A poem for my fellow pilgrims. This is still a draft — not to be published anywhere else, please.
Pilgrimage
On our way to the caves
of Guru Padma Sambava,
one young Buddha in a room
no larger than your mother’s
parlor, met our gazes kindly,
but in no uncertain terms.
On our way to the caves
of Guru Padma Sambava,
through layers of hazy vistas –
three Himalayan gompas
blessed us with butter tea.
When monks streamed in, we
followed, sitting around the edges –
drums and pujas anchoring
head to sit-bones, thighs
to earth.
On our way to the caves
of Guru Padma Sambava,
twelve school children in neat
blue uniforms and slicked-back hair
passed us going down, we
treading the Guru Rinpoche
stairmaster – lungs bursting
with 7 a.m., no-breakfast,
what-in-the-hell-is-the-altitude
attitudes – in between mantras
(when we remembered).
At the caves
of Guru Padma Sambava,
prayer flags were hung, songs
belted out, offerings
placed and butter lamps lit.
I can’t say what happened,
standing on that summit.
You made a gesture, a barrier
fell, which I promptly
erected again. We all
descended then, passing
one old beggar, one
proud mother, three goats.
Arrived at a village with no
running water or power,
bathed with handy wipes.
Ate what was offered and lay
on our beds until
three street vendors
and one mournful cow
sang us out of our sleep.
