Pieces of a few yesterdays scattered on the table of life with no chance of connection...
Students stuttering, whispering, thinking in a line through their speaking exams.
The pleasure disgust at a first haircut for former nun and the subsequent phone call of gratitude for “always being there for my firsts”.
The total lack of surprise from the postal workers when I arrive to collect another box from the states.
A bowl of rice in the hands of a monk, the same hands which showed up to tea with copies of the Book, and which causally flip the edge of his maroon robe over his head to block the glaring sun.
The most laborious potato soup imaginable tasting every ounce of its delicious effort.
Crumbling classrooms full of primary school students chanting new English vocabulary “paws paws p-a-w-s paws paws” give way to a concrete courtyard and the throb of crowds of small ones pushing in to get a close up of the foreigner in their midst.
A tiny, virtually unrecognizable girl in a purple coat scolded by her peers but unable to tear herself from the presence of the strange one.
A yellowing leaf trembles and drops from a tree into unsuspecting hair beneath.
Plowing into the heart of Lhasa and through swarms of vegetable sellers to eat cold noodles in a tiny hole of a restaurant to the amusement of the noodle chefs.
Discovery of the junk seller's name and hometown and that despite our limited means of communication she is a friend as well.
A DVD of a Chinese wedding complete with hearts nonchalantly floating across the television and more ceremony that can't be explained, an hours worth of reason to be thankful that I am not an unbelieving Chinese couple.
A language being formed out of symbols, cups of sweet milk tea, and giggles; understanding hiding just out of sight.
Free butter tea at a frequented restaurant and free vegetables at a frequented market.
A sunset in poignant shades of pink orange disappearing over the crest of the mountains.
Hands so dry and cold that the fingertips can't seem to hold themselves together.
Pieces overlapping, sliding off the table, being shuffled by careful though invisible hands... anything but connecting.
Emotions like pieces lying broken, irreconcilable, conflicting, on the vague sense that the gates of hell are trembling, these mountains are preparing to bow, and the evil one is throwing punches desperately, like he knows he's going down.
And he is.
And though I can't see the connection because the more I see the less I know: but I know... one thing... I love You. You the maker of pieces and the one who puts them together.
