Candles flicker in a light breeze, reflecting themselves in glass offering bowls. Wisps of incense drift towards the open window. My knees grimace as I push them into half lotus. I take the drum and bell out of their brocade cases, and open the text I am about to chant. I would like to be in a cave or a remote cabin, locked away—no neighbors; no internet or tractors rumbling by—but that is not possible, right now—so, I make do. I would like to pilgrimage to Nepal, India or Tibet; would like to see the sacred lakes, rivers and temples where the masters of my lineages stayed in retreat or taught; I would like to see the bodhi tree under which Gautama found liberation, or the mountain peak on which he expounded the
Making Sacred
Making Sacred
Making Sacred
Candles flicker in a light breeze, reflecting themselves in glass offering bowls. Wisps of incense drift towards the open window. My knees grimace as I push them into half lotus. I take the drum and bell out of their brocade cases, and open the text I am about to chant. I would like to be in a cave or a remote cabin, locked away—no neighbors; no internet or tractors rumbling by—but that is not possible, right now—so, I make do. I would like to pilgrimage to Nepal, India or Tibet; would like to see the sacred lakes, rivers and temples where the masters of my lineages stayed in retreat or taught; I would like to see the bodhi tree under which Gautama found liberation, or the mountain peak on which he expounded the