Be the rhythm, said a woman with flaming hair.
They meditated in the weaving village.
Lucky loved her passion for silks.
Elephants danced with zodiac symbols.
Weavers click clacked threads.
Beauty has no tongue.
Practice is allowing everything in your life to wake you up.
Red clouds on a soft day. Japanese kamikaze snappers.
Rivers and sensation perception. Small people big voice. Orange monks. Women oranges. Street love.
Serenity of sitting one afternoon in Boua Mon's village. Paper village.
The world is a village.
In this real zone dust dances with laughter. Women gossip, cook, swaddle infants. Joy and connections away from Disneyland myopia circus.
How it works in Laos. Unspoken. Men make the rules. Women take care of the home.
Below the surface. Subtitles.
Women worship in temples, men sit around drinking beer.
A village maintains the other world.
Morality, ethics, behavior.
You don't leave the village.
Everything I need is here.
Symbiotic symbolic relationships.
Meditation awareness.
Gentle undying nature.
Once upon a dream there was (is) present.
Ink said, hello now a few words in simple English hilarious.
You returned, they exclaimed with a secret JOY.
Yes, she says, my dream of you is unfolding. She caresses silk threads on her loom of time. Your sensitivity and serenity calms me, he says.
It is before dawn. The Mekong river is water. Fog obscures distance. She stands at a window looking for him. He is on the river. His net flies over still deep water. Threads and knots of jungle vine land on the surface. They sink into silence.
She hears the Mekong sing. She returns to the source.
Sleep. She dares dreams, aware of voiced whispers in silence. Silence becomes her sense of desire. She follows desire . Gratitude, her awareness, calms her tortured heart.
A leaf leaves the tree of life.
Transparent water bowls sing. A purple lotus grows from mud.
She is at her loom. Her pattern begins with purple silk. This is her base. She runs threads through thin lines of balance. Twin bobbins spin out golden threads for new diamonds.
Weaving is her meditation.
Her voice. Her heart-mind, hands, fingers, and feet.
Move like a river, rest like a mirror and respond like an echo.
Create like a God, order like a King and work like a Slave.
Laughter and Orphan and characters are dazzled by the embroidery.
Help others be more human.
Clean ears of years, tears and fears after four months of hearing V road grime.
Clear hearing channels. Auditory clarity.
Silent orange robed monks pass through.
Roll along a mist river before dawn. Silver surface is quiet.
Nails trim voices, blue cotton fabric discusses threads.
A girl with bamboo baskets of sun oranges balances her long walk from a truck near boats as women pray for sustenance in fog light. Her destiny is uphill past rising smoke, villages, cooking fires, warmth, hot noodles, steaming steps in rhythmic fashion she continues...
The road is made by walking.
The void of substance.
Boua Mon - weaver, 32, once eclipsed since we met at her village loom. Absorb her illuminated smile, grace, centered way.
In her absence everything possible or improbable happened. Ghost-self dreamed her into being as Anita butterfly skimmed the joy of exile. A man on his yellow bike waved, smiled, and rode away. Afternoon sun decorated green mountains.
Shuttle music and hospitality with Boua just sitting as she weaves, aligning threads, sharing food, incomprehensible women conversations. Her smile is radiant.
Below shattered shouting Fujian mountains a patient Maija village artist sketched the dead near the university where Lucky and Leo biked through forests along narrow dirt paths seeing black and orange butterflies mate in dust as farmers planted, harvested and threshed rice. Women lugged exploding white cauliflower in bamboo baskets suspended on pliant poles balanced on emaciated shoulders.
Easy riders zoomed past athletic sweat shop shoe factories filled with morose girls and bent-backed forgotten women huddled over clacking Butterfly sewing machines making uppers, lowers, tongues and seamless survival wages until they reached a steep narrow street where they entered a small shop to enjoy high quality Fujian green tea with a purveyor of leaves.
Uphill were red slat wooden home/shops, street noodles, rice, doughy steamed buns, appliances, a primary school filled with teachers screaming Blend In and hacking butchers.
The artist sketched dead people. His stoic art decorated family altars. Dusty faded ancestor images in temples and home altars ate bowls of fresh fruit and burning innocence. Death worship is a cultural way of life.
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