Tibetan Sand Mandala at Oceano Depot
Timeless ideal of all-encompassing compassion
So states the laminated guide left on a chair.
While four monks with shaved heads, sit on poly foam mats,
eight blue sand Medicine Buddhas rest on petals of moon
cushions
ten Guardians stationed at stone gates
and wouldn’t you know it, twelve demons
take their places on silk pillows.
All this born in fresh manifest inside an historic wooden
train depot.
Circling monk brings forth from knot-secured bags
more blue sand for the collections of brass bowls
by each monk who scoops up the color with a
funnel shaped silver chak-pur
Northwest Buddha whose mudra hands transmit
sublime realization and concentration.
Pale paper dust masks cover monk’s faces
Their straight backs lean in service to
metal rods vibrating the chak-purs,
rasping acoustics
fill the old wooden depot.
Sweetness of incense and little dancing flame before
the photo of smiling Dalai Lama on altar spilling with fruit
and flowers.
The apples still have their supermarket stickers
no attempt to hide them.
I don’t know what it all means, but I can feel it.
I am filled with gratitude for this
gorgeously lush colored art work
This demonstration of patience
This act of global, no universal, healing.
A woman leads her sick old poodle to see the mandala.
I spend a new moment with Innermost Sun Throne circled by
golden halo
(made up names for what I see)
Eight black and indigo petals rejoice eight Buddhas
Sixteen scallops of ancient power icons ring the Buddhas
The next ring out holds outrageously colorful wavy shapes
that each imprint goodness and peace.
Beyond the outrageous lie prayer flag colored triangles
pointing the way out for thrones, petals, Buddhas and demons
Pointing out to sun/moon corners and four direction portals
of red, yellow, green and blue.
One monk in front of me leaves. He has completed
the outline of the blue portal which aims at me.
The power and stability at the same time
open, inviting, exchange.
Meet the inners Buddhas here, it seems to say.
A second monk leaves the green portal built.
Two burgundy robed monks remain, the fine orange sand
flowing in perfect lines defining the final exact strokes of
sand.
Sand, we have so much of it here; outside,
on the beach, in the dunes, in my shoes.
But this sand speaks Tibetan
with the timelessness of all-encompassing compassion.
