I stopped to gaze at the old woman shuffling ahead of me on slippered feet. A flurry of colour enveloped her. She wore a traditional striped apron, an orange flowered waistband, and an incongruent silken blouse. The fingers of her left hand clasped a string of worn prayer beads and her right hand stroked the letters inscribed on the crimson and gold prayer wheels around the Stupa temple. Each wheel rumbled and moaned as she passed her hand across it and her mouth muttered rhythmic prayers. Like her, I had come to pray, but without the beads or the wheels. I was prayer walking, using the sights and sounds and smells around me as inspiration. I hadn’t wanted only to pray; I wanted to touch someone’s life, offering hope, or just lend a helping hand. My prayers seemed less real than hers. She could touch and count the words she offered through the spinning wheels. I had only my thoughts. I couldn’t help wondering as I watched the old woman: how long had she been coming here to spin the prayers of the ancient wheels? As I passed by her, she glanced up at me. I offered her a shy “tashi dalek” – “hello”. A smile lightened her worn face and I saw that her eyes were a liquid blue. Then she lowered her head and continued her ritual walk.
Spinning Buddhist prayer wheels in South East Asia. |
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