I used to think monks are dumb. Well, that is overstated. For years there were a clutch of Tibetan monks who traveled each April to the nearby museum, Glencairn, for the purpose of creating a sand mandala. For a week visitors to the building could come observe quietly while they poured thin streams of colored sand into a six foot circle of animals, flowers, and religious emblems. They labored in their saffron robes for hours, though being monks they would have eschewed such a term. It was a spiritual practice. Sometimes they chanted. 

 

One year I brought my twins directly from a birthday party, and their faces were painted with butterflies and unicorns. Except that the frolicking nature of that event left them sweaty, leaving color smeared across their foreheads. We sat respectfully beside a pair of monks as they worked. One was concerned. In halting English he asked if my children were sick. I assured him that it was just paint. Trying to see it through his eyes I wondered if it seemed odd. Beautify these precious children with pigment? 

 

At the end of the week there was a procession. The mandala was carried from the great hall through the gardens and to the nearby stream, where the masterpiece was spilled. I never approved of that part, and did not join the parade. The finished effort was so lovely I wondered why they abandoned it. 

 

I am wiser now, or at the very least a bit less foolish. The notion of honoring our fleeting efforts on this planet makes more sense. Thirty years ago I taped every crayoned drawing to the fridge. I wonder now if my four year olds even cared. 

 

I am part of the music team for church. We rotate with songleaders, and violinists, and pianists for the purpose of praise each Sunday. The notion of bringing joy to the people in the room suits me well, and I enjoyed the ephemeral nature. Now that we live stream many services that can be watched later by any number of people I am reminded of those monks. While I comprehend the value of sharing the event with viewers at home it nibbles against my self consciousness. Distractions like how I look, and whether I flubbed a chord show up. I miss the impermanence. 

 

Awareness of my flaws has increased, such that I am content to see my efforts held as lightly as sand tossed in the spring air.