from under the prayer flags

summer in sketches, part three

summer in sketches, part two

Part two of my summer sketchbook:
Namo Buddha, Kathmandu, Changu Narayan, Bhaktapur, Boudha

sacred

yellow and pale, pale blue

"teach us what you know"

I've been having odd dreams here— it's as if my subconscious is running at a different speed. The night before last I dreamt of a gleaming mountain above the clouds, and that I was walking with a monk in the woods. He told me what my name meant, but as dreams typically tease, I had forgotten what he told me as I awoke.

When Lama S.T. asked if I'd like to go to Namo Buddha with him and some SMD students and staff members, he was barely able to finish the question before my "yes" burst out. My experience at Namo Buddha a few weeks ago had left such a profound impression on me, I was thrilled at the chance to return. I packed my bag full of paper and art supplies with the plan of sketching the exquisite, colourful shrine room which had so deeply moved me.

Heavy, dark clouds threatened a downpour, but graciously kept their rain for our journey. The road to Namo Buddha was as mucky as ever, our jam-packed jeep swerved and spun but proved no match for Lama's cool driving. We bumped and lurched our way through the forest until the familiar golden roofs of the monastery appeared, like a break of sun in the clouds.



Upon arriving, we came across a long line of people in all colours of cloth, waiting for a visit with the free clinic's doctors, whom our own group came to see. While they waited for their check-ups, I was taken by a young monk to the staff room at the monastery school, where I met Lama K.S. After a cup of coffee and a brief chat about where I come from and what I was doing in Nepal, he lead me to his classroom, where a small group of teenage monks were studying Tibetan. As we kicked off our shoes and entered the modest room, Lama pointed to a cushion at the front, indicating my place, and sat down with his students.

"Ok. Teach us what you know." he commanded, with an encouraging smile.

I could feel my face turning red. I was handed a dry-erase marker, which I twisted nervously in my hands, avoiding the blank stare of the white board at my back. Eager eyes and grins surrounded me. I fumbled through an awkward demonstration of one-point linear perspective, realising I wasn't making any sense. I laughed. We laughed. I put down the marker, deciding to show the monks my sketchbooks instead, and sat down on the green cushion, the monks gathering around. As we flipped through every page, I recounted stories of the people and the buildings I had drawn, of what I had been thinking and feeling during each sketch.

"You can draw one of us, then we can learn through watching you." suggested Lama K.S. The monks agreed this was a good idea. After a brief warning about my ability to perform under pressure, I got out my pencil case and displayed my tools, explaining their various uses. I cracked my knuckles, generating laughter.

"Ok. Here we go." More laughter.

I felt surprisingly at ease despite the small crowd around me. I explained my movements, what I was aiming for and my general process. We talked about adding details after mapping out the general shapes. We talked about light and shadow, value and line.



When the 'lesson' was over, Lama K.S. lead me back up the hill to where Lama S.T. and the SMD group were having lunch. A shy breeze rustled through the trees around us. Lama asked my name.

"Samantha, Samantha..." he repeated. "In Sanskrit, it means 'respect'."

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.

through the mud

Our little van bumped and swayed up the muddy, slippery road to Namo Buddha, through lush, green forests and past even greener rice fields. Prem, our trusty driver, truly a master of his vehicle, spun the wheel to the left, then sharply to the right, manoeuvring through the muck. At one point, half the passengers, including myself, were kindly asked to get out and start walking in order to lighten the weight of the van, which seemed content to sink deeper into the mud.



I have no idea how long the journey took— I refused to look at any time-telling device. Eventually, I found myself before the impressive, golden-roofed Thrangu Tashi Yangtse Monastery, perched atop a hill that anywhere else would be called a mountain. Clouds slithered over the dark crests of hills, lazily curling up among the rice paddies in the valley below. Somewhere, hidden beyond them, great mountains slept.