String Ceremony

It is 2:12 am Lao time. We are passing over Godhavn after passing Godthab in our Cathay Pacific  Flight CX0841 from JFK->Hong Kong. I will look these godly places up when I am able to get online when we arrive in Bangkok this afternoon.

We have 10:28 left in our flight, and I have had brunch and watched the Pixar movie Up and read a few stories in a collection of short stories, Mother’s Beloved published by Silkworm Books, with an introduction by Peter Koret , written by the late, most prominent Lao author, Outhine Buonyavong.

In strict opposition to everything that is right in the world, we are blessed with seats in business class, thanks to our American Airlines Citibank MasterCard, with which we have freely bought groceries and other goods over the last decade. The MasterCard racks up an airline mile for every dollar spent; we used the miles to buy our tickets and had enough to fly Business Class one way. That’s probably enough food to feed a Lao village for a lifetime; but, nonetheless, it is a very cushy ride. We will take our usual rightful place in Economy Class upon our return home to Boston on December 12.

There is a camera under the wing of the plane that I can select on my personal monitor in my pod. It looks desolate out there. Perhaps we are flying over Greenland or the Arctic, now. The camera quality is not good, but there’s also an interactive map that lets me see where on our flight path we are. I am listening to the track “Mesk Elil”  on Souad Massi’s Honeysuckle album, and everything in the cabin is dark, except the reading light and the video monitor and my computer. If you could find the track and play it while you read this, you would understand my mood.. Someday , books may look like that, bringing in visual, audio, and textual components to create literature of a sort, with different more salient leitmotivs that allow someone like me to manipulate my audience. For now, all I can do is tell you that I keep replaying the song.

I have been thinking about music and its effect on me as a trigger for bouts of sobbing. I am worried that recently I have become like (or returned to being) a seventh-grade girl (sorry to any reading this) as I drive in my car and listen to the same songs over and over that all take on new meaning of loss. Like “Dreams on Fire” from the Slumdog Millionaire soundtrack, which I have taken to be about Andy:

You are my waking dream

You’re all that’s real to me

You are my magic in the world I see

You are the prayer I sing

You brought me to my knees

You are the faith that made me believe

Dreams on fire

Higher and higher

Ashes burning

Right on the pyre

But then again, the dark secret of my musical taste is that I have always been a sentimental listener, feeling a cosmic emptiness through music that makes my voice quake as I belt out my falsetto versions of my favorite dark sentimental songs that I embue with my own meanings. I only do it when I’m alone. Don’t tell Disty. Perhaps it’s healing.

But, I got sidetracked, what I really want to write about is the ceremony that we were invited to attend on Wednesday night by Ajahn Bounxay in an email he sent us on Sunday. He said that the monks at Wat Buddhabhavana wanted to have the ceremony to give us good luck on our journey.

The monks have been our teachers over the last six months, teaching us Lao language and Lao culture and Lao Buddhist practices. They have invited us into their community and have opened their hearts to us. In Laos and other Buddhist places in the world, the monks have a very high status. In Lao, there are special pronouns and words reserved for use in speaking with monks, they sit higher and eat earlier than others.  They make Buddhism seem very appealing, and there are probably some of my friends and family think I will become a Buddhist. I am not sure I could ever be a Buddhist, because I have this issue with all religion. Nevertheless, I love these monks and the community around the Wat and they have loved us back as evidenced by the invitation. We are connected to them, and through them to Laos.

By the way it is now 4:40 am—8:13 left in the flight—and I haven’t gotten to my point—the string ceremony. We left the house tired and stressed and arrived at the Wat at 4 pm on Wednesday. In the sala (sanctuary), everything was ready for us and they sat us in plastic lawn chairs that had been setup for the meditation class that was scheduled for later that evening. Jason, a novice monk, was asked by Ajahn Wern to fill a metal dish a third full with water.

Seven monks were there, including Ajahn David, an American-born monk, who explained with patience and detail the ceremony and its meaning. First saffron-colored, string-thick, long tapers were cut  for each of us: the circumference of each of our heads, another the distance between our throats and belly buttons, and another the length of the tip of our fingers to our elbows. These represented us. These tapers were intertwined into one long braid.

After responsive chanting about Buddha, Dhamma, and us, the monks drew a spool of string from the hand of Buddha through the hands of the monks and around our necks. Ajahn David suggested we relax and meditate on the auspicious chanting. As the monks chanted, Ajahn Bounkeau lit our tapers and I became transfixed by the fire and water. He found a way to make the flames dance in the water, as the monk’s chanting vibrated inside me. I was in this state until Ajahn Bounkeau took out a brush and sprinkled us with water. This is a common ritual and every time it happens it startles me. And each time I vow the next I will not be startled. But I am.

We were then presented with bracelets and blessed. It was quite moving. I wanted to make a speech thanking them, but all I could get out was: Thank You for opening your hearts to us. I hope they all know how important they have been to me and what a blessing they have bestowed upon us.

5:10 am. 7:44 left, and we haven’t even had lunch, yet. I hope I don’t run out of time.