from Day 6
After eating, I quickly walk out of the lunchroom; all the collective silence is too much for me. As with the day before, I head down to the stupa, a golden all-seeing tower atop a sphere, decorated with turquoise lions and eyes, nothingness and enlightenment, so foreign upon my arrival but now comfort, peace.
I step slowly, trying to silence the flip of my flops, and let the scene empty my busy mind: the wind is gentle in the afternoon, touching my hair to my face, teaching the prayer flags to dance, red, blue and yellow swaying and snapping gleefully, carrying their messages up out of the valley, itself stretching below, opening green and wide, leveled in terraces and towns, vibrant greens fading into browns.
An old, plump man walks barefoot below round the stupa. He appears Tibetan. I walk around as well, and in our synchronicity we are ghosts. If I quiet my own, I can hear his breathing, something slight, something heavy.
I perch upon a ledge, to take in the valley, to write these words. He sits perpendicular to me. He is not Asian, but European, probably Eastern, perhaps Russian. He seems as if he is not really here, an apparition, taken into his mind or memories or somewhere else. What has brought him to this moment?
I have a deep worry that one day I will feel my life was wasted, a fear of not fulfilling my capabilities, my destiny; that I am living only for myself and not for others. I read of the poet’s greed, being trapped by language, by relationships, the hoarding of experience.
Flag-shadow drifts across my page.
I climb up the stairs. Two young monks, maybe ten years old, giggle and play with one another, smiles enormous on their small faces. I pass under flowers, tanka paintings. The red-robed European emerges from the temple, past me, and briefly connects his green-gray eyes to mine. We are on the same walk.
Recent Comments