One Lhasa Morning

We take a side street to the Barkhor - everything is in cold frozen shade as life stirs. People are bundled against the freezing air, their faces hidden by white medical masks or wool scarves. Only their dark eyes exist. Khampa meat men dump severed glazed eyed yak heads on old stone, long horns; women prepare yellow butter blocks, chunks of glistening fat.

We slow down. Each step is a breath. As before, in other planetary places we savor the beginning of a new day in scenes of becoming - cold, isolated, strange, mysterious reality. The street blends into the circuit. We enter the main square.

Two large chorten furnaces are breathing fire, sending plumes of gray and black smoke into the sky. Figures of all ages and energies, sellers of juniper and cedar. Buyers collect their offerings - throw sweet smelling twigs into the roaring fire, finger prayer beads and resume their pilgrimage. Merit.

We join the flow, shuffling along. We feel the softness being with the ageless way of meditation, a walking meditation.

It is a peaceful manifestation of the eternal now. The vast self vibration of frequencies in the flow. His “restless” wandering ghost spirit feels the peace and serenity inside the flow.

The sky fills with clear light. As above, so below. Prayer flags lining roofs sing in the wind as incense smoke curls away. The shuffling pilgrims create a ceaseless wave - the sound of muted consistent steps, clicking of prayer beads, a gentle hum of turning prayer prayer wheels, murmurs of mantras from lips. Everything is clear and focused on offering, sacrifice, gaining merit in the collective unconscious. Our river flows.

Dawn light blesses western snow capped mountains with a pink glow.

A black-faced half-naked boy throws himself down and out on his hands and knees prostrating the length of his skinny skeleton. He wears slabs of wood on his hands and an old brown apron. He edges forward, pulling himself along, rises, gestures to the sky, hands together, down along his skin out and down to the ground scrapping away flesh edging forward inside shuffling pilgrims.

His eyes are on fire!
We complete one circuit after another, circling the Jokhang. More light, more people ascending into the square - handfuls of juniper feed roaring flames, Crack! Hiss! Burn! Back to Dust!
You will walk through the fire.
We do this practice every day.