The Shwedagon

[Rhapsody]

*I went on a trip to my parents homeland, Burma, in summer 1998. These are my reflections on a particular event.*

 

I slapped irritably at the pesky mosquitoes that darted about my head, attracted by the beads of perspiration dripping there. Our horse-drawn cart jostled onward, its destination, a towering golden pagoda that loomed in the distance. The old gray nag that pulled the cart plodded along, moving barely faster than the pedestrians that clogged the dusty road. Above, the sun blazed relentlessly, emitting a blinding glare from the gilded temple. Called the Shwedagon, the renowned pagoda held the distinction of the largest pagoda in the world. Every year, thousands of tourists mingled with red-robed monks at the steps of the famed structure, hoping for a chance to enter. This particular summer, it was our turn. Here we were, in the congested city of Yangon, the capital of a poverty stricken, third world country named Myanmar. The Shwedagon was supposed to be the highlight of our journey, however I was suffering from intense humidity, ruthless subtropical heat, as well as the bugs I was beginning to think of as my archenemies in Life. As the bumpy ride continued, I sunk low into my seat (a wooden plank) and groaned my misery.

 

An hour later, I reluctantly tugged the woven sandals off my sunburnt feet and proceeded to ascend several cold stone steps through the gates into open vicinity. Here I hesitated, gaping. Before me, multitudes of gaudily dressed natives teemed, choking the walkways of glazed tile; it resembled the streets of New York City during rush hour. Marble statues stood majestically in a large circle, glorying in the shaven-headed monks that knelt timidly at their feet. Within the ring of sculptures rose the Shwedagon itself, looming imperiously, a golden dragon protecting her hatchlings and jealously guarding her treasure. The sun glinted on her metallic hide, blinding all who dared lay eyes on her. Above, her peak spire, a slender needle, pierced the clouds like the flaming tongue of a fiery dragon. At her feet, her puny subjects milled, shyly offering gifts of fruit, flowers, and incense. Monks and nuns, arrayed in crimson robes, spoke in hushed tones, displaying their respect. Some, however, did as they pleased.

 

In one corner, a young girl sang sweetly while scattering birdseed. Flocks of pigeons fluttered almost immediately to her, cooing in tune with the girl. In another shaded niche, an old woman plucked the strings of a lacquered Burmese harp. The instrument, shaped like a miniature boat, rested on the woman’s lap, its ornate designs engraved in jewel tones of gold, sable, and crimson. The music possessed a distinctly Oriental vibe and I found myself adrift on its lilting melodies, enthralled by a world of drowsy warmth, heady fragrance of jasmine, and slow-motion sunlight. Only under insistent urging from my parents did I tear myself away from the enchanting harpist.

 

Later we joined a group of sober-faced monks and nuns, kneeling in prayer before a stately image of Buddha, whose peaceful face echoed those of his followers. Within this secluded area, oblivious to the oppressive heat and clamor outside, my eyelids drooped. I surrendered to the monotonous chanting of the priests, a deep throbbing that reminded me of thunder, and slowly sank into a silent rhythm of my own cadenced breaths. Soft folds of velvet darkness cradled me, rocking in time to the gentle thuds of my heartbeat. A strange feeling, starting in the pit of my stomach, spread through my body. It seeped into every muscle, every tendon, every bone, infusing me with a new awareness. Even in this detached darkness, I could feel the position of every muscle, I could envision with a stark clarity the angle of each curled finger, the plump shape of each toe clamped under my thighs, the silky fall of black hair spilling over each shoulder, every drop of sweat upon my brow, each individual vein that flows beneath my skin, the golden pendant possessing my Burmese zodiac sign, the tiger, that swung at my throat. Acutely conscious of the energy that welled in each limb like a glowing pool of light, I reveled in this physical cognizance. Suddenly, I was shaken out of my reverie and rudely dragged outside. Blinking rapidly in the brilliant sunshine, I asked, “How long were we in there?” My brother glanced at his watch. “Five minutes,” he answered.

 

Around noon, with the sun blazing high in the summer heat, I reluctantly stepped out the gateways and into a spacious, bamboo-roofed gift shop. My mother surprised me with a gift of an exquisitely carved jade horse. Some believe jade has healing properties. As I gently stroked the figurine, its refreshing coolness held to my flushed cheek, a brief serenity washed over me, barricading me against the disturbing noise and heat, and enveloping me in a utopia of dark silence. It lasted but a moment; however, that untouchable calmness remained with me, and nothing ruffled me that day. A glass of spilled coconut milk soiling my intricately embroidered longyi was wiped away without a word of rebuke. The usually sticky thanaka balm staining my cheeks actually seemed to cool my face in the simmering humidity. Even the itchy welts on my skin, caused by mosquitoes, did nothing to agitate my newfound tranquility. I felt as if I the world was at my command. Of course, I couldn’t harmonize with birds, or even begin to spin simple music into magic. Yet, to this day, I meditate every night before my mantel decorated with gilded statuettes of Buddha, managing to obtain a few moments of quiet serenity, and savoring the reassuring weight of a golden locket dangling at my throat, gold that mirrors that of the walls of the Shwedagon. At night, Sleep comes easily for I’m confident in the knowledge that a guardian spirit protects me. Standing loftily on my bookshelf prances a jade horse.

Edited December 16, 2003 by Rhapsody

[Gwaihir]

A neat reflection, but it belongs in the Assembly Room I think.