Mario Poceski (1964-), aka Cheng Chien Bhikshu

Why and how do we make assorted choices—conscious or otherwise—about our personal lives and professional careers, especially at critical junctures in our lives? What are the intrinsic qualities, familial backgrounds, learned behaviors, psychological propensities, and external circumstances that guide our decisions and shape the larger stories about our ephemeral existence? Concerning our professional experience, what is the scope, texture, and nature of our chosen field or vocation, and what are the institutional strictures and unspoken mores that guide our work, especially in academic settings? These and related questions intersect with potentially interesting philosophical and ethical reflections, on a host of minor and major issues: from the minutia of professional careers up to larger themes with universal import, such the meaning of life (and death), the nature of humanity, and the relationship between self and others. In this essay, I take a personal approach to some of these issues, trying to trace or decipher how a boy from the (former) Yugoslavia ended up being a scholar of Buddhism and a professor at a large research university in the US. This unfolding story, presented below in a short outline, spans half a century, and includes sojourns—short and long—in many countries on three continents: Europe, Asia, and North America.[1]

Dealing with (often-wayward) academics has been both the joy and the bane of my life. It started with my parents, in Skopje, my hometown in Macedonia (then a part of Yugoslavia). My father was a civil engineer, who went to graduate school at UC Berkeley in the 1960s and spent most of his professional career as a professor at the University of Skopje, Faculty of Architecture. My mother had a bit more varied and circuitous career. She starter off as a dentist, but then returned to school for an undergraduate degree in philosophy, followed by graduate degrees in sociology. She ended up working as a faculty at the same university, as well as serving as a chair of the Sociology Department. For some years, later in her career, she took a break from teaching and held a high official post in the Ministry of Education, which gave her many opportunities to travel across Europe and elsewhere (including Washington DC). The fourth member of our family was my artistically talented sister, who pursued a career as art conservator, especially of orthodox icons. She also obtained a PhD in cultural studies from the local university.

My childhood was comfortable and stimulating, even though it was not an entirely happy experience, largely because of the unstable and tense situation at our home. The main instigator of conflict was my domineering but insecure father, who exhibited some of the classical symptoms of narcistic personality disorder. My parents ended up divorcing, but only after two decades of suffering and discord. Growing up, I had lots of good friends and all sorts of interests (but not necessarily pertinent talents), including art and music. While I had misgivings about my family’s predicament, in retrospect I was lucky to grow up in a house where books by the likes of Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821-1881) and Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900) lined the shelves of the living room.[2] There was also appreciation of art and music, with Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890) and Albrecht Dürer (1471-1528) being my favorite painters at the time, and Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750) emerging as a favorite composer, later joined by Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827).

From early childhood, there was an expectation (and pressure) that I will become a scientist, presumably a great one. To that end, my parents enrolled me in a special mathematics program in the local gymnasium (high school), even though I had much more affinity with the humanities. I first learned about Buddhism at the age of fourteen. Before that, I got interested in European philosophy, starting when I was about twelve. My favorite philosopher was Friedrich Nietzsche, with Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Also sprach Zarathustra ) as my favorite book. I also read some of the writings of Baruch Spinoza (1632-1677), Jean-Paul Sartre (1905-1980), and Plato (c. 428-348 BCE), along with pestering my mother to tell me about G.W.F. Hegel’s (1770-1831) dialectics and Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz’s (1646-1716) monads. Unfortunately, I was never properly educated in philosophy (or art history and film studies, two additional areas where formal education would have been helpful). Nonetheless, that initial interest was followed by a desire to learn about Buddhism, which in addition to abstruse philosophy also offered the promise of personal transformation and self-transcendence.

I am not sure what was really behind my initial impulse to study Buddhism. Growing up in Yugoslavia, I have never seen any Buddhists, or knew anything about the religion. Furthermore, my upbringing was as secular as it gets. Not only that I had never been to a church service—traditionally, my family was Orthodox Christian—but religion was never a topic of discussion in our household, or within my parent’s circle of friends. Religion was also a taboo subject at school, in accord with the socialist ideology pushed by the Yugoslav government, which incorporated militant secularism and unweaving faith in science and progress. Buddhists might attribute such early predilection or affinity to past karmic connections, I suppose, but it could also have been a youthful desire to try something completely new and different.

The early interest to explore Buddhism, or more broadly Asian philosophy and spirituality, was also related to a general dissatisfaction with the hollowness and superficiality of the surrounding culture, as I perceived it at the time. As I became increasingly interested in philosophical reflection and life of the mind, there was a growing sense of fascination with the prospect of exploring different intellectual vistas and dimensions of reality, beyond the predictability and banality of everyday existence. If I were to follow the course of life dictated by my upbringing and the surrounding society, I could see my future unfolding in a predictable pattern, within a parochial and materialistic society, devoid of inspiring vision and compelling moral foundation. It seemed like living out a boring movie filled with clichés, with a predictable ending. I did not really feel like taking a part in it, and was looking for an alternative.

After deciding that I wanted to learn about Buddhism, I faced the problem of finding suitable literature on the subject. Fortunately, my Marxism teacher—yes, we had such subject in high school—come to the rescue, providing me with (an old) two-volume set on the history of Indian philosophy by Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan (1888-1975).[3] During a winter break in my first year of high school, I spent two weeks at my grandparents’ house, surrounded by cold and showy wonderland, devouring the contents of the book, especially the chapters on Buddhist philosophy. That changed the course of my life. Nonetheless, as there were no local opportunities for Buddhist study and practice, I joined a Yoga club and plunged into Yogic practices, mostly of a (rather superficial) Hatha Yoga variety. While lacking in agility and physical talent, I compensated with dedication and discipline. I also adopted a vegetarian diet (that I have followed ever since), causing a minor scandal as vegetarianism was a foreign concept in the local community, and was deemed to be dangerous and subversive.

By the age of seventeen, I was seriously thinking of leaving for the mysterious East, far away from a homeland I perceived to be insular and uninspiring. At that time, I did my first solo travel, (mostly) hitchhiking across Europe, with an extended stay in Amsterdam. I was pretty much devoid of any patriotic feelings and nationalist sentiments—which the educational system and government propaganda tried hard to instill in all of us—so the thought of leaving my country, potentially for good, was not something that left me fretting in the slightest. At the same time, my ideas about Asian lands and Eastern spirituality were very naïve and uniformed, and I did not really know what I was getting myself into. Regardless, I was full with youthful enthusiasm and courage, determined to move into a completely new direction, as far away as I could get from the expectations of my family and the surrounding society, towards a journey of spiritual discovery.

After barely finishing high school, just as I turned eighteen, I left home and country for good. My destination was India, which I romanticized as a land of yogis and rich spiritual culture, although I first went to Greece, crossing the border on foot. After two months there, I traveled east overland, via Turkey, Iran, and Pakistan. The most exotic and arduous part of the journey was a 24-hours trip over the desert of southeastern Pakistan—from the Iranian border to Quetta—which I spend on the top of a bus under the blistering sun, together with a Japanese traveler I met on the road. In Quetta, I was almost recruited by some local Islamists—being very young and clueless, but learning quickly—and in Lahore I had narrow escapes with some local gangsters. After crossing the border into India, I headed to Amritsar, where I spend some time at the Golden Temple, the holiest site of Sikhism. On the road, I learned that Rishikesh was an important holy place in northern India, so I decided to go there to look for an ashram where I can learn about Yoga and Vedanta, an engage in serious meditation.

