There were years when a troop of Tibetan monks visited the Glencairn Museum, near my home. Their saffron robes were as bright as the poppy fields back in California, or a shining planet. The intention was for the men to create a sand mandala over the course of a week, and visitors were welcome to watch. 

 

One time I brought my twins straight from a birthday party where there was face painting. As they sat watching, one of the monks looked concerned. He gestured to the smeared paint on their faces, asking if they were sick. I assured him, without words, that the paint was temporary. He looked relieved.

 

I confess that I had misgivings about what they were doing. The longer they labored over the images, pouring a trickle of colored sand in perfect piles, the more I loved it. But everyone knew that at the end of their stay it would be carried to the stream and dumped. All that work would wash away. I didn't approve. But no one asked me. 

 

Singing in the preschool is a dear spot in my schedule. The songs we belt out together are joyful, and fun. There were a dozen years when John and I pursued ways to make our music permanent, by recording it in a studio, and burning CDs. But I long ago let go of that aspiration, and the constraints it brought. Now I enjoy the freedom to sing with a flock of children, knowing that the music will float away. 

 

I think of those fields of poppies, that appear suddenly and lavishly. Thousands of people drive long distances to see them. Then, in a few weeks, the flowers are gone. 

 

If the monks ever come back to Glencairn I will feel differently. Their generosity in the context of a fleeting moment has changed me. The submission to being washed away, or forgotten, suggests to me something deeper. There is a trust that it mattered. And that there will be a chance to give again.