Saturday, March 28, 2015

indigo thread

I have watched Tsewang grow from a quiet boy who liked to draw, into a confident, skilled artist. He is a member of the original group I started teaching five years ago, a person Pedro and I are lucky to have in our lives, so we were honoured when Tsewang invited us to his auntie's house for tea.

She was an impressive woman with eyes that carried strength, and beautifully wrinkled hands that deftly flicked prayer beads in a never-ending cycle, mantras escaping with each movement of her lips. She welcomed us into the living room, motioning to vividly patterned cushions for us to sit upon. While we were treated to endless cups of delicious butter tea and homemade khapse, a rhythmic clacking made its way from the courtyard into the pale blue room.

One of her sisters was weaving cloth on a handmade loom that was bought all the way from their village in the mountains.

As she smoothly slid the shuttle of indigo thread back and forth, I wondered about all the series of events that had to take place in order to bring each of us here to this courtyard, and how this moment would pass so quickly and insignificantly in the grand scheme of things, yet become a treasure of mine to revisit in memory.

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