Situated at a point where the Ganges River leaves the Himalayas, Rishikesh is a well-known pilgrimage site, with a number of ashrams and many sannyasins. During the three months I was there, I stayed at a couple of ashrams, and spent some time practicing meditation alone. After four months in India that included a week in a primitive hut on a beach in the vicinity of Pondicherry (Tamil Nadu)—which I rented from local fishermen—I moved to Sri Lanka by boat. There I encountered Buddhist monks and monasteries for the first time. Before long, I received a novice ordination (pabbajja, lit. “going forth”) at Island Hermitage, a well-known monastic center established in 1911 by Nyanatiloka (1878-1957), a German monk known for his scholarly acumen.[4] Over the ensuing decades, the hermitage served as a center for foreign monks, primarily from Europe and North America. The monastic name given to me by my preceptor was Ñāṇamaṅgala (Blessing of Knowledge); I was only eighteen at the time.

While at Island Hermitage, I plunged myself into a rigorous regiment of meditation and reading, with great zeal and little sophistication. The days started at 3 am, with a rush to the well to pour water over my whole body, in a vain hope that will help keep me awake during the early hours of meditation that followed. My program of study and practice was self-designed, as the only official events at the hermitage were the communal breakfast and lunch, and most of my time was spent alone in a kuti (hut) in the forest. The facilities were very basic, without electricity or running water, set in a humid tropical climate that did not suite me that well.

Before long, I found out that Theravada doctrine, with its emphasis on dukkha (suffering, imperfection) and nirodha (cessation) was not in tune with my overly sunny and optimistic outlook on life and humanity. For me at that time, contemplative life was not a tool for escaping the miseries of daily living or putting an end to earthly existence. Rather, I conceived of it as a means for experiencing the fulness of life, with all of its beauty and completeness. While in the forest in Sri Lanka, for the first time I came in contact with books on Zen, mostly popular volumes by D. T. Suzuki (1894-1966) and others, left by previous visitors at the hermitage library. After six month of mostly solitary practice in Sri Lanka, enriched by discussions with some of the (mostly Western) monks I met there, I decided to go to Japan to study Zen.

On the way to Japan, after a short visit to Thailand, I ended up being stuck in Hong Kong because of a mess-up with my Japanese visa. I stayed at Polin monastery 寶蓮寺 on Lantao Island 大嶼山, which (nominally) was supposed to be a Chan 禪 monastery. However, it was not really a place for serious practice and the meditation hall was mostly empty. That was my initial contact with Chinese Buddhism, or with Chinese culture more generally. Daily life at the monastery diverged notably from the lofty monastic ideals and rigorous practices I was quixotically hoping for. Nonetheless, my initial experience of being in a Chinese setting was mostly positive, in large part because the abbot and the monastic community were welcoming and friendly.

Eventually I went to Japan, where I entered a Zen temple in the Kanto region, not far from Tokyo. I quickly feel in love with certain aspect of traditional Japanese culture, especially the refined sense of esthetic sensibility, as expressed in temple architecture and garden design. Walking in the mountains of Yamanashi amidst the bamboo and the autumn foliage, with snow-caped Mt. Fuji looming in the distance, was truly sublime. I was a bit less enthused by Japanese Zen, whose contemporary institutional reality, especially its business side, was quite at odds with what I naively imagined true Zen would (or should) be. I felt a bit more positive about meditation practice, but even that seemed to be a bit simplistic and one-dimensional.

Overall, the external image of Japanese Zen had appealing aspects, and some of the people I met seemed genuinely nice. However, not far below the surface there seemed to be all sort of ignorance and vice, including obsession with moneymaking and pervasive hypocrisy, along with instances of pedophilia I witnessed at the temple. In the end, I decided to go back to Hong Kong, figuring that long-term engagement with Chinese Buddhism will be more interesting and fruitful. In hindsight, that turned out to be largely the case, even if I never came to appreciate fully the modern forms of Chinese Buddhism.

After determining to stay in Hong Kong at Polin Monastery, I figured out that I should learn Chinese. I decided to study Mandarin instead of Cantonese, the local dialect spoken in Hong Kong, in part because I was not that interested in communicating with the monks or other people at the monastery. Instead, I made concerted effort to teach myself classical Chinese, so that I can read the scriptures and the records of the ancient Chan masters. After giving myself intensive courses in Mandarin and classical Chinese, with the help of two basic textbooks, I plunged straight into reading Buddhist texts, with the aid of two dictionaries.[5] It took me a couple of days to go over the short Heart Scripture (Xin jing 心經), the first Chinese text I read.[6] However, with diligent daily study, I made good progress; eventually, I was able to read a number of classical Buddhist texts quite comfortably. I also made it a practice to read aloud and copy whole texts by hand, especially the records of noted Chan teachers, such as Mazu yulu 馬祖語錄 (Record of the Sayings of Mazu),[7] Chuan xin fa yao 傳心法要 (Essential Teachings on Mind Transmission),[8] and Linji yulu 臨濟語錄 (Record of the Sayings of Linji).[9]

It was at this formative stage that I developed a keen interest in Chinese Buddhism of the Tang 唐 era (618-907). That interest continued over the ensuing decades, as well as into the mature phase of my academic career. Additionally, I developed a focus on the classical Chan tradition, as represented by the records of noted Chan teachers such as Mazu Daoyi 馬祖道一 (709–788), Baizhang Huaihai 百丈懷海 (749–814), and Huangbo Xiyun 黃檗希運 (d. 850?), which also carried on over the subsequent decades. In my free time, my main forms of fun and relaxation were frequent walks in the surrounding hills and reading of Zhuangzi 莊子.[10]

As I reached the requisite age of twenty, I received a bhiksu ordination in a large ceremony held at Po Lin monastery, thus becoming a full-fledged member of the monastic order (Sangha). By this time, I was more or less accepted as an unusual but tolerated member of the larger monastic community at Lantao Island, where I also spent time in a couple of smaller and quitter monasteries. While this was before the building of a giant Buddha statue and a large influx of tourists coming to see it, Polin was not exactly a place for disciplined contemplative practice or studious philosophical reflection on the nature of reality. Largely, moneymaking was a major preoccupation for almost all monks, who primarily served as paid ritual specialists. On the other hand, they were fine with having a white foreigner stay at the monastery, while the predominantly elderly nuns—who mostly performed menial jobs—were quite friendly and supportive. For the most part, they left me do my own thing, so I had lots of time for study, reflection, and walking in the sounding hills.

This established a pattern that, with some variation, persisted over the subsequent decade of monastic life. There was little choice but find an existing organization or community in which I could pursue my monastic vocation, which I took seriously, even if I did not always follows prevalent mores and practices. However, I was not fully at home at any of the traditions or congregations of contemporary Buddhism. I was feeling much more at ease in an imagined world of medieval monasticism, as I understood it by reading classical texts, or living as a hermit.

