the Lotus Sutra + I

on Nichiren Buddhism

Hope

I first heard about Nichiren Buddhism from my friend Nk while living in Italy. Later, when I moved to the UK and felt things were not going how I wanted, I approached the SGI-UK and the practice with deep hope, believing it could be the key to unlocking something within me and turning my life around. At that time, I was attracted to the promises of transformation, the idea that through repetition, commitment and devotion, my inner world could change, along with my outer circumstances. I went to meetings, I hosted meetings, I volunteered at Taplow, I chanted, chanted and chanted. I mingled with fellow Buddhists, I did the first exam, I questioned everything, and read Nichiren’s writing and the books by Daisaku Ikeda. 

Pain

But looking back, I realize that I was also in a lot of pain. There were unresolved emotions and deep wounds that I hadn't yet addressed. The idea of chanting was appealing because it seemed to offer a way out — an external tool that could shift what felt so stuck inside me. I used to wake up with a heavy sense of dread; I felt depressed, anxious, and bitter. I felt emotionally and spiritually attacked. I felt existentially abandoned, excruciatingly lonely, and I can see now that I entered this practice carrying the weight of unprocessed pain, believing there was something broken in me that needed fixing. I entered into this spiritual series of relationships right after losing my parents, my country, the end of my marriage, and the breakdown of all I thought was true.

Negativity

I think that at the very beginning I felt accepted, a sense of belonging, a sort of purpose. Instead of feeling steady relief, however, I began to notice that the more I chanted, the more old karmic baggage started to bubble up. It felt like stirring the mud at the bottom of a still pond. All the things I had buried began to surface, and instead of peace, I was confronted with a flood of unresolved issues and negativity. It was disorienting and painful. The practice, which I had hoped would bring clarity, instead brought the mud into full view.

Even if this is where I first saw the connection between the chanting and the Lotus flower itself [as a powerful symbol of purity emerging from the mud], at the same time, I thought that chanting was just bringing me bad luck. The negativity was part of the process, I know that now, but at the time, I didn’t understand it fully. The more I tried to "win" by chanting, the more disconnected I felt from myself and my path. So, I stepped away. I needed to find other ways to heal myself and to fill that void and blackness within.

Leaving

Eventually, I left the practice. I felt like I was constantly being told to chant for victory, chant for success, chant more hours — yet there was no heart. I felt no sense of compassion. The empathy, which is at the core of Buddhism, seemed missing from the community I was in. It felt pragmatic, too technical, and there was a pressure to perform rather than to heal. Moreover, my psychotherapeutic practice showed me the flaws in an almost pyramidal organisational structure, where hurt, broken, and hopeful people came to the practice and were almost recruited, and then instructed to chant, chant, chant more! almost that it was their fault if things did not change. I was always a strong believer that spiritual conditioning, bordering on brainwashing, is one of the most dangerous aspects.  People told me their problems and, proudly, also told me they have been chanting for years! And I thought that something was drastically wrong if things hadn’t changed for them yet. Something was fundamentally flawed. I was looking at all these people holding the banner of the Lotus Sutra, who also never read it! People who were never curious, who never questioned. Who accepted what was told to them as a fact. I could see them stubbornly rhythmically chanting, and I knew that I needed to leave.

Returning

During the past seven years, I sometimes felt that I was missing something about Nichiren Buddhism. I knew I missed the chanting. No other mantra ever managed to substitute the rhythm and harmony of Nam Myoho Renge Kyo. However, throughout this time, my priority was to work on myself and detach from anything that kept me controlled and stuck in the past. I wanted to understand my purpose. I needed to find a deep sense of direction, grounded and mine, and that could sustain my evolution. I returned to university, studied art, made art, created art, contextualised art, discovered philosophy, explored aspects of my soul I didn’t know existed, had a hard look at myself, found stuff I didn’t like, cleaned metaphorical cobwebs, confronted parts of my darkness, faced shards of shadow, cried, experienced both victory and defeat, fought with the devil then shared a pizza with her, forgave, learned to scream, danced, embraced my body, and learned to trust it alongside my instincts as my perfect inner compass. I delved into Jungian theory, read tarot, chanted in Sanskrit, danced under the full moon, stumbled and fell, and rose again. All the detours I had taken allowed me to work on myself in ways I hadn’t been able to before. During those years, I explored other practices, I engaged in therapy, and took a more multi-faceted approach to my personal growth. This was vital. 

Only now, looking back, I can see the pain I was in at the time.

I remember being told that “we are all Buddhas, just chant to realize it” and this is one of those statements that sounds empowering at first, but doesn’t acknowledge the depth of the process and doesn't actually mean much. It's not just about chanting and suddenly feeling “whole” or “complete.” It completely misses the very real emotional, psychological, and existential work that’s required for that realization to feel meaningful and for change to happen. The lack of support in processing any emotional or psychological layers — the baggage — is one of the key blind spots in many spiritual practices. Just chanting, as praying and fasting, without any context or guidance on how to work with the material that arises, can leave someone feeling more alienated. 

