Friday the 14th was one of those days. Mucus from sinuses was stagnant, there were intermittent stabbing pains traveling from temple across the back of my head. My ears were not kindly clogged enough to keep me from hearing the amplified NPR chatter of remorse, shock, horror, expert opinion,disbelief, official statements, eye witness accountings through the wake of semi-automatic realities that had ignited this last week -one a few miles from me and one across the country.
I parked and dropped my girlfriend off at her appointment downtown, then walked across the street to the three-storied Portland public library. Past the names of great luminaries chiseled into the ancient sandstone walls - Plato, Dickens, Euclid, Galileo, Austen, da Vinci... I slowly walked past the ornately carved edifices of the stone railings, from a time when these flourishes meant a little more, now tinged with wet green moss and falling away grain by grain...
I had coffee on my mind, as well as collecting some photos of nearby food carts, but the more urgent need was evacuating my bladder. I pushed through the throngs of languishing homeless amongst the library steps, shook my head at the guy asking me for money for heroin and hookers. Turned my back on the waving wheel-chaired seller of Street Roots, the homeless publication.
Inside the opulence of jet black stone flooring and black stone stairs carved in relief with filigreed scenes of lavish gardens was a striking contrast to the handful of homeless that wandered with backpacks, canes, blankets. The bathroom was a flurry with them so I ascended stairs to the second floor. This one too was at capacity with homeless and others waiting on the benches beside. Hurrying past to the third floor I caught an unwanted glimpse of a skirted, fifty-ish woman on the bench deliberately so that her partially crossed legs offered well-exposed views of her less than inviting flesh.
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| Drepung Loseling Phukhang Khangsten monks from India |
Crossing the landing separating the second from third I noticed colorful Tibetan prayer flags strung across the cold granite railing. I turned my back to them and found the last restroom occupied as well and waited my turn. Upon exit the far room held a table with what I instantly knew was a partially completed sand mandala. I had never seen one up close. A few library patrons who were not homeless were admiring the intricate collaboration of tiny specs of color on a perfectly non-descript black table. Red velvet ropes kept the viewers a safe sneeze distance away.
No monks were visible, just a table and an Asian man and woman selling the usual handmade paper journals, singing bowls, incense... iPhones were out and pictures being snapped. I pulled out my camera, the bulky SLR and changed lenses next to the blind woman sitting at a chair just outside the ropes. A homeless man stepped up to look. When I turned back to the table the Asian couple were gone and now four monks were seated.
Soon they got up and carefully went to a small table next to the mandala and carefully, never speaking, selected tools, sand colors... Observed the mandala for a few moments and found a place to rasp sand out grain by tiny grain. Once rubies or lapis lazuli and other precious and crushed stones would have been used. As I snapped image after image the monks never appeared to notice me, or the dozen school children that very reverently looked on with hands on ropes and wide eyes. A sweat bead trickled down a monks bald head as he leaned into the tables edge, the only sign of anything other than perfect calm.
The Dalia Lama looked on smiling from a framed portrait on a table cluttered with edible offerings. A library volunteer shared sacred knowledge with the enrapt children asking if they had any questions, none did so she plodded along in monologue about moving from the center outward, that it would take a week to finish, that Sunday if they returned a ceremony would culminate with the sweeping away of all the sand by the monks. They would then offer a bit of sand to each person that had come and they would be blessed with this tiny gift.
There rest of the sand was to be poured into the Willamette River...
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