Temple Dream - Part Vl
I began to fall—my descent and thoughts dream-slow. And with dream-state efficiency I could see what was behind me without having to turn. Along the back wall were more small windows in a vertical row. Each window illuminated a part of the statue’s body. Years later I’d imagine what the orange-purple of a sunrise through those windows or the wink of light as clouds crossed the sun’s path or the silver of a full moon would do but in this dream the light was pure and steady. And once again I regretted not having brought a camera. Not a camera phone—those hadn’t been invented yet. I pinned my hope on the possibility of a tourist shop nearby. I’d look for one of those orange labeled cardboard Kodak disposable cameras.
Male and yet such a feminine face—delicate—androgynous. I could reach out, slide my fingertips along the nose, lips, chin, neck, yet the habit of museum etiquette held me back. I lingered at an ear with its long lobe. What did this signify? Fashion? Wealth? Wisdom? A satellite dish to better hear humanity’s cries?
The shoulders—as if the carving had been abandoned—had not been cut away from the cliff face. The upper arms and the elbows were embedded in stone while one forearm and hand were free and upright, palm facing outward. Respectfully I held my own palm inches away. Now I wish I had placed my hand on his. Who gets to high-five a Buddha so large a human hand equaled a finger tip? Regrettably I didn’t. Instead I swam backward like an underwater diver to take in the whole of the statue. And at this distance the angle of the cliff-face created an optical illusion—the Buddha emerging from the stone. I thought I saw a shudder of movement, panicked and went into an astronaut tumble. And when momentum ceased I fell head first with no chance to admire the fine sculpture of the necklaces and amulets and the drape of the robe. I fell as a dreamer hoping to wake up before hitting bottom. I fell until—as if coming to the end of a bungee—I bounced to a stop adjacent the Buddha’s knees. And down below, lit by the light of yak butter lamps, I spotted the top of an old monk’s head.1