master of masks

Every day in Boudha, I would pass a cluttered yellow workshop front nearly obscured by the heaps of bangles, embroidered slippers, and cheap bags that were growing like vines from a little stand just outside. From time to time over the past three summers, my attention would be drawn to sculpted brown faces carefully arranged on the pavement. I was always intrigued by the grinning skulls and suspicious deer, but for some reason felt a little intimidated to enter the workshop and inquire about their purpose. This was the summer I got past my silly inhibition, and walked in. It was a small, musty, badly lit room— the walls were covered with bulging eyeballs, ferocious teeth, and expressions of horror and surprise. There was a wispy-haired man sitting under a wildly coloured Garuda, carefully shaping a skull with knowing fingers coated in glue.

The man scarcely looked up from his hands, though he was willing to answer my nearly inaudible questions with a smile and a gentle voice.

"Not for sale— only for monk ceremony."

I learned through our quiet exchange in broken English, that he was commissioned by the local Buddhist monasteries to craft these beautiful masks for their ceremonies and celebrations. Last year, Lama S.T. had taken me to see a Lama Dance at a nearby gompa, in which I was lucky to see these masks in action— leaping and spinning in all colours. The man revealed that the masks are made by molding a mixture of sawdust and animal glue, then dried in the sun and painted with acrylics.



How I would have loved to have taken one or three home!

quiet white

A 79 foot Buddha watches over Nha Trang from atop a hill at the Long Sơn Pagoda, which is dedicated to the monks and nuns who lost their lives protesting the Diem regime. It is a sombre place— the quiet filled me with unease.

images of lumbini

the birthplace of buddha

It was here in Lumbini, somewhere around the sixth and seventh century BCE, that Queen Maya gave birth to Siddhartha Gautama under a sal tree while grasping a bough for support. The young prince would later be known to the world as The Buddha. Ancient ruins and a stone marker of the very spot where Buddha was born are safely housed within the stoic, white walls of the Maya Devi Temple, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Passang and I followed Acharya K.S. in silent wonder as he recounted the story, explaining the holiness of this site.

I am still at a loss for words.
There's a peace that vibrates in the soil, in the air and in the light here.

the unblinking eyes of buddha

indoors, outdoors

what my eyes struggled to understand

I have been struggling for days with how to describe what I saw and felt upon entering the great shrine room of Thrangu Tashi Yangtse Monastery in Namo Buddha. As I passed from filtered sunlight into dark, my eyes first became aware of red— a burning, cadmium red that I could feel throbbing against my retinas. After the red came the gold, then the blue, then the pink in waves, each more powerful than the previous colour. My heart was thunderous— I could not control the gasp that escaped my lips. I placed my hands on my chest, for fear this mad, thumping little organ might escape its cage.

I prostrated three times at the door as I was taught. Palms together, fingers to the sky, I raised my hands to my forehead, lowering them to my chin, to my chest, then bending down to touch the cool floor with my forehead. Pure body, pure speech, pure mind.

As I looked around me, my eyes fought hard to understand what they were seeing. I felt hot tears welling up; the beauty of it all extending to some place deep inside me, shaking me, moving me. I cried when I stood before Van Gogh's Wheatfield with Crows. I cried when I caught that first glimpse of the Himalaya, peeking from behind the clouds. I cried before the Buddha.



That night, I dreamt I was in the shrine room again, prostrating over and over, and over again.
I was crying in my sleep.

tiny brushes, steady hands

I was quite taken by the extraordinary details and level of skill involved in creating a thangka, a traditional Buddhist painting used as a tool of focus during meditation. A thangka often depicts deities or a mandala, and is painted with a mixture of finely ground natural pigment, water and animal glue on stretched cotton or silk. Some of the brushes the painters were using appeared to have about four hairs in them! The lines were so fine and patterns so intricate, I was reminded of Ottoman miniature painting. I'd love to spend some time with a master and learn some techniques— I'm wild about the line work and colour application.

evaporation

I've set foot in two synagogues, countless churches and mosques in my life, but prior to Nepal, I had only visited one Buddhist monastery, Namgyal Monastery in Ithaca, New York. There was snow on the ground, and a tremendous weight in my heart. At the gentle coaxing of my sweet friend, who was studying at Namgyal, I wrapped myself up in my warmest scarf and crunched down the white streets toward a wooden house of wild colour. I felt like a mouse; I wanted to hide, but the warm eyes and smile of a red-robed monk did something to quiet the thunder in my chest.

Nearly a decade later, as Melissa and I were circling the stupa in Boudhanath, we looked at each other and agreed that the day had come to visit Tsamchen Gompa. We passed the brilliantly painted monastery every day, but we were always going to or coming from something. Time was necessary to appreciate the little building, which was delicately painted from floor to ceiling in elaborate murals.



As I gazed into the eyes of Buddha from the upper balcony, I thought about that dark winter night in Ithaca. Years had evaporated like breath in the cold, memory and the notion of a past felt like something I had dreamt the night before. Aware that soon the smells and sounds of Boudha would be a dream, I tried to grasp every possible molecule of the moment— the wind, the pigeons, the laughter, the om mani padme hum, the snapping of prayer flags. A figure approached, a monk. We exchanged smiles and quietly chatted for a few minutes before he invited me and Melissa into the shrine room.

Wisps of incense, glowing golden butter candles, my heartbeat, his voice— I wanted the moment to last forever, but it passed in a blink.

past fear, into beauty

Swayambhunath is one of the holiest sites for Tibetan Buddhists, second only to Boudhanath stupa, and is charmingly referred to as "Monkey Temple" for its resident population of rhesus macaques. I have a uh, slight irrational fear of monkeys and apes, and so I must admit I was a little nervous upon entering the ancient religious complex, keeping my eyes peeled for any shifty-looking monkeys. At first I didn't see any, but I knew they were there, hiding in the trees or behind Buddhas... watching.



I suddenly realised I was so busy looking out for monkeys, that I was beginning to miss the beauty around me, so I decided this was going to be the last time I'd be afraid of them. Fear is often so unnecessary, it pulls you out of the present into this bizarre place of your own creation. What was the worst that could happen? The monkey bites me and I have to go get rabies shots? Wondering "what if" was such a distraction, that I made up my mind to stop all the iffing and began to pay attention to my surroundings.



And my oh my, were they gorgeous.