Nagi Gompa Monastery
She lingered in shadows of black,
grey and maroon.
A halo of light her only guide through musty hallways where thick walls and worn wooden doors shared the whisper of nuns. Her small hands held an offering of golden marigolds. Yellow – holy color of the gods.
She was a child in a monastery of nuns. Ten years old, no longer an orphan alone but a sibling with many sisters, a daughter with many mothers, one of a family of hundreds. She was a Buddhist ani living in the clouds on a mountaintop with a heavenly view
over the great city of Kathmandu.
"Work, pray, practice," said the ani's teacher. "But what is practice?"
I asked.
"You must practice to understand yourself," replied the Lama.
"Sit quietly and contemplate. Get to know your anger,
your fear, all your emotions. Dissect them and speak with them. Accept yourself and know every part of your own being.
To understand oneself is to have compassion for everything."
The little ani and I walked down the mountain to the city to buy shoes. She slipped out of her too-small rubber sandals into a new pair, carefully counted 45 rupees (less than one U.S. dollar) into the shopkeeper's hand
and walked away.
"Wait!" I called, as I reached for the discarded shoes. "You've forgotten
your old sandals."
She glanced back at me, "No, leave them," she firmly replied.
"I only need one pair. Leave them
for someone
who has none."
Compassion.
I must practice.
Connie Bickman
Nepal - 1994 |
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Behind the Veil
The city of Ezurum lay silent
in traditional afternoon rest.
I followed the cobbled path of a shaded street photographing brightly painted doors and tattered curtains blowing gently in the autumn breeze.
Shopkeepers relaxed on straight-back chairs, gazing
out windows while they drank their tea. Water in houkas boiled for their daily smoke. Men things.
Suddenly she appeared
in the corner of my lens,
standing solid against
shadows of a mud wall.
Draped women in Turkey
usually flee or
turn their heads away so photographs can't be made.
But she faced me,
like a dead-end alley.
She wanted – challenged –
me to make a picture.
Her eyes said,
"Now. Quickly."
I raised my camera
and nodded a "yes,"
just to be sure.
She bowed in return.
Zoom in,
click,
click,
click.
Only three shots.
She blinked as if to say,
"Thank you,"
turned quickly
and disappeared
into the shadows.
...gone
before any man
noticed her consent.
Connie Bickman
Turkey ~ 1991 |
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Namaste
"Namaste,"
she shyly said
as she folded her hands and
nodded her head.
This little Hindu girl
in the Amber Fort of Jaipur, India,
had jet black hair
and wore a bright
red dress.
Black powder under her eyes made them look even larger than they already were.
Her mother beamed with pride and encouraged her young child to speak to an American traveler with a camera lens where a nose should be.
"Namaste,"
the little girl
again offered.
A voice behind the camera repeated, "Namaste."
Namaste.
What a wonderful greeting.
It's like saying
"Hello,"
"Buenos Dias,"
or "G' Day."
Only sweeter.
It translates:
"The God in me
honors the God
in you."
"Namaste."
Connie Bickman
India - 1994 |
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