“I've just remembered,” she said as their feet pushed against the hot pavement, “I had this dream last year – July I think it was. Not that that's relevant – anyway it was all about my home town, well a bit of it, and – well anyway, at one point a whole load of people were flying past me and one of them was a little old Asian woman who smiled at me like she was really pleased to see me. And now I'm in Asia!”
“Well.” He was trying but he wasn't impressed. She'd thought at the time that it was maybe some foreign part of herself that she had to embrace. Some part of her that had been unseen or neglected.
Wat Pho. They followed everyone else. She had the thought for the third time that the area around the entrance to the temple was like a shoe shop. She huffed her own off. Socks too. For the third time she observed her chipped pink nail varnish. Embarrassing. Was it disrespectful? “Excuse me madam, but that sight is sorely offensive. Put your sweaty socks back on.” No. No one was looking. Anyway, her baggy long pants covered her feet, to the point of tripping her up. So now she'd got the habit of holding them up when attempting anything other than flat pavement walking (not a lot of that in Bangkok). Right. Onwards! Enough of this disgraceful self-obsession. Wasn't she in the presence of something other?
Over the threshold. More statues. More gold. But the first thing that grabbed you was the rows of soles, big small brown white, along the floor. Their owners were kneeling. A row of souls kneeling! First the heels, hard and round, then the soft squishy bit then the toes, all pointy pointy like ballet dancers, against the floor.
They sat on a bench at the back for a while, near the – ha! there she is! see? - elderly woman looking after the devotional stuff, the souvenirs, what she assumed were lotus buds, incense sticks, candles. She nudged him – I know how this works now. She put 20 baht in the box and picked up a flower, long stem with a teardrop shaped green bud.
Going forward on knees, kneeling and shuffling towards the row of candles in their holder. At end of row of candles a bucket full of sand for the incense sticks. Bow to the floor while kneeling, then move forward on knees to the bucket placed in front of the statue for flower offerings.
Once in the Adelaide GPO, she stood in line and watched in mild surprise as the floor at her feet hurtled downwards. Through carpet, concrete, foundations, to the red earth. Just for a few seconds. It was like a secret gift, and it made her smile, and she often recalled it. Now, in this temple: floor falling away, head full of bells and incense, spinning, the wolf howling beyond the church bells' circular protection, sounding out in a perfect circle, but the wolf beyond, darkness – teach me, or tell me, or something. Teach me. Looking at up, through, down. Eventually backwards on knees, back to the safety of the candles. She was offered a candle and incense. Shaking fingers dropped the candle right through the holder, but the woman came up and rescued it and placed it in the holder. (See – get the wax at the end to melt a little from one of the other lit ones then it will stick!) Sticking the incense stick in the sand bucket much easier. Watch the thin line of smoke spiral upwards. No floor, no ceiling, but infinity held together by a smoky thin very thin line.
Outside there were shoes and socks and the warm fug of a day in Bangkok.
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