Sanctum - a Meditation on Srah Srang

Sanctum
Srah Srang, Angkor

Stone drinks the rain,
and for a breathless moment,
time bows its head.

The lions do not guard—
they remember.
The naga’s spine curves
like a hymn half-whispered
to the sleeping lake.

A lone palm
rises not in defiance,
but in devotion.

Here, even emptiness
has presence.
Even silence
is etched with reverence.

And you—
a passing shadow—
are welcomed
as though you, too,
have always been here.

Meditation:  Sanctum
On the Threshold of Srah Srang

There are places in this world where the veil thins—where the visible and invisible seem to touch, if only for a moment.  Srah Srang is such a place.

In the hush before dawn, when the air still carries the breath of rain, the ancient jetty stretches forward like an invocation.  Stone lions sit in stillness—not as guards, but as witnesses.  The naga balustrades, worn smooth by centuries of sun and monsoon, curl gently toward the water as if remembering the hands that shaped them.  Each surface holds the weight of time, yet nothing feels heavy.  Everything, somehow, is lighter than light.

To stand here is to stand within a prayer.

The lake does not reflect—it absorbs.  The sky is not above—it is within.  And the lone sugar palm, rising with quiet authority beside the water, seems less like a tree and more like a keeper of vows: a being who has remained upright through empires and silence alike.

Here, nothing demands.  Nothing performs.  The sacred has no need to announce itself.

This is not a place to look at.
It is a place to be in.
To arrive, unguarded.
To feel the hush within mirrored by the hush without.
To remember something you did not know you had forgotten.

And perhaps, if you are still enough,
the temple of yourself will open.

Artist’s Field Journal Entry (Excerpt)

6:12 a.m., Srah Srang
Rain just passed.  Sky washed white.

The moment was so quiet it felt dissonant to move.  A heron lifted once from the far bank, then disappeared into cloud.  The stones beneath me, still wet from the downpour, held a coolness that steadied me.

I noticed the nagas first.  Their curves were gentle, not fierce.  The lions no longer roared.  They kept vigil.  I thought:  these guardians are not protecting the past; they are holding space for something eternal.

The palm stood apart.  It didn’t need to belong.  It just was.

I exposed the film for several hours, sketching as I waited in the twilight, the light is now barely beginning to dawn.  I was hoping not to capture a scene, but to honour an atmosphere.  A pause.  A memory of reverence that hadn’t yet faded.

Still water listens—
naga breath, lion silence,
palm tree keeping watch.