Just, you know, shrug it off

I'd like to share with some of you a funny story from my recent trip to Hong Kong. It's related to more than one of my changes here (the other being promoting harmony within my family) , and while my experience of it is fairly heavy on personal backstory, I think some of you here might enjoy it just for what it is.

While in Hong Kong, while I went to a lot of places and met some people, there were not many parts of the trip that I got to feel were truly 'mine,' since it is and always will be, firstly, my parents' home. I will never connect with the city the way they have, having grown up there and watched it become what it is now (just as they will never see Vancouver as I do). One day, just before I started getting ready to leave, I decided to make one last effort and took to public transit to go to the Hong Kong City Hall Public Library.

While the library itself was certainly very enjoyable (I lost myself particularly in their "Creativity and Innovation Resource Centre"), I made my way down the stairs of the Library, and passed by the Recital Hall. A piece of paper, printed in both Chinese and English as is the norm there, declared that a "Buddhism Lecture" was happening inside. Intrigued, I followed a woman who was going in to see what was going on.

A monk was sitting at the front of the room, in front of a table with flowers and envelopes, speaking. He wore glasses and his even, quiet voice filled the room, amplified by a simple microphone-speaker setup. He held the audience in the medium-sized room spellbound, hanging by his every word. I made my way to a seat, as volunteers asked me to turn off my cellphone. Monks and nuns in the front row took notes, as devoted followers nodded at his carefully measured statements, laughing softly at the occasional rhetorical question.

Listening to him was nothing short of amazing. I felt childlike in my attempts to understand what he was saying, my mind darting for possible interpretations, because my Cantonese is very limited. I could tell, at times, that he was quoting from Buddhist writings - my meagre Chinese reading was even able to follow a verse in the book held in my neighbour's lap, and the stories leapt out at me. I was moved to tears at times - not necessarily because I fully understood what he was saying, but because he represented something I had started to doubt existed: supportive, respectful, mindful speech in Cantonese. (After all, I only speak it with my parents, and even they say that speaking loudly is just "what people do here".)

 My relationship with the words is so strange: I know the words because I've heard them before, but they aren't seared into my neurons like English words, especially when it comes to complex ideas like attachment or suffering. But sometimes the words are compound words made up of concepts I do understand, and the clicking of the lightbulb practically rang in my giddy ears when it all fell together.

By far the most charming moment came about an hour into the lecture, when someone's cellphone chirped. The speaker continued, paying no attention to it. Within a minute or two, it chirped again; this time he asked, without missing a beat, he asked that they turn it off. There was some head turning as we started trying to figure out who it was and hoping they had reined in their technology. But not five minutes later, it chirped yet again! Who was it and why were they persisting in interrupting the speaker? Surely, in the highly mobile-conscious Hong Kong, someone wouldn't be that disrespectful to this distinguished speaker?

The oldest nun in the room, head bent heavily over with age, passed her phone to her fellow nuns to see if they could turn it off, and, when they couldn't, got up to leave the room to stop disturbing everyone. In jest, the speaking monk told her to take the battery out as she made her way to the door. His voice reflected nothing untoward: no frustration, or anger; no admonishment, whatsoever.

Could we all be that chill and remain reverent? Could I? Of course. What keeps us from being able to do so? What feeds our road rage, our frustration towards drivers (if we're cyclists), our anger and wounded indignance? Could we put it aside, to stay focused on what's actually important about living and being with each other?

Of course we can.