This gap was reinforced by my independent streak, critical outlook, and non-joiner mentality. Namely, I was unwilling or unable to really join a particular group in a wholehearted manner, or follow any type of guru or spiritual leader (all of whom I found deficient in some way). That is not to say there were no inspiring moments, or that I did not meet monks and teachers I could respect, at least partially. However, there was always a critical perspective, independent streak, and an incapability to follow others. Consequently, I was largely alone, while living in communities where I did not really belong, dedicated to a monastic path of practice that did not really exist, at least not in a conventional sense.

The stay on Lantao Island lasted for about two years. I also gave Japanese Zen another try, with similar (unsatisfactory) results. During my fourth year in Asia, I ended up going back to Sri Lanka, this time with my Chinese books. First, I went to live as a hermit at the same island as before. Then, I spend six months at a large meditation center near Colombo, which loosely followed the Burmese vipassana (insight meditation) tradition.

As I was encountering resistance because of my supposedly Mahāyāna ordination—which some Theravada monks deemed to be heretical—I received higher ordination again, this time as a Theravada bhikkhu. Interestingly, the most rigid (and at times nasty) opposition to the putative Mahāyāna heresy came from Western monks, some of whom were prone to displaying fundamentalist tendencies. After a year in Sri Lanka, which included a bout of serious sickness, I was persuaded to return to Europe, ostensibly to see my mother, by way of the Yugoslav ambassador and his family. The ambassador’s wife happened to know my mother, and they were my hosts during the last day in Sri Lanka.

After spending some time with my family in Skopje—in the death of winter in 1987, amidst lots of show and subzero temperatures—I decided to visit an old friend in England, who was residing at Amaravati Buddhist Monastery. As a central part of a small network of monastic establishments set up by the western disciples of Ajahn Chah (1918-1992), Amaravati exemplified the growing presence of a contemplative form of Theravada monasticism in Europe. While Ajahn Chah was close to dying at the time, his inspiring personal example and practical teachings about mindful reflection, disciplined lifestyle, and letting go of attachments were transmitted by his western disciples.[11] The monastery was established in 1984, on a property that beforehand had served as a military facility and a residential school, so at the time there was still a fair amount of remodeling and other work going on, done by the monastics and the visiting laity.

The abbot of Amaravati at the time was Ajahn Sumedho (1934-), who took interest in me and invited me to say as a member of the monastic community.[12] While I was not completely sold on their type of practice, which followed the Thai forest tradition, I was impressed by the overall structure of monastic life and the sincerity of most members of the community. I ended up staying there for two years, as a member of the larger monastic community. The greater part of my stay was at Cittaviveka, or Chithurst Buddhist Monastery, a sister monastery of Amaravati, situated in West Sussex.

Amaravati and Chithurst were both set in pretty southern English countryside. That afforded daily opportunities for walks along ancient footpaths, amidst green pastures and patches of forest, with occasional stopovers at medieval churches. There was a magical quality to these morning outings, officially undertaken in lieu of pindapāta (the daily almsround undertaken by Thai monks), and they remain the most vivid memories of my stay in England. I tried my best to fit in—even if not always with full success—as member of a monastic community that placed high emphasis on strict observance of the Vinaya (the monastic code of discipline). The community was still growing, and there was palpable enthusiasm about the establishment of traditional Theravada monasticism in Europe. There was also a sizeable lay community, which supported the monasteries and engaged in select practices, including meditation.

While far from perfect, Amaravati and Chithurst were arguably the most serious and constructive monastic setups I encountered during my twelve years of monastic life. Nonetheless, there were simmering strains and unresolved incongruities. Some of them were parts of a close-nit communal life of that kind, which involved a variety of individuals: monastics and laity, males and females. There was also a rather rigid hierarchy based on seniority, which at times led to abuses (although nothing close in magnitude to the scandals that have plagued many Buddhist centers in the West). Other issues were peculiar to the Theravada predicament in the West. A prime example of that was the tenuous or unresolved status of the nuns, which engendered all sorts of latent tensions. (Later, long after my departure, that exploded into a full-fledged conflict and schism within the larger community of western disciples of Ajahn Chah, pitting progressive elements within the Sangha who promoted full ordination for women against traditionalists, some of whom apparently exhibited fundamentalist tendencies).

After two years of concerted effort at communal life and practice in England, I decided it was time to move on. Initially, I planned to return to Sri Lanka, to live as a hermit, and had already booked a flight to Colombo. However, at the last moment I chose to go to America, to stay at the City of Ten Thousand Buddhas, located in northern California. The move was motivated by two factors. First, while appreciative of the monastic ideals and practices exemplified by the Theravada forest tradition, I still felt more at home with Chinese Buddhism (albeit of the medieval variety). Second, I wanted to go back to my study of Mahāyāna canonical texts, especially the Huayan Scripture 華嚴經,[13] and related philosophical systems. My stay in America was supposed to be short, and my impression of the City of Ten Thousand Buddhas was largely negative. Nonetheless, I decided to spend additional time in America, and use that as an opportunity to visit several Zen centers.

My first stops were at Zen centers associated with the Kwan Um School of Zen, led by Seungsahn (1927-2004), in Berkeley and Cumberland (Rhode Island). I also read some books by American Zen teachers such as Philip Kapleau (1912-2004), which at times left me scratching my head: how anyone can take this stuff seriously, especially the stories about the “enlightenment experiences” of ordinary Americans?[14] My initial impression of American Zen practitioners, at least the ones I met, was a mixture of mild bewilderment, bemusement, and despondency. Not only that they tended to be ignoramuses when it came to the basics of Buddhist doctrine, literature, and history, but they seemed to have no desire to learn much (or anything) about Buddhism, beyond absorbing and aping elements of their master or guru’s teaching (which, to me at least, looked a bit simplistic). Furthermore, this kind of cluelessness was often coupled with a naive (but arrogant) assumption that, with their focus on meditation and zeal for enlightenment, they were doing real or authentic Buddhism, unlike Asian devotees, with their traditional beliefs and rituals.

On the other hand, some of the individuals I encountered seemed nice and sincere, in their own way. At any rate, this type of establishments were geared towards lay practitioners—engaged in select and watered-down elements of monastic practice—and tended to lack appreciation and support structure for traditional monasticism. Therefore, as I continued the journey of monastic homelessness, I was left with the other type of Buddhist establishments that populated the American religious landscape—ethic temples. While most of them were fraught with varied problems, there was at least some appreciation of the monastic vocation and the cultural elements that go with it.

Over the next five years, I ended up staying at several temples and meditation centers, associated with the Chinese, Korean, Sri Lankan, and Vietnamese traditions. That included an extended stay in Houston, where I spend most of the time alone in a small temple at the outskirts of the city, after the Chinese-American congregation moved to the new and much larger Jade Buddha temple. I also spent several months at the Chan Meditation Center in New York, where I came in close contact with master Shengyan 聖嚴 (1931-2009), before he became famous as the leader of Dharma Drum Mountain (Fagu shan 法鼓山), one of the largest Buddhist organizations in Taiwan.[15] Additionally, I was able to go back to Asia, for a pilgrimage tour of Buddhist sites in China and Taiwan, and a meditation retreat at Songgwangsa 松廣寺, one of the major Seon (Zen) monasteries in Korea.[16] During this period, I decided to stay in America, at least for a while, and the temple in Houston kindly sponsored my application for a Green Card. Several years later, I became a naturalized US citizen.

