Dear Stranger,
Here, the hills are stitched together with prayer flags.
They snap and tremble above the roads, carrying blessings into the air. At least, that is what people believe. A kind of magical telegram, sent without wires, addressed to whoever happens to be breathing downwind.
People here seem to live close to prayer. They breathe it in and out, especially those six old syllables:
Om mani padme hum.
The sound follows me through the dust, the doorways, the cold morning light.
I will not tell you this is the only good way to live. Every devotion casts a shadow somewhere. Even beautiful things can become cages when held too tightly.
Still, today the flags were shining around the sun, and the whole sky looked briefly handwritten.
I hope the wind finds you.
I hope it carries grace.
Anonymous
