March 9, 2004
One-hundred and eight sandwood beads, worn through the countless repetition of mantras: om mani peme hung, bead. Om mani peme hung, bead. His ancient leathered fingers move at a pace somewhere between leisurely and hurried; the subtle clacking of wood on wood, the murmuring of the mantra drifting up to the shadowed wooden rafters above. The light carves scars of light and darkness across the prominent bones of his face, lips moving nearly unperceivably along with the Sanskrit prayer, catches the for-edge of the dun sandlewood and makes it shine as if with an inner light. Om mani peme hung.