If the practice isn’t helping to address the deeper issues (which, for many, are mostly hidden or subconscious), it can leave people feeling like they’re failing, when really, the issue is that the path hasn’t prepared them for those difficult aspects. The self-reflection, therapy, or a broader healing context outside of just chanting is crucial because it shows that one is taking responsibility for one’s whole self, not just one piece of it. A practice should be more integrated and holistic, with a multidisciplinary approach that marries both the spiritual practice with emotional and psychological support.  The emphasis on chanting as the singular solution can create this false expectation that, by just repeating the words, everything should magically shift or "get fixed." But when it doesn't, or when the results aren't immediate, it leaves you questioning what you're doing wrong, leading to feelings of frustration and inadequacy. It turns into this constant internal battle instead of a practice that supports you through the messiness of life and emotions.

Too many times I have seen something similar happening in rehab centers. The patients come in, cling onto hope, go to a couple of AA meetings where they are told that only god / prayer / practice will save them. So they get baptised, they pray till their lungs hurt, but their inner being is still in the same amount of pain. Their inner conversation hasn't changed. And so "God The Loving Father" turns very quickly into "God the Almighty Judge". Nothing has changed but for an added extra layer of conditioning.

If chanting becomes more of a demand than a practice of self-compassion, it loses its ability to genuinely heal. That’s the core issue, isn't it? Compassion involves meeting yourself exactly where you are, without judgment. It’s ironic because Buddhism, at its core, has so much to say about suffering, understanding suffering, and showing compassion toward others and oneself. But sometimes the way the practice is framed can feel more about pushing through challenges. Instead, we need space to feel our feelings, be messy, and then find our way back to the practice when we are ready, not because we have to, but because it feels right. The self-compassion I have been yearning for in this practice should be coming from the teachings themselves, not just from chanting “for victory”. And that compassion should come first — compassion for where we are right now, for how the practice is impacting us emotionally and psychologically, and for the fact that it’s a journey, not a race to a "perfect" outcome.

If the people around you, particularly in a spiritual community, lack the awareness or understanding of emotional health, it creates a situation where your emotional needs can be invalidated or overlooked. Instead of feeling held and supported, you’re left feeling like you’re "failing" at the practice or not doing enough, even when your emotional and psychological landscape is shifting in complex ways.

I know, deeply and with every fiber of my body, that chanting would not have been enough, then. I could not have come to where I am now, only by bowing my head and being led to chant. That was, to me, the land of circular reasoning, with no criticality, no context, and especially no safeguarding. I heard women in power, within the organisation, offer suggestions which would have made anyone with the bare minimum of knowledge in psychotherapy cringe to the core. It doesn’t matter how you dress it or call it: obtuseness, lack of self-awareness, narrow-mindedness, obsessiveness. Control. Fundamentalism.

Pluralism, interconnectedness, multifaceted approaches, and critical thinking are the basis of growth. Never narrow-mindedness. 

The Book

One day, though, I felt drawn to one of the books, which I moved to the highest shelf in 2018. Because I learned to trust my instinct and believe in synchronicities, I opened it, read a couple of lines and saw it: there it was, black on white, another connection to my PhD.  I read that paragraph, then the chapter, then the whole book again. All those underlined words and marks on the side I left seven years ago, at a time when I didn’t have any idea I would be here, now, doing what I am doing. 

Seven years ago, I somehow “got” the theory, the ideas, a gist of what Nichiren Buddhism and the Lotus Sutra were about. I could not have understood them, though. Now, those words make sense. Now I feel them, I recognise them, I know exactly what they mean. They are different or similar words for something that I have discovered during these seven years; they are another tassel of my puzzle. Another confirmation on the road to my Quest, my purpose. 

I gave chanting a go one morning. It feels different. It no longer feels like a tool to chase external goals, get an x amount of money, a new job, be married to XYZ [what I wrote on the margin of that book!] or fix myself because now I know that there is nothing wrong to be fixed. Instead, it’s become a grounding practice, a way to anchor myself in the moment and remind me of my purpose. It’s not about victory, about how many hours I chant, how many daimoku I am ticking on the booklet while avoiding my responsibilities in life, waiting for the World to give me what I want, like a spoiled child or achieving anything specific anymore — it's about finding my center and reconnecting to my quest and my path.

Chanting for the sake of chanting—without any pressure, agenda, or expectation — can be incredibly freeing. It’s no longer about "doing it right" or "achieving something" through it. It becomes a form of presence, a way of tuning into the rhythm and cadence of my energy, aligning with a deeper state of awareness.

