those eyes in the sky
I walk around the Buddha stupa three times. That’s what you’re supposed to do. Clockwise, always clockwise. Tradition says three laps. No shortcuts. It’s a ritual.
An act of devotion. An offering of presence, humility, and whatever scrap of intention you can find buried deep within your consciousness.
The three times you walk around the stupa are supposed to represent the three jewels of Buddhism: The Buddha, the enlightened one. The Dharma, his teachings. The Sangha, the community. Walk the loop, let go of ego, try not to think about your phone or the food you ate for breakfast. You’re not supposed to be distracted. You’re supposed to be still. Focus on the ground in front of you and keep your feet steady. Try to find peace between the chaos of your own mind.
The stupa towers over you like a lighthouse for the lost. I’m not Buddhist, but I can respect the architecture of belief. The discipline of it, the slowness, the sense of belonging to something older than your debt cycle.
The local dogs are sleeping in the shade around the stupa. They’re half-aware, half-divine. You walk around them like landmines. Dogs are sacred here. In Nepal, there’s an annual holiday called Kukur Tihar, where they bless the street dogs. I heard they drape them in flower garlands, feed them biscuits, and sing them songs.
Midway through my third go-around, I hear a loud shriek. A woman in a long green dress bursts out of an alleyway. I stop and watch her and notice she's barefoot. She's sobbing and running toward the front shrine of the stupa. I stop walking and watch her. She’s not looking at anyone, just the stupa. For a second, I wonder if it’s performance art. Perhaps a radical act of public spirituality or Buddhist devotion. A monk comes over to her and starts talking with her in a hushed voice.
Later that night, a restaurant owner tells me that the woman's husband left her that morning. Just up and vanished. She has children. No money. She ran toward the stupa because there was nowhere else to go.
I thought about her over dinner. Thought about if she's going to figure everything out. Thought about how sometimes the only honest thing you can do is run barefoot through the streets.
I walk around the Buddha stupa three times. That’s what you’re supposed to do. Clockwise, always clockwise. Tradition says three laps. No shortcuts. It’s a ritual.
An act of devotion. An offering of presence, humility, and whatever scrap of intention you can find buried deep within your consciousness.
The three times you walk around the stupa are supposed to represent the three jewels of Buddhism: The Buddha, the enlightened one. The Dharma, his teachings. The Sangha, the community. Walk the loop, let go of ego, try not to think about your phone or the food you ate for breakfast. You’re not supposed to be distracted. You’re supposed to be still. Focus on the ground in front of you and keep your feet steady. Try to find peace between the chaos of your own mind.
The stupa towers over you like a lighthouse for the lost. I’m not Buddhist, but I can respect the architecture of belief. The discipline of it, the slowness, the sense of belonging to something older than your debt cycle.
The local dogs are sleeping in the shade around the stupa. They’re half-aware, half-divine. You walk around them like landmines. Dogs are sacred here. In Nepal, there’s an annual holiday called Kukur Tihar, where they bless the street dogs. I heard they drape them in flower garlands, feed them biscuits, and sing them songs.
Midway through my third go-around, I hear a loud shriek. A woman in a long green dress bursts out of an alleyway. I stop and watch her and notice she's barefoot. She's sobbing and running toward the front shrine of the stupa. I stop walking and watch her. She’s not looking at anyone, just the stupa. For a second, I wonder if it’s performance art. Perhaps a radical act of public spirituality or Buddhist devotion. A monk comes over to her and starts talking with her in a hushed voice.
Later that night, a restaurant owner tells me that the woman's husband left her that morning. Just up and vanished. She has children. No money. She ran toward the stupa because there was nowhere else to go.
I thought about her over dinner. Thought about if she's going to figure everything out. Thought about how sometimes the only honest thing you can do is run barefoot through the streets.
