There was too much food last night. This morning, there was also too much food. And too much food this evening. If this sounds like a family gathering, you'd be correct. In addition to my grandparents' sixtieth (yes, that's 60, 074, 0x3c, 111100, or possibly 6e+1) anniversary, we also had celebrations for having much of the family together in one place, the Connecticut aunt's birthday (in August), and my father's birthday (also in August).
I attempted to cook bacon. I only half-succeeded. But our lovely hostess (the Colorado aunt) saved my arse. For someone with no practical experience, it's probably an acceptable result. (Nothing wrong with learning, right?)
We got photographed a lot today. Posed photographs are one topic on which my mother, the Colorado Aunt, and a hired photographer (!) all seem to agree. I prefer candids, or humorous poses, but I was outvoted. I used to be much more of a pain in the arse about posed photos; am I getting soft in my early middle age?
The women of the family must be rubbing off on cousin R. Though 35 years and a few hundred miles separate her from CO-Aunt, the two look remarkably similar. I hope R finds her own way in the world. Good brain, good looks, good upbringing from principled parents, good drawing skills, good reading skills, good writing skills. If she keeps all that up, I'll let her slide a bit on the math and science. (She lives on a farm, so I won't fret if she doesn't grok UNIX.) She deserves an SO who isn't a shmuck.
Somewhere in between all the food I got one of my wishes -- that we at least go out somewhere for a walk, if not a short hike. I wanted to get out and see something. CO-Aunt tells us there is a Buddhist stupa not too far away, up in the mountains to the northwest, somewhere between Fort Collins and Laramie. (By the way, that's pronounced stoop-ah, not schtuppa. I admit, I'm tempted to let some Yiddish pronunciation in there, but it's very inappropriate, given how the Yiddish translates...) After some logistical bungling around and CO-Aunt's misunderestimation of the drive time -- if the President can mangle English that badly, so can I -- we arrived.
The stupa itself is quite impressive, and is an ongoing work. Simple in design yet exquisite in detail, exhibiting four-way symmetry with a different color on each face. Though the structure is square, it sits on a circular foundation of paving stones; walking clockwise around the structure several times is said to provide perspective to one's thoughts, if they are focused.
A small pedestal of offerings sits on the path to the stupa. Most people leave money -- a few coins, maybe even a dollar. I did see one 10-peso coin, probably Mexican. Others leave items of adornment: a pink crystal on a leather cord, an elastic band for tying back long hair, or a rubber bracelet linked to a charitable cause. One person, long since departed, left a wallet-size photograph of Mister Rogers in a small brass frame.
Inside the stupa sits a concrete statue of the Buddha, still scaffolded for construction, open-eyed yet pensive, partially yet not haphazardly draped in amber cloth. The polished marble floor around him bears many designs; the walls around him have spaces for offerings. Both CO-Aunt and CT-Aunt found reason to medidate inside; I simply walked around, attempting to remain as quiet as possible. I declined to use my camera inside for fear that the simple click of its digital shutter would be too jarring.On a hill behind the shrine is a torii gate over a pair of tire tracks which leads to a Shinto shrine to Amaterasu Omikami, source of all light. Past the five red poles in the ground, the odd inverted rope basket on a stick, the low chimney, and the large cluster of Gumps (er, port-a-potties) is a small shelter, under which you are invited to cleanse your hands and your mouth with water in order that you may properly approach the shrine and leave an offering. The path is no longer abused grass but fine gravel lined with rocks. Two more torii stand between the supplicant and the shrine, each asking for a bow before passing under.
The shrine is just inside the forest edge. Evergreen trees mute the strong afternoon breeze; I only hear the occasional chirp of a bird and the soft sway of pine and fir. A final torii stands over a low offering-table of stone, between me and the shrine proper. Four vessels rest atop it; one bowl for rice, one bowl for water, one bowl for salt, and a cheap glass vase. A few coins, a pendant, and an army pin rest in front of the bowls. Lacking rice and salt, and not feeling ascetic enough to part with some of the water I brought with me, I place a nickel near the pile of coins and step back to study the rest of the shrine.
The shrine is a small building fenced in simple wood, only its upper half visible above the gate which I am asked not to open. A circular crest or symbol of some significance adorns the spire on the structure; even with my slightly far-sighted eyes, I cannot discern the details in its center nor read the inscription along its lower curve. I choose to stand in silence for a few moments, looking at the shrine, listening to my surroundings. I appreciate the great many things, tangible and abstract, from which I have removed myself by coming to this place. It is temporary refuge, but it is enough.
I turn and walk back down the gravel path. At the water basin, I meet my two aunts, my uncle and his children, and my inquisitive brother, who asks for help. I am disappointed that I must speak to answer his question.
I suspect that my grandmother would like it up there, but her legs just aren't what they used to be. One of her descendants will show her the pictures.
After an evening of yet more food, Mom gets out her pictures of her recent safari with Dad in Kenya and Tanzania. I expected many good photographs of animals and scenery; I did not expect to see her dancing with Masai. CO-Aunt gets a vacation idea; it sounds a lot like mine, if either of us could ever afford it.
(edited and posted on 2005-07-22)