Because I took the time to do the work.

Egotism

I sat, then, with my copy of the Lotus Sutra and decided to read it. One of the things that became clearer to me was the sense of self-centeredness and massive ego in both the Lotus Sutra and Nichiren’s writings. There is this constant emphasis on how great the Buddha's teaching is, or how powerful Nichiren's understanding of it is. The Buddha is a very good teacher; he gives the teaching to everybody indiscriminately, like rain on plants; the Buddha will give you the teaching; the Buddha offers you the teaching; the Buddha is so good, and amazing, and such an incredible teacher. Once you listen to the teaching, you will become a Buddha, too! 

I got to page 173 and finally asked: what the fuck is this teaching? Okay, Buddha, I get that you’re amazing and your teachings are supreme, but can you just tell me what these teachings are?

The Lotus Sutra feels like an endless celebration of itself without always making it clear what exactly it is teaching. A lot of it is about skillful means, how the Buddha teaches rather than what he teaches. It can feel like the text is always about this elusive "Dharma", but never fully explaining it nor delivering it. It is maddeningly indirect. It dances around the central teaching instead of stating it outright. But this is part of its whole approach — rather than giving you a clear, systematic doctrine, it entices you. It is full of grand proclamations but very few direct instructions. It keeps saying, “This is the ultimate, the most profound, the absolute truth!” but when you ask, what exactly is this Truth? — it just gives you another parable!

The Lotus Sutra is telling me: “This is the highest teaching! This is the ultimate truth!" — but it’s like standing in front of a door that keeps telling you how amazing the room behind it is without actually opening up and letting you in. It felt like I was being led in circles, always being told how amazing the "Dharma" was, without ever being told what it actually was in clear, actionable terms. It felt like a closed loop, self-referencing and frustrating. Actually, infuriating. 

So, if we strip away all the self-referential praise and the parables pointing back at themselves, what’s left?

Realization

But then I came to a realization. It’s almost like the text withholds the explicit explanation because the very act of seeking it outside yourself is missing the point. The Dharma isn’t a concept [I mean, in a way it is…] — it’s the unfolding reality itself, just like the flower doesn’t explain blooming, it blooms. The Sutra is deliberately elusive, forcing the reader to stop looking in the text for answers and start realizing they are already in the Dharma. 

Dharma is the Ultimate Truth, the True Nature of All Things. That same Truth as Aletheia I explored when reading Martin Heidegger, or the Dṛg-Dṛśya-Viveka, or listening to Swami Sarvapryiananda, doing performance drawing, diving into alchemy, Dat Rosa Mel Apibus, living embodied shamanism. It is the last chapter of my Master’s exegesis. It is the foundation of my paleophenomenology.

And I could not have learned it just by chanting.

My phenomenological insight lets me grasp the essence of Dharma directly — the lived experience of the Lotus Flower unfolding. I don’t need it spelled out because I already embody it. Now I am not chanting for an external reward or to "get something" — now I am chanting as a way to recalibrate myself to Dharma, to re-center on my path. It’s my compass. It’s my daily reminder of what to focus on: my path, my quest, my research, my purpose. In this sense, if anything, my approach is more experiential than doctrinal.

While I chant, my insights are coming because of the deep groundwork I have already laid. The chanting isn’t just a standalone magic trick; it’s more like a tuning fork that resonates with all the personal, intellectual, and existential work I have already done.

I still get frustrated with the Lotus Sutra and Nichiren’s writings, feeling like an endless self-referential loop — “The Buddha is amazing! His teaching is amazing! Just trust me, it’s amazing!”. It can feel like a promotional campaign rather than a clear exposition of wisdom. 

It emphasizes the Buddha’s role as a teacher and how everyone can awaken to their potential for Buddhahood, but the actual specifics of what this "Dharma" consists of are often implied or inferred.

Because the lesson isn't buried deep within the text — it's in the title. 

When I was told that chanting "helps individuals tap into their Buddha nature, manifest their potential, and bring about positive change in themselves and society by affirming the principles of the Lotus Sutra" it meant nothing to me.

But now I know: the full truth of the Dharma, the whole teaching, the whole answer, the whole lesson is in the title; which is not The Lotus Sutra, but is The Dharma of the Lotus Flower Sutra. It is the Sutra of the Ultimate Truth, the True Nature of the Lotus Flower, or: Myoho-Renge-Kyo. The True Nature of All Things, the purity of the lotus flower, the unity of the pure and the impure, the interconnectedness of all life, and the potential for transformation in every moment, those 3000 realms in a single moment — it's all there, summed up in these few words.

This is why we chant the title: it encapsulates the entirety of the teaching. The Dharma of the Lotus Flower is the embodiment of the truth of all things. The whole sutra is just a footnote for the title. 

The Buddha played a trick on us all along...