It was if the entire structure was on a slant, subtly tilted toward the enormous golden structure that sat comfortably at the front, weighing down the room like too much cargo on a ship. A ruby robed monk struggled to open the shades of the window, for while one swung freely open letting in the fresh morning air, the other simply couldn't hold itself open against the will of gravity and the statue, two forces that simply aren't fair to put a simple wooden shutter up against, no matter how beautifully it may be decorated. And so too, the monks themselves seemed powerless against these great truths. Upon entering the giant room, which seemed to be set up exclusively for worship, each one fell to his knees, his hands pressed together falling from his forehead to his heart and, finally, to the cool, green, marble floor. While some gracefully flowed down, a waterfall of royal burgundy, many struggled to control the excessive amount of fabric, seeming to drown in its weight.
Eventually each monk fond his place among the long, padded benches, seated between and across from seemingly identical others to the careless eye. I wondered if a monk ever looked up and, forgetting where he was, confused the image across from him with his own reflection in the mirror. But the first soul stirring beat on the giant turquoise drum awoke me from my ignorance: of course this has happened - it happens all the time as Nepalis close their hands and bow their heads bidding one another "Namaste" casually proclaiming "the divinity in me bows to the divinity in you", whether it be in the monastery or on the street.
Boom boom boom. The drum beats continued, joined by the echoes of shimmering symbols and what seemed like hundreds of tiny bells. The mesmerizing music called my attention to the sudden cessation of a previously unnoticed hum of indistinguishable chants. One monk handed out long rectangular-shaped prayer sheets, carefully counting them, 1, 2, 3,4, before distributing them to the monks. I longed to see one, even though its foreign letters would doubtless be meaningless to my illiterate eye.
A young monk who couldn't have been older than nine or ten swiftly jumped up, drawing attention to the neon pink Crocs he had failed to remove at the entrance to the slanted room as all his comrades had done. Perhaps he was worried his tiny feet wouldn't have the traction to hold him upright, leaving him spiraling helplessly into the grasp of the giant statue, a shooting star of flailing red robe. Boom. Another thunderous drum beat startled me from this absurd and baseless fantasy. I found myself staring direction at the forehead of this quite steady young boy, as he bowed before me, wiping clean the low table at which I was seated before continuing on to do the same to the rest of the tables in the room.
Each monk seemed to find his place in the slanted room; the Chanters, the Musicians, the Wipers, the Daydreamers, the Gigglers, the Chatters, the Meditators and, even I, the Analyzer. After a few moments of quiet reflection and meditation I released my legs from their twisted lotus position with my hands and climbed out of the slanted room, my back toward the giant golden statue and the rows of rubies that shone before him. And that's when I realized that perhaps it was I and not the room that was slanted, toward and away from forces so large that I couldn't even identity them because I had become them. After all, what could one expect of a simple window shutter open and closed to things against its will, no matter how beautifully it may be decorated.
Eventually each monk fond his place among the long, padded benches, seated between and across from seemingly identical others to the careless eye. I wondered if a monk ever looked up and, forgetting where he was, confused the image across from him with his own reflection in the mirror. But the first soul stirring beat on the giant turquoise drum awoke me from my ignorance: of course this has happened - it happens all the time as Nepalis close their hands and bow their heads bidding one another "Namaste" casually proclaiming "the divinity in me bows to the divinity in you", whether it be in the monastery or on the street.
Boom boom boom. The drum beats continued, joined by the echoes of shimmering symbols and what seemed like hundreds of tiny bells. The mesmerizing music called my attention to the sudden cessation of a previously unnoticed hum of indistinguishable chants. One monk handed out long rectangular-shaped prayer sheets, carefully counting them, 1, 2, 3,4, before distributing them to the monks. I longed to see one, even though its foreign letters would doubtless be meaningless to my illiterate eye.
A young monk who couldn't have been older than nine or ten swiftly jumped up, drawing attention to the neon pink Crocs he had failed to remove at the entrance to the slanted room as all his comrades had done. Perhaps he was worried his tiny feet wouldn't have the traction to hold him upright, leaving him spiraling helplessly into the grasp of the giant statue, a shooting star of flailing red robe. Boom. Another thunderous drum beat startled me from this absurd and baseless fantasy. I found myself staring direction at the forehead of this quite steady young boy, as he bowed before me, wiping clean the low table at which I was seated before continuing on to do the same to the rest of the tables in the room.
Each monk seemed to find his place in the slanted room; the Chanters, the Musicians, the Wipers, the Daydreamers, the Gigglers, the Chatters, the Meditators and, even I, the Analyzer. After a few moments of quiet reflection and meditation I released my legs from their twisted lotus position with my hands and climbed out of the slanted room, my back toward the giant golden statue and the rows of rubies that shone before him. And that's when I realized that perhaps it was I and not the room that was slanted, toward and away from forces so large that I couldn't even identity them because I had become them. After all, what could one expect of a simple window shutter open and closed to things against its will, no matter how beautifully it may be decorated.
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