During my monastic years in America, I tried to balance my dual interest in scholarship and contemplative practice. In that context, I started translating and writing about classical Buddhist texts that I found relevant and appealing. That resulted in my first book, which contains translation of the record of Mazu Daoyi 馬祖道一 (709–788),[17] along with excerpts from the records of his main disciples, which I finished in 1992, while in my twenties.[18] The book was the first thing I ever wrote, especially in English. In less than a year, I finished another book, focused on an important chapter in the Huayan Scripture,[19] and the conceptions of Buddhahood articulated by the canonical text and the classical Huayan tradition.[20] The two books represented my two main areas of interest at the time: Chan studies and Huayan philosophy.

During the same period, I also started to teach and lead mediation sessions. I did that in a limited capacity and mostly at temples, becoming a meditation teacher of sorts. That went well, for the most part, but the fundamental idea of becoming an independent meditation teacher, with my own center and disciples, was not an attractive option. Part of the reason was self-awareness of my limited spiritual accomplishments, along with a general aversion to the basic notion of becoming a guru-type figure and trying to gather followers.

The work on my first two books involved research into secondary scholarship on Chan and Huayan. That precipitated my initial introduction to scholarly writings on Chinese Buddhism by American academics, such as John McRae and Robert Buswell.[21] As I finished writing the two books, I started contemplating additional projects, with the goal of introducing Buddhist texts and teachings to a broad Western audience. My initial forays into writing and publishing went fairly smoothly and seemed reasonably successful, especially given my lack of connections and formal education. Nonetheless, I felt that acquiring further knowledge and relevant academic skills would put me in a much better position to produce work of greater breath and quality.

The pull towards an academic direction was reinforced by a deepening feeling of being fed-up with all the questionable attitudes and wayward activities going on at the Buddhist temples I was staying at, with engendered varying degrees of disconnect and vexation. My impression and appreciation of Buddhism in America changed during the subsequent years, becoming more sympathetic and nuanced. However, that only happened as I started to view the American Buddhist landscape from the outside, in part through academic lenses influenced by sociological theory. At the time, however, I did not feel much affinity with either the various ethic temples or the meditation centers geared towards a mostly white and American-born clientele, even if many of the individuals I met were fine.

As I was approaching the age of thirty, I started to wonder if this is what I wanted to deal with for the rest of my life. Even so, I was still committed to a monastic way of life, despite all the difficulties. Accordingly, I approached the prospect of formal academic education primary with the intent of acquiring knowledge and applicable academic skills, without any plans of making a career out of it. My main goal was to improve academically, and thus put myself in a better position to produce first-rate works and disseminate in-depth knowledge about Buddhist texts, teachings, and practices.

Initially, I enrolled part-time at the University of Maryland, College Park, where I took some Chinese and Japanese language classes. My big break, which firmly propelled me towards an academic trajectory, came in the form of a kind invitation from Robert Buswell to go to the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA), and pursue a graduate degree in Buddhist studies, at the department of East Asian Languages and Cultures (later renamed the Department of Asian Languages and Cultures). Not only that, but he also persuaded the UCLA administration to accept me into the graduate program without an undergraduate degree—an unheard of deviation from norm—and secured financial support for my study (that became even better as my study progressed). Consequently, in 1994, I entered academic life as a graduate student, with Buswell as my mentor.

Initially, I was trying to combine graduate school with a monastic vocation, going to class in monastic robes and living at a Vietnamese temple (with a loose sense of monastic discipline and decorum). Never, before long I felt quite at home in the university setting, just as my despondency over the corruption of institutional Buddhism was growing. During my second year of graduate school, I decided to disrobe, thus ending twelve years of monastic life. There were a number of factors influencing this life-changing decision. There was the pull of academic life, along with the aforementioned sense of frustration with the American Buddhist scene, especially the tenuous place of genuine monasticism within it. Other factors included the emergence of ordinary human desires, including the prospect of a relationship with a Japanese woman, who initially come to the US to study international law. I first met her at my meditation classes in Washington DC, but then she moved to California to be closer to me.

Once I decided to move into an academic milieu, I felt quite at home in the university setting at UCLA, and greatly enjoyed the study and research I was engaged in. I pretty much gave up on having any contacts with the Buddhist community, and did not miss the religious scene that much. Having Robert Buswell as a mentor was great, and I was able to study Japanese Buddhism with William Bodiford. Additionally, I developed a passion for Chinese history, and took a number of courses on the subject. Most of my history courses were with Benjamin Elman (who later moved to Princeton), a leading scholar of Chinese intellectual history and an inspiring teacher.

Generally, the relationship with my professors was good, and I was fascinated by the prospect of learning new things and discussing arcane topics. The interactions with the follow graduate students were not always as positive, in part because of petty jealousies engendered by competition for limited resources, along with an occasional lack of tact and social grace on my part. While my monastic life had prepared me for the rigors of academic study and research, it did less for my ability to function effortlessly in certain social settings. On the top of that, there was my strong personality, overabundance of enthusiasm, and a penchant for direct speech, sometimes without due sensitivity about its effects on others.

Before long, I was done with my master program; by early 1997, I easily passed the qualifying exams for the doctorate. During the same period, I started to teach a number of courses at UCLA, on topics such as Chinese civilization, introduction to Buddhism, and Chinese Buddhism. When the time came to select a topic for my doctoral dissertation, I was deciding between pursuing Chan or Huayan studies. The Huayan option involved a detailed study of the exegetical and philosophical writings of Chengguan 澄觀 (738–839), the reputed fourth patriarch of the Huayan school 華嚴宗. I ended up choosing to research and write about the historical grown of Chan during the Tang 唐 era (618–907). My focus was on the Hongzhou school 洪州宗 of Chan, associated with Mazu and his numerous disciples, which came to the fore as main representative of the burgeoning Chan movement during the late eight and early ninth century.

I decided to pursue my doctoral research in Japan, in part on the advice of William Bodiford, who also helped me to establish initial connections with Japanese scholars. After securing a Fulbright-Hays Doctoral Dissertation Research Abroad Grant, I moved to Tokyo, Japan, where I spent two years as a visiting scholar at Komazawa University 駒沢大學. The university is affiliated with the Sōtō sect 曹洞宗 of Zen and has one of the largest collections of materials on Chan/Zen Buddhism, as well as a big program in Buddhist studies. For my second year, I was supported by a Charlotte W. Newcombe Doctoral Dissertation Fellowship, from the Woodrow Wilson Foundation. During my stay in Japan, I was fortunate to have Ishii Shūdō 石井修道, one of foremost experts on Chan Buddhism, as my mentor.[22] Additionally, I was able to join study groups at Komazawa and the University of Tokyo that focused on the close reading, analysis, and translation of medieval Chan texts, and meet a number of Japanese and visiting Western scholars working in various areas of Buddhist studies.

