Circling the stupa at Boudha, under the navy cloak of early morning, is a circadian rhythm of hopes and thanks in beads and shawls and quick strong legs. Mandala of candles lit, bells rung, grounds touched, prayers hummed; from God knows where sent God knows where by the whispered words of the wind. There is so much we cannot know. Yet, Rilke says this: that being here is so much. And after all these years, I really do believe – that our destiny is to wonder, to feel the way and to breathe, in an inheritance of belonging, the sure knowledge of our own great mystery. Each morning of this watch, in the tiny kora of my own heart, a dark guard stirs from a lonely post at the gate, silently bows, and enters this walk into daylight.
