Continuous praying

Yesterday I went to a temple built around caves that lamas have been using since ancient times. The temple was built in the 14th century, I believe, not so new itself. As I climbed around the temple, it is up many stairways that look more like concrete ladders than stairs, I came across a small courtyard, maybe 10 feet by 15 feet. In the center was a small altar and around it were buildings, each one room deep. One side of the square wasn't a building but rather a cave that was still being used. As I stepped inside, I discovered that the cave went back maybe five feet, with a width of about eight feet. Inside was another altar with candles, a statue of Buddha and two monks who were praying. The monks were sitting on the floor by the door with strips of paper on a small stool in front of them. The paper had prayers written on them that the monks were continuously reading, turning one over and reading the next as they intoned the prayers in quiet, deep voices. I felt awkward, walking past them to get to the altar but they seemed undisturbed. After standing quietly for a bit, letting their voices weave around me, letting my eyes accustom to the dim light, taking in the statue of Buddha barely discernable from age, candle drippings and red wax or clay that is put on it, I found myself relaxing. This is their life. No need to rush or apologize. They do this every day, all day. People, tourists, pilgrims come and go. They sit and read the prayers. The older monk's eyes never left his prayers; the younger monk looked directly into my eyes after I stepped back out and turned to bow. I found myself thanking him. It's hard to explain the gratitude I felt. As I stumble about, walking fast sometimes, slowly others, and some days hardly moving, these men are praying. They pray for all sentient beings. They pray for peace in the world. They pray for enlightenment in our souls. They sit on the stone floor, in the mouth of the cave so they can read their prayers, wrapped in cotton cloth robes and intone truth, love, and generosity of spirit.

I went to numerous temples yesterday, some Buddhist, some Hindu. The Buddhists and Hindus often share a temple, each honoring the other's gods. The god of creation, the god of destruction, the god of protection. My guide told me that Hindus have 36 gods in all, the three major ones and their offspring, the lesser ones. They pray to them all. I asked my guide if he was Hindu. Yes, he said. I pray to all the gods, Hindu and Buddhist, but, he acknowledged, whatever you are born, that is what you truly are. What a thought; that religion, like family, is so embedded in your bones that no matter what happens to you, that root never fades. It made me think that if you're not born Hindu or Buddhist, you can never truly be one. Maybe intellectually, maybe emotionally, but not bone deep, not returning to this rhythm of adoration that speaks of home, of gods, of protection. Unless, of course, in another life, you knew this way and this undeniable song that sings through your bones, your memory, calls you home.

Today it rains, as it did yesterday, and I stay in my monastery. Life's routine reasserts; email, blog, phone calls, writing, reading, walking, chatting with new friends. But that image, of those two monks in the cave comes with me, like a low throb barely discernable. Somewhere, there are monks, more than these two, spread throughout the world, praying to different and similar gods, asking for peace, asking for loving kindness, asking for enlightenment for all sentient beings. Maybe I don't have to understand it, maybe I can just lean into that chant, that hum that throbs below the din of everyday life and rest.