Finding the Sun

I had a French teacher in high school, Madame Barlow, who grew up in an Italian neighborhood, practiced Catholicism until just before I met her, when she had converted to Greek Orthodox Christianity. I called that a lateral move. She assured me she had explored nearly every other religion, and what swayed her in the end was the sensory experience: the rites are accompanied by sounds and scents, and it was familiar to her. Easter was this past Sunday, making this week Bright Week. Though I am spending the majority of it in hazy—and even rainy—Beijing, I have managed to find moments of brightness anyway, Beijing cabs notwithstanding.

Today, we split up for the morning. Marlene was making an appearance at Ernie’s school, while Kendra paid a visit to the foundation. I was interested in visiting a temple—and coincidentally something unrelated to Mao (though I saw him, twice, later).

My way in from the train was an experience in itself. I came up from the subway--where I was the only non-Chinese--and headed to what seemed to be the entrance. I was rerouted by a young, kind-faced man, to the side street, only about 500 meters away from the main entrance. Along the way, I passed all kinds of vendors, most of whom were selling packs of incense that looked like shrink-wrapped packs of spaghetti. Old men in Tibetan robes, with pointy hats and pointy beards to match, called out to passers-by. I of course had no idea what they were saying, but could well understand they were vying for the attention of the young ladies just in front of me.

I knew I was getting closer to the entrance when I started to notice a greater number of beggars. There were several who were typical of what I had already seen elsewhere in the city. And then I began to see others: a dwarf with a deformed back; a man, wearing thick, black-rimmed eyeglasses but no shirt, exposing his bare chest with only one limb attached to it; another man played an instrument, his young son dancing behind him, while he looked up baring only whites in his eyes; and then I saw a man’s head—lowered, motionless and still—sitting on top of what looked to be a pillar rising out of the cement below, until I realized it was his torso, and only his torso.

I could not look. I could not gaze. I simply and silently expressed gratitude and made way to the entrance as quickly as I could. I don’t know if I’ll soon forget the images from those 500 meters.

I write this as I sit in a square within Lama Temple, a Tibetan Buddhist temple where people still come to worship, and according to the guidebook, the only place where people still come to worship. A long, tree-lined walkway awaited me after I paid admission. I made my way through the first gate. Each gate was elaborately decorated. I wound my way through the grounds that have been there since the mid-17^th century through a string of courtyards. Worshippers surround me. They light their incense, raise it high above their heads, and bend or kneel, sometimes repeating the motions in every direction.

The sweet smell of incense greets visitors at each entrance to each smaller temple. Plumes of smoke obfuscate their maroon and gold porticos. Just beyond, a golden smiling Buddha awaits those who pay homage. (If you can make it to the end, you'll find a 28-meter tall Buddha, listed in the Guiness Book, as it's cut from one single piece of sandalwood.) What I smell isn’t the same as Livani—what Mme Barlow and I have come to know in the Greek church—but it’s enough of a reminder to trigger thoughts of my own experiences of home and what I know to be familiar.

I wrote the above from the Temple grounds. After a brief walk in the surrounding area, I left there to meet up with Kendra and Marlene in the Forbidden City. We spent a couple of hours there, walking and catching each other up on what we had done earlier in the day.  We made it all the way into the Imperial Garden, and left just before closing—a great time to snap some shots with few people around. The rain teased us al afternoon, and finally the sun started to break through. We wound our way through the hutong (alleyways) to dinner and some leisurely shopping. We capped the day with foot massages.

As I enjoyed the luxury of having someone else rub away my day’s knots, I recalled the day's events, from being the only Westerner on the metro, to the walk to the Temple, to the sensual experience of watching others worship, to the simple joy of passing time with close friends. And once again, I find myself so thankful for all I have—and have had—for so long. One more full day here before we head home, and it's going to be 80 degrees. Bright Week indeed.

Be sure to check Kendra and Marlene's blogs (they have photos!):https://sugarflour.wordpress.com/
http://kmjtravels.wordpress.com/

More to come...