My stay in Japan ended up being very productive, as I was able to complete the research I set out to do and write most of my dissertation, as well as greatly improve my Japanese. I also obtained many primary and secondary sources, thereby starting to build my research library. My stay there was greatly enhanced by the many chances to visits temples, museums, and gardens in the Kanto and Kansai regions. At a personal level, I got married with a young Japanese woman, originally from Tochigi 栃木. I met Hiroko 弘子in Tokyo, not long after my arrival in Japan. We then moved to an apartment in Den-en-chōfu 田園調布, a tony neighborhood in the southern outskirts of the city, along the Tama River. From there, I had ample opportunities to indulge my passions for nature, mountains, hiking, and temples, especially during the fall and spring seasons.

After the return from Japan, I spend another year at UCLA finishing my dissertation. I supported myself and my new wife with a Dissertation Year Fellowship, as well as part time teaching at UCLA. Soon after I formally defended my dissertation—titled “The Hongzhou School during the Mid-Tang Period”—in the summer of 2000, I headed to Iowa to start my first job, as a visiting assistant professor of Chinese religions at the School of Religion, University of Iowa. The following year, I accepted a tenure-track position at the University of Florida (UF), as an assistant professor of Buddhist studies and Chinese religions in the Department of Religion. That was arguably the best position in my (small) field on the job market that year, so things looked promising regarding my nascent academic career.

The ultimate irony of my life is that although I tried my best to get as far away as possible from being like my parents, I still ended up in the same line of work. No, I did not become a brilliant mathematician or some other kind of scientist, as expected by my father, but I turned into a somewhat staid and boring academic nonetheless. The transition to formal academic employment mostly went smoothly, with occasional bumps along the way. Our personal life was also moving in a positive direction, despite my wife’s problems of adjusting to the new environment. We bought a nice house as soon as I accepted the job offer from Florida. In contrast to the conventional image of a destitute and indebted graduate student, I graduated with ample savings that enabled me to buy a house without taking on much mortgage. In addition to a frugal lifestyle (partially shaped by monastic habits), which involved saving substantial part of the money I received from grants and teaching, I also learned how to invest; luckily, graduate school coincided with a period when the stock market was experiencing substantial growth.

After coming to Florida, I was doing the kinds of things expected from junior academics: working on a book, publishing shorter pieces, presenting at major conferences, organizing vising lectures by renowned scholars, and developing and teaching undergraduate and graduate courses. While the job at Florida looked like a good start, I did not anticipate staying there for long. To that end, I interviewed for several other positions at major universities in North America and Europe, and came close to getting a dream job (in my field), at a leading university. Nevertheless, in the end, none of that worked out, and the opportunities to move to (supposedly) greener pastures dried out, especially as I got more senior.

Adapting to being (officially at least) a scholar of religion was not that difficult, even though my formal training was in area studies—East Asian languages and cultures, with a China focus—and I have never taken a religion course (or rather a course with such designation). To some degree, that is related to the general manner religious studies is constructed in America, especially its lack of clear identity and distinct disciplinary boundaries, along the lines of what one might find in other disciplines in the humanities and social sciences (philosophy, sociology, history, anthropology, etc.). That can be confusing or frustrating at times, as we supposedly study a pervasive but nebulous subject (“religion”) that, for all practical purposes, we cannot clearly define or circumscribe to our students (and ourselves). At the same time, this sense of academic fuzziness or inexactitude can be liberating, as it opens up the door for flexible and contextual engagement with all sorts of themes, approaches, and perspectives, about and beyond religion. Furthermore, while able to undertake a broad range of research projects and engage in cross-disciplinary inquiry, one can do that without the straightjacket of rigid commitment to a specific theoretical template or methodology.

Over the years, I have made an effort to study a range of theories and methods deployed in religious studies, as well as in other disciplines in the humanities and social sciences, even if that has never been a major focus. That already started in graduate school, where it was fashionable to invoke the likes of Michel Foucault (1926-1984), Jürgen Habermas (1929-), and Pierre Bourdieu (1930-2002). While I found some of these materials relatable or interesting, for the most part I did not find them directly relevant to kind of work I was doing. Consequently, I decided to resist the temptation to incorporate unnecessary theoretical paradigms, conceptual obfuscations, or fashionable jargon in my writing, especially of the kind that is primarily meant to impart an air of theoretical sophistication, but sheds little light on the real issues or the main topics of research.

After coming to UF, I even went on to teach method and theory courses, at both the undergraduate and graduate levels. In that context, I was mostly able to explore the writings of classical thinkers with as Max Webber (1864-1920) and Émile Durkheim (1858-1917), which I tend to find more useful than most recent works, especially those with postmodernist bent. That makes me somewhat old-fashioned, I suppose, but also not a slave to (academic) fashion. Overall, while specific theoretical models can influence my overall thinking on certain issues, as well as suggest a range of outlooks on given areas of academic research, their direct impact on my research and writing tend to be limited. Generally, I start with an interesting or pertinent topic, explore the range of relevant sources, and use whatever methodological and theoretical approaches seems relevant to the task at hand.

Although formally labeled as a scholar of religion, in the course of my work at UF, I have been able to maintain dual academic identity, which also involves parallel role as a Chinese studies specialist (or Sinologist, in the parlance of our European colleagues). In fact, I developed much closer ties with faculty from other departments at my university, especially colleagues working in East Asian studies. In the same vein, I became actively involved in efforts to develop areas study programs, especially in Asian and Chinese studies, at my home institution. These endeavors met with little success, for a variety of factors, including a lack of effective administrative leadership and support, along with questionable institutional priorities, dearth of vision, and an ingrained tendency towards parochialism. Consequently, at some point I decided to step back from what seemed to be largely futile efforts, and focus on other priorities, especially research, writing, and travel.

In 2007, I saw the publication of one of my main books, Ordinary Mind as the Way.[23] Based on parts of my PhD dissertation, the book is a comprehensive study of the history and teachings of the Hongzhou school of Chan, which constitute major chapters in the growth of Chan as the main representative of elite Chinese Buddhism, with a focus on the second half of the Tang era. The book also facilitated my tenure and promotion to the rank of associate professor. Some years later, I followed that with a companion volume—also published by Oxford—that examines the development and transformation of Chan literature, especially during the Tang and Song 宋 (960–1279) eras.[24] That book focuses on the main records about the life and teachings of Mazu—translated in the second part of the book—but it also uses these primary sources to delve into larger themes in the study of Chan literature and history, such as textual production, ideological repositioning, and historical imagination. Once again, the publication of the book served as a prelude to promotion, this time to the rank of professor.

In-between the two books on Chan Buddhism published by Oxford, I did a number of other publications, of various types and on a range of topics.[25] Most of these publications were undertaken at the invitation of various editors and publishers, thereby pushing my own projects to the backburner. One of the main publications during these years was my book on Chinese religions, [26] which ended up being widely used as a textbook for courses at many universities in North America and other parts of the world.[27] The initial idea for the book came from Charles Prebish (who is also behind this chapter), with strong interest and advocacy by the publisher. At first, I was hesitant about undertaking the project, in part because my department chair was against it, and focusing on this type of publication was likely going to postpone my next promotion. In the end, I decided to go against what seemed to be my narrow self-interest, in part because teaching a course on Chinese religions made me keenly aware that there was a lack of good books on the subject.

