn’t matter. It is very likely both.

So now, I get to share some of this ritual with the world. By having the Buddha washing ceremony at Original Qi, I am bringing in something that is personally sacred to me and will hopefully be a healing space for whomever needs it.