The Mandala Date Friday, April 19, 2024 - 12:36 PM PST Topic Beauty I sit wearily in English class as a teacher who looks strikingly like my dear mother stands in the front of the class reading from a list of announcments, half bored with herself and with teaching a class of uninspired people who look to be on their third run of English classes. The longest and most syllable-intensive sentence she spews fourth proclaims itself to be the herald of several Tibetan monks on campus speaking to classes and creating a Mandala in the cafeteria stage area. The class ends shortly after, being that she has no further lessons to teach us and the syllabus prevents her from advancing as fast as she would like to. Just like my mother. The small stage where the monks have set up shop is just a podium stand at the front of the cafeteria, with the Mandala resting withing about 20 square feet on plastic chain.  Two young monks work on it when I arrive, slowly chanting a song of worship.  They pay little attention to the art students around them, focusing on every grain of sand they put in to the mural.  I missed the opening ceremony and they have worked quickly, and a petal shape faces me.  Within the center of the shape resists a bed of what look like rosebuds, cradling a symbol of good luck.  One of the monks flaters slightly and the other jokingly accosts him, beating him about the head lightly with a small stick- lightly only because it is so early in the mural that simple mistakes make no difference.  A young black man and his colleagues to the left of the mural is conducting a bible study, reciting some passage of Job where a man is tempted by Satan, and the good god does for a man if he possesses faith that the lord will provide and protect.  The monk who was accosted moves to the edge of the stage after the chubbier of the two pushes him away. He sits on the edge of the stage and listens to the boy conduct his bible study, watching him intently.  The preacher-in-training quiets himself signifigantly.  A few moments later, the monks moves again and begins sorting grains of sand individually from a large pot to create the perfect shade of yellow for the Mandala.  The preacher-in-training raises his voice high again, higher than last time, ovr the noise of a cafeteria crowded with hungry college students so that all on the stage watching the monks may hear the word of god.  The words of the sermon are so familiar they almost become a vacant recording, save for the occasional pounding of a fist on the table where the Christians are sitting and a passionately cried "AMEN!" from one of the audience.  This same sermon was on the 700 club two months ago, I remember. I walk to the food vendors, get a slice of pepperoni pizza, