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Outside the Walls

I couldn’t understand what was going on outside the gun-guarded wall surrounding our hotel. The Boudnath stupa, the largest in the world, was only 347 meters away. In 347 meters at 7:30 a.m., there were 10 rabid starved dogs, 5 bicycles with 50 pounds of produce pushed by frail men, one furrowed woman sticking out the bone of her lost arm in plea, and no Americans. 
I didn’t cry. I didn’t speak. “I need to sit,” I told Keoki, standing next to me. 
How do you react to loss? How do you react to the view of perpetual poverty, literally, at your feet? 
I took out the notepad and pencil in my auspicious red Camelback, sat on a bench, and drew. I drew the satin aprons that adorned every woman circling the stoupa in midst of morning prayer ritual, I drew the undulating painted eye at the top of the stoupa, I drew a woman braiding purple fabrics into the long hair of her Tibentan men. In the still silence, I let the world I was in come to me. 
In my reverence to whatever it was that was happening, someone touched me.
A monk diverted from the swirling brass scrolls on the stupa, and walked over to me. He took both my hands in earnest, and brought them up to his wrinkled oval face. He pulled me in, bending his head down to touch my forehead with his. Our foreheads remained together for about five seconds, and it was the most endearing moment I can remember. As he left, he bowed his head again and put his hands together in prayer, looking me in the eye as I did the same as I was overcome with grace from a man who’s name I’ll never know.

 
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