Given that I have not formally studied any of the other relevant religions besides Buddhism—Daoism, Confucianism, Catholicism, Protestant Christianity, Islam, popular religion, etc.—the research on the Chinese religions book took quite a bit of time and commitment. Nonetheless, in the process of researching and writing it, I was able to learn many new things and expand my scholarly repertoire. Additionally, creating the book was a good practice for writing clearly and informatively for a broad audience, without the kinds of arcane jargon and superfluous obfuscation often found in scholarly literature, which are primarily meant to impress other academics but make the text mostly useless for normal people. It was also helpful for cultivating an ability to convey complex ideas and explore multivalent occurrences in ways that are readily understandable, but still with an eye for nuance and on the basic of solid scholarship. In that sense, it was possible to combine research and teaching. Lastly, this kind of endeavor opened my eyes to the need to engage in public service and the wide-ranging dissemination of knowledge, beyond the careerist obsessions and parochial concerns of specific academic milieus.[28]

While teaching tends not to be a central concern, especially for established faculty, at a large research university such as the University of Florida, I have been trying not to neglect this integral part of the academic vocation. In addition to teaching a variety of undergraduate courses, most of which deal with Buddhism, I have also been involved in graduate education, primarily within the context of the Religion Department. Given the university’s and the department’s institutional profiles, along with an ongoing tendency to marginalize Buddhist studies, the opportunities to attract and train talented graduate students have not been exactly what one would wish. At times, that has been a source of disappointment and frustration, but I have been fortunate to have several nice students, most of whom are along the way to fruitful careers, academic and otherwise.

Over the years, research and related pursuits have taken me to many places. In a way, while based in Florida, my life unfolds on three continents: North America, Europe, and Asia. The ability to spend extended periods abroad—ostensibly dedicated to research and writing—is primarily facilitated by the procurement of various grants and fellowships, in addition to the regular sabbaticals granted by my university. Typically, these awards bring about release from teaching and administrative duties. Fortunately, my university tends to be quite generous and supportive with this kind of thing. Moreover, even in years when I do not get release from teaching, school is only in session for a bit over seven months, which leaves the rest of the year for research, professional development, and travel.

Prestigious research fellowships in the humanities tend to involve going away for prolonged periods, away from the comforts of home and family. On the other hand, usually I end up at nice locations, of my own choosing. In that sense, being away in distant lands can be seen as both a curse (at times) and a blessing (most of the time). Over the years, I have been able to spend extended periods as a visiting scholar (or professor) at a number of universities in the US and abroad, including Komazawa University, Stanford University, the National University of Singapore, Nanzan University, University of Hamburg, and Fudan University. The longest stay was at the University of Hamburg, where I spend eighteen months (spread of three years, 2013-2015) as a visiting professor, with a fellowship from the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation. There I was fortunate to have a dear friend, Michael Zimmerman, as my academic host. There have also been opportunities for shorter stay at other universities, including the University of Kyoto and Peking University. At the time of writing (spring 2018), I am about to go back to Hamburg for a summer stay, with a fellowship from the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation, and I will be spending the whole of 2019 in Germany, at the University of Erlangen-Nürnberg.

Other opportunities for travel are occasioned by international conferences and invited lectures. Early in my academic career, I was going to the major conferences in the two main fields related to my research and teaching—religion and Asian studies—but more recently I have been shying away from this kind of large gatherings. While they are good for networking or schmoozing around, they tend to provide little in terms of opportunities for serious intellectual exchange or in-depth discussion. Instead, I am inclined to go to smaller and more focused academic conferences or symposia, with an increasing tendency to be selective about it. In the past, I have also organized several such events—in the USA, Germany, and China—but there is much more that can be done in that regard, if there is will and energy (that admittedly can be short supply, now and again).

In addition to international travel occasioned by research grants and conference presentations, since the mid-2000s I have been doing lots of personal travel, much of it with my wife. Most common destination for this sort of escapades is Europe, which combines the convenience of good infrastructure with the abundance of interesting historical sites. I am especially interested in visiting cathedrals, churches, and monasteries. Exploration of Europe’s numerous religious monuments and rich past has become a side interest—a hobby of sorts that intersects with my professional interests and pursuits—although I have not been very successful in directly integrating it into my main research agenda or my teaching. There is a general trend towards a fusion of personal and professional pursuits, even if aging and addiction to comfort have blunted my drive to go to very exotic places, especially if getting there involves hassle or discomfort. The young man who would rough it out in the desert on the top of a bus has turned out into a middle-aged character who is traumatized by the idea of flying economy class.

When it comes to European travel, while appreciative of a wide range of things and experiences, I am principally interested in art and architecture from the medieval and renaissance eras, although I also have ample exposure to baroque edifices and artifacts. I especially enjoy being in towns with great cathedrals or well-preserved historical cores, such as Toledo, Salamanca, Reims, Siena, Orvieto, Coimbra, Bruges, Prague, and Talin. Important cities with multiple historical and cultural layers, such as Rome and Istanbul, are also enticing destination that afford manifold opportunities for learning, cultural enrichment, and commonplace enjoyment. While the excitement of earlier adventures is not quite there anymore, this kind of travel, along with work-related trips to East Asia, provides varied chances for learning new things about the past and the present, along with gaining unique experiences. As an added bonus, it helps prevent me from turning into an armchair intellectual.

In the course of pursuing an academic career, there is a danger of forgetting why one got started on a particular path, or what goals and ideals are worth pursuing. Even when an individual starts with “pure” intentions and is primarily motivated by love for knowledge, some level of cynicism or disenchantment can creep in later on, at least in my experience. That can especially turn out to be an issue when the whole thing, which might have started as an idealistic vocational choice, becomes increasingly career oriented. Self-serving careerism, namely a propensity to single-mindedly seek career advancement—along with the money, power, and prestige that come with it—at almost any cost, including loss of integrity, can be said to be the bane of genuine intellectual life, although its ill effects go beyond cerebral pursuits.

At their best, universities are important institutions where great learning and cutting-edge research take place. Notwithstanding the lofty-sounding principles and aspirations put forward by universities, academia also offers manifold inducements and opportunities to move towards its darker or less idealistic side. Accordingly, we find faculty, students, and administrators trying to use or game the system for their own (ill-conceived) self-benefits, without much attention to the big picture or the ethical ramification of individual choices and actions. Often that manifests in shoddy scholarship, blatant laziness, inflated grades, inept management, hypocrisy, or imprudent use of public resources. In the same vein, notwithstanding the presence of brilliant intellectuals and dedicated researchers, the academic enterprise tends to be primarily driven by utilitarian concerns related to career advancement and other self-centered agendas, rather than by selfless pursuit of knowledge. For instance, in the humanities, the majority of books are written primarily in order to secure tenure and promotion, or enhance one’s own scholarly reputation. While this sort of thing was not what motivated me when I entered academia, gradually I became socialized into the system and got used to the culture that permeates academic institutions.

