Why do I do it?
I sit on the floor in my living room and chant Nam-myoho-renge-kyo in the direction of a paper scroll printed with writing that I can't read. To the outside observer, this seems silly. It seems silly to me sometimes. I intone the nonsense syllables and I sound like a buzzing hive of bees.
In Nichiren Buddhism, words are holy. The Gohonzon (paper scroll) is made up of words that express enlightenment. The mantra is made up of words that comprise reality. The Lotus Sutra is the word of the Buddha. These words are not words of explanation. These holy words do not convey a discursive train of thought or argument or instruction. Their holiness is their sound and vibration, the feeling and intention with which they are spoken, written, cherished.
The holy words are more ephemeral than a wisp of smoke...maybe that's what makes them holy. You cannot hitch your wagon to them. You cannot use them to coerce others. You can't hoard them. You can't hold them. They are not things that can be owned. They are not things.
Years ago, I walked into a friend's house and heard the sound of chanting for the first time. It was like an army of cicadas humming in warm summer dusk. I was enveloped in the atmosphere and all my senses came alive. The sound woke me up to something. I cannot put into words other than myoho-renge-kyo.
The holy words don't make rational sense to the limited human brain. Chanting is like opening the door of the rational, discursive mind, stepping outside and taking a deep breath of fresh, fragrant airexcept it's not like that at all. It's not expressed in any analogy or explanation. It's myoho-renge-kyo. It is what it is, not what it's like.
It's not like running, or jogging, either. People ask me why I chant, but no one asks me why I jog. The answers are almost identical.
I jog because I enjoy it. There are mental and physical health benefits that come with jogging, but that's not why I do it. I do it because I've decided to do it, because I feel like doing it. There is not a special God who rewards me for jogging; the rewards of jogging are inherent in the act of jogging. Sometimes I have to force myself. Sometimes it's a chore. Sometimes I hit my stride and find strength and endurance that I did not know I had. Sometimes I feel a rush, a burst of bliss.
When I neglect my jogging, it's hard for me to get back on track and back into shape. When I get myself into my shoes and out on the road, I swear that I will never again neglect jogging. It's a celebration. I feel lucky to jog because there are many people who can't. When I jog, I feel connected to life.
Chanting is just like jogging, but not at all like jogging.
The beauty of chanting is that it defies rational analysis yet begs to be pondered night and day.
The beauty of chanting is that I can't explain it.
The beauty of chanting is the beauty of chanting.