“Everyone dies, but not everyone is dead.” – Tibetan Proverb
Wednesday 1st November 2017
With care, I unscrewed the lid of the small Mrs Bridges glass jar. Because of the gravity of the situation, I had already removed the marmalade label. With meticulous precision, I moved the sacred contents into the pocket of my dark blue Berghaus fleece, carefully chosen as the pocket had a zip. Taking a moment to breathe, I stowed the empty jar in my red backpack.
Each step of the 250-metre climb towards Sera monastery impressed on us the weight of our solemn purpose. Standing at an impressive 3700 meters, the name Sera was inspired by the abundant wild roses where it was built. Symbolising endurance and spiritual transcendence, their distinct aroma merged with the thin, crisp mountain air. My father’s voice echoed with each stride, telling stories about the debating courtyard surrounded by trees. Today, I was returning a part of him to that place.
A vast bird, reminiscent of nature’s undertakers, soared high above us, black against the piercing blue sky. Circling as if paying its respects. Waiting for the next chapter of life and death.
The monastery serves as more than just a spiritual centre. It houses a wealth of Buddhist art and knowledge. Within its sanctified walls lie revered relics and scriptures, providing guiding tools for monks on their journey toward enlightenment. Exploring the monastery, I drew my gaze to the vibrant colours of the sand mandalas, a visual representation of the Buddhist belief in the fleeting nature of existence. Here, visitors can observe the creation and deliberate destruction of these mandalas. A ritual that emphasises the transience of life.
As we walked onwards, the aroma of incense and aged wood filled the monastery’s shadowy halls. The distinct sweet scent of melting butter candles hung thick in the air. The sound of my boots echoed on the creaky floors, harmonising with the distant hum of chanting. Grand statues, concealed behind layers of weathered glass, lined our path through the corridors. We exited through the old doorway and climbed further up the steps. Down the steps, coming towards us, a bulky yak appeared, its imposing form contrasted with the serenity. Yaks are essential to the Tibetan way of life, and I imagined him carrying stories of the mountains in his stride.
We reached our final destination. The debating courtyard. Monks draped in vibrant red robes paired off. Standing questioners posed their inquiries with theatrical gestures, while their seated counterparts offered answers. Every correct response echoed with synchronised hand claps, their sounds ringing through the courtyard. As the debates intensified, my anticipation grew. The time had come, dad. I ventured to a quieter corner of the monastery, surrounded by the whispering trees and overlooking the vast expanse of Lhasa.
One tree stood out among the rest, majestic, stoic, one of its trunks twisted outwards and up. This would be the place. I unzipped my pocket, sliding my hand inside. This is where I would scatter dad’s ashes.