Whereas in the popular imagination universities are usually associated with progressive social and political agendas, they tend to be conservative institutions. Not unlike corporations or religious institutions, they are set up and run in ways that facilitate the pursuit of specific goals and benefits, primarily for the institution and the people who run it. In that sense, they tend to function in ways meant to shore up the normative economic system and safeguard the sociopolitical status quo. Tenured faculty, despite their remarkable job security, have a tendency to be timid and unimaginative, and the majority are willing participants in the perpetuation of a system in which true education is often not at the top of the priorities list.

Notwithstanding the many positives, some of the egotism and pettiness often associated with academic milieus—propensities that seem to be inbuilt into the general human condition—were already observable in graduate school, even though at the time I was clueless about the inner workings of academia. While my experience at UCLA was mostly positive and I witnessed a general concern for learning, questionable attitudes and behaviors were lurking below the genteel surface. At times, it did not take searching outside to notice such things: all it took was looking in the mirror. Overall, however, I was filled with enthusiasm and I tried to fit in, albeit with mixed success. Despite its shortcomings, academia seemed to offer a congenial home, especially when compared with the Buddhist scene I have left behind.

As I moved along a path of career development, where positions, publications, grants, and promotions serve as prime markers of success, the cracks in the ivory tower became more difficult to ignore. That type of new awareness was tied to gradual changes in my general outlook and personality. While the easy-going attitude associated with Daoist sages of yore never came naturally to me, I was still attracted to such disposition and outlook to life, which could potentially mesh with remnants of the monastic persona I left behind. As I was getting older, however, I started to (partially) turn into a Confucian-like character, with a marked sense of moralism and a penchant for critique (notwithstanding my general lack of personal enthusiasm for Confucian creeds).

Concurrently, my view of human nature started to change. Gradually, I moved away from a sunny overconfidence about humanity’s capacity for wisdom and goodness. Such overoptimistic perspective is exemplified, for instance, by Mengzi’s 孟子 (Mencius, 372-289 BCE?) ideas about the natural presence of intrinsic goodness and virtue in each person. Instead, empirical evidence seems to suggest that Xunzi’s 荀子 (c. 310–235 BCE) argument—which postulates that, if left on their own devices, individuals are prone to harbor antisocial tendencies and behave badly—is closer to lived reality.[29] If we were to put that into Buddhist terms, the Buddha-nature theory increasingly seemed to be based on problematic or untenable assumptions about humanity and its place within the larger scheme of things.

During my years as a junior faculty things were generally going well, and my job was not difficult. Still, disappointments and frustrations with academic life would crop up, occasioned by a variety of external and internal predicaments. Outside of my university, there was an unfortunate experience (that was not unique to me) of mistreatment at the hands of senior colleagues, who have set themselves as gatekeepers and arbiters of proper scholarship (even though some of them have hardly published anything). Basically, there was the unpleasantness of having to deal with a guild of sorts, whose primarily function seems to be to advance the professional interests (and egoistical fixations) of its members. In such situation, what is the acceptable price of entry? Moreover, is trying to join the right choice?

To make matters worse, my department turned out to be very dysfunctional. Despite a number of internal and external critiques, as well as a college plan to eliminate the department, things got worse over the years. In addition to a lack of collegiality, there was a series of scandals, including police arrests (and subsequent suspensions/firings) of some of the faculty, as well as other kinds of outrageous behavior that went unacknowledged and unaddressed. Of course, these are peculiar circumstances. As such, they are not necessarily representative of what is going on at other places. Additionally, there were positive interactions with other colleagues, as well as good experiences with students, so the glass was always at least half full. Even so, this is not what I signed for, I thought. Consequently, ideas about leaving academia started to creep in; at one point, I came close to resigning my tenured position.

Once again, there was the feeling of being an outsider and not belonging, alone among others. That was accompanied with an occasional feeling of disappointment with myself, born of awareness that I should do much better, as a person and a scholar. In the end, continuing to muddle through the academic terrain—with its upsides and downsides, coziness and unease—is not that much of a choice, given the paucity of viable alternatives. Furthermore, despite the various problems and disappointments, life in or around the ivory tower tends to be nice and comfortable, especially when compared to most other options, and there are still possibilities to do good.

Looking at the bright side, there are many positives and reasons to be grateful. That includes opportunities to do all sorts of thought-provoking research, even if staying interested and motivated can be challenging at times. Having a peaceful life and a nice home also tends to be quite agreeable; when that starts to get boring, there are many opportunities to travel to interesting places. Most importantly, despite all possible misgiving, universities remain important institutions and have potential to bring real benefits to society. There are also the numerous opportunities for cultural enrichment and nurturing of intellectual curiosity.

In retrospect, facing professional challenges or personal disappointments can turn into something positive, if one responds constructively or is willing to learn from such experiences (which, alas, is not always the case). Among other things, failures and tribulations can spur reflection about what one is doing, and what is truly important. In my case, they made me reconsider the structures and values of the mainstream economy of knowledge and the institutions that underpin it, as well as take a step back from the academic rat race. That did not bring me back into the Buddhist fold, even if Buddhist ideas continue to shape my personal and professional life. Rather, it provided me with a more nuanced vantage point for analyzing Buddhist doctrines and practices, and the world around me. It also helped me develop a more holistic and sympathetic perspective on the beliefs, actions, and aspirations of all kinds of Buddhists, as well as on the multilayered roles and influences of religion in human life more generally.

There is still an ongoing challenge of maintaining a suitable distance and a sense of detachment— from Buddhism and academia—without becoming overly cynical, partial, or irresponsible. Milking the educational system for an easy or indolent life can be a surprising easy to do, but that seems self-defeating, in addition to being unethical. Conversely, there is the prospect of being engaged and disengaged at the same time, with critical understanding of what is going on, but also with a commitment to public service, common good, and self-cultivation. That may sound a bit hackneyed, and it is easier said than done. Still, it seems worth trying.

Life in the ivory tower can be seductively conformable and easy, especially if one knows how to navigate the institutional and interpersonal terrains, possibly with an eye on personal gain. At times, it may require looking the other way or be willing to go along with some of the less savory aspects of academic institutions and the people who populate them. Even so, it provides copious opportunities for stimulating intellectual pursuits, engaging experiences, and potentially meaningful interactions. That is what life in samsara is supposed to be, Buddhists might say. It is a place of manifold permutations and intersections, where we find comingling of wisdom and stupidity, beauty and ugliness, frequently without clear-cut boundaries among them. We encounter all these with the burden of our shortcomings and limitations, but also with a capacity to chart the professional and personal paths we choose to follow.

Recently I gave a long lecture, flowed by an even longer discussion and capped with a nice dinner, for an audience constituted solely of monks and nuns, at a well-known Buddhist college in southern China. The experience was interesting and engaging, and there was a unique quality to it, perhaps with a sense of going full circle through life. On a personal level, it was nice to meet and interact with the monastics. The apparent ease with which we could relate to each other left a positive impression, even if I probably come across as a somewhat unusual sight for them. I also appreciated the opportunity to give back to the Buddhist community, even if only in a small and insignificant way.

