At the River’s Bend
Dusk leans against the bank and the water forgets its hurry. A heron fixes the world with one unblinking bead of light. Across the far reeds, someone counts under their breath—not numbers, exactly, but commas between breaths, like a rosary of pauses. A boy skims a stone and the circle widens, then loosens, then disappears into small attentions.
I watch the river practise memory. It keeps what is heavy, lets go what is bright. The cicadas begin as if re-threading a broken necklace. A fisherman touches the hull of his boat with a hand that knows the grammar of wood. He waits. We all do.
I walked home with wet cuffs and an old thought: perhaps art is learning where to place the pause. Not the note, not the image—but the hush that allows them to be heard.
Also in Library
From Mountain to Monastery
Angkor Wat survived by learning to change its posture. Built as a summit for gods and kings, it became a place of dwelling for monks and pilgrims. As belief shifted from ascent to practice, stone yielded to routine—and the mountain learned how to remain inhabited.
Why Theravada Could Outlast Stone
Theravada endured by refusing monumentality. It shifted belief from stone to practice, from kings to villages, from permanence to repetition. What it preserved was not form but rhythm—robes, bowls, chants, and lives lived close together—allowing faith to travel when capitals fell and temples emptied.
The End of Sanskrit at Angkor
The final Sanskrit inscription at Angkor does not announce an ending. It simply speaks once more, with elegance and certainty, into a world that had begun to listen differently. Its silence afterward marks not collapse, but a quiet transfer of meaning—from stone and proclamation to practice, breath, and impermanence.
