I thought I would spend the next few posts waxing poetic about the things I've seen here. This is mainly so that I can look back on all of this when I'm an old lady and remember exactly WHICH monk I'm looking at from WHAT country.
Enjoy.
Monks' sleeping areas and robes drying.
My time in Myanmar was brief--exactly 24 hours--and I had a lot to see. My very first stop was to see a reclining Buddha with glass eyes who was housed in a simple structure with a corrugated tin roof. A sweet old man approached me and offered to take me to see where the monks lived. It was during the time of the day designated for resting, which is right after they eat their last meal of the day (just before noon). I expected to feel like persona non grata, given the fact that I am a woman. My feet felt loud and clunky as I walked into their very simple sleeping areas which were still peppered with dishes from the afternoon meal. I was afraid to breathe, afraid to look at anything. The monks sat up as I entered, smiled, and gestured for me to come in. Some of them giggled at my shyness. Some just stared, having not seen many pairs of blue eyes lately. One monk woke up and insisted that my guide bring me over. He chanted something in a tired, parched voice. He blessed me with a long life and lots of luck. He was 79 years old. He smiled and allowed me to take his picture. Another monk limped over to me and encouraged me to follow. He had been rubbing oil on his sore legs and it made the entire room smell like mint and lavender. He showed me the eightfold path of the Buddha that was hanging in a special place of honor. Another monk showed me the paintings he had made. A third monk set out leftover rice for the stray dogs. The energy was quiet and subdued with function, with repetition, without anticipation or projection or aggravation.
Myanmar, I have many unwritten love songs for you.
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