In part, the capacity to communicate with the Chinese nuns and monks was enhanced by an ability to see things from their point of view, as well as understand their predicament. At the same time, I was able to adopt a role of an informed and critical outsider, who could offer new viewpoints and challenge some of their suppositions about Buddhism. The same principle could potentially be applied to academic settings, although I am not sure the results or the level of receptiveness will be the same. Being able to combine monastic and academic backgrounds, without being stuck or constrained by each, seems to afford peculiar perspectives on both Buddhism and scholarship. That involves an awareness of points of possible intersections, and well as of areas where the two cannot quite meet together.

As I look forward to the next ten or fifteen years (leading to my anticipated retirement), I can think of a number of new books and projects, plus a fair amount of travel. Some of the books I plan on writing include volumes on the historical and contemporary transformations of classical Buddhist models of contemplative practice, a history of Chinese Buddhism, and a religious history of modern China. By and large, I foresee a solitary path, notwithstanding the presence and company of other people: without a fixed abode or reified identity, I hope, within and beyond different words. Perhaps that is how it is supposed to be. I am not quite sure, but not knowing may be fine.

[1] Because of the personal nature of some of the information presented, I have omitted the names of a number of individuals, as well as precise information about the timing of specific interactions or events.

[2] My favorite work by Dostoevsky is The Brothers Karamazov (1880, available in many editions and translations), although I read the famous novel only after living Yugoslavia.

[3] For the second edition, see Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, Indian Philosophy: Volume I (Oxford 2009) and Indian Philosophy: Volume II (Oxford 2009). I read a Serbian translation of the first edition, originally published by Oxford in 1923.

[4] His publications include Buddhist Dictionary: A Manual of Buddhist Terms and Doctrines (Chiang Mai, Thailand: Silkworm Books, 2007; originally pub. 1952) and The Buddha's Path to Deliverance: A Systematic Exposition in the Words of the Sutta Pitaka (Kandy: Buddhist Publication Society, 1952).

[5] In addition to a Chinese-English dictionary, for the Buddhist vocabulary I used William Edward Soothill and Lewis Hodous, A Dictionary of Chinese Buddhist Terms: With Sanskrit and English Equivalents and a Sanskrit-Pali Index (London: K. Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co., 1937; many reprint editions).

[6] T 251, vol. 8.

[7] X vol. 119; further information about this text, as well as my translation of it, is given below.

[8] T 2012a, vol. 48.

[9] T 1985, vol. 47.

[10] Herbert Giles, Chuang Tzŭ: Mystic, Moralist and Social Reformer (London: Bernard Quaritch, 1889; 2nd edition, revised, Shanghai: Kelly and Walsh, 1926; reprinted, London: George Allen and Unwin, 1961).

[11] For the teachings of Ajahn Chah, see Jack Kornfield and Paul Breiter, eds., A Still Forest Pool: The Insight Meditation of Achaan Chah (Wheaton, Ill: Quest Books, 2014).

[12] Examples of his teachings, which roughly cover the time I was there, can be found in Ajahn Sumedho, The Mind and the Way: Buddhist Reflections on Life (Wisdom Publications, 1994).

[13] Dafang guangfo huayan jing 大方廣佛華嚴經, (1) trans. by Buddhabhadra (359–429), T 278, vol. 9; (2) trans. by Śikśānanda (652–710), T 279, vol. 10.

[14] Philip Kapleau, The Three pillars of Zen: Teaching, Practice, and Enlightenment (New York, Evanston: Harper & Row, 1966).

[15] For an overview of Fagu shan, see Richard Madsen, Democracy's Dharma: Religious Renaissance and Political Development in Taiwan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007), 85-103.

[16] For this monastery, especially as it was in the 1970s, see Robert E. Buswell, The Zen Monastic Experience (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992).

[17] Jiangxi mazu daoyi chanshi yulu 江西馬祖道一禪師語錄, X vol. 119.

[18] Mario Poceski, Sun-Face Buddha: The Teachings of Ma-tsu and the Hung-chou School of Ch’an (Berkeley: Asian Humanities Press, 1993, 2001; published under the name Cheng Chien Bhikshu). The book was also published in a Polish translation, as Budda o słonecznym obliczu: Nauczanie Mistrza Zen Ma-tsu oraz szkoły Ch'an Hung-chou (Warszawa: Miska Ryżu, 2004; Robert Bączyk, trans.).

[19] “Manifestation of the Tathāgata” (Rulai chuxian pin 如來出現品), chapter 37 in Śikśānanda’s eighty-fascicles translation of the scripture.

[20] Mario Poceski, Manifestation of the Tathāgata: Buddhahood According to the Avatamsaka Sūtra (Boston: Wisdom Publications, 1993; published under the name Cheng Chien Bhikshu). The book was also published in a German translation, as Alles ist reiner Geist (Bern and München: Alfred Scherz Verlag, 1997; Giovanni Bandini, trans.).

[21] The early academic books I read included Robert E. Buswell, trans., The Korean Approach to Zen: The Collected Works of Chinul (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1983), and John R. McRae, The Northern School and the Formation of Early Ch’an Buddhism (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1986).

[22] Ishii Shūdō’s numerous publications include Sōdai zenshūshi no kenkyū: Chūgoku sōtōshū to dōgen zen 宋代禅宗史の研究：中国曹洞宗と道元禅 (Tokyo: Daitō shuppansha, 1987) and Chūgoku zenshū shiwa中国禅宗史話 (Kyoto: Zen bunka kenkyūjo, 1988).

[23] Mario Poceski, Ordinary Mind as the Way: The Hongzhou School and the Growth of Chan Buddhism (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2007).

[24] Mario Poceski, The Records of Mazu and the Making of Classical Chan Literature (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2015).

[25] Most of my publications, either in excepts or full versions, can be found online. See https://florida.academia.edu/MarioPoceski (accessed 3/30/2017).

[26] Mario Poceski, Introducing Chinese Religions (New York and London: Routledge, 2009). The book is also available in an e-book format, as Chinese Religions: The eBook (published by JBE Online Books), as well as in a Portuguese translation: Introdução às religiões chinesas (published byFundaçãoEditora da UNESP, Brazil, 2013).

[27] In the US, examples of universities where the books have been used include Columbia, UCLA, Stanford, Arizona, Florida, Johns Hopkins, Penn State, Rutgers, Vermont, Pittsburg, Pomona, and Washington (St Louis). Abroad, the list includes Winnipeg, Western Ontario, Heidelberg, Charles (Prague), Münster, Potsdam, Sichuan, Seoul National, and Mid Sweden.

[28] Another effort in a similar direction, with a bit less success or public recognition, is a large survey book on East Asian Buddhism, part of the prestigious The Wiley Blackwell Companions to Religion series: Mario Poceski, ed., The Wiley Blackwell Companion to East and Inner Asian Buddhism (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014). The book is pitched at a bit higher level, being primarily geared towards graduate students and academic professionals.

[29] For the two contrasting arguments about human nature, articulated by leading Confucian thinkers, see Poceski, Introducing Chinese Religions, 50-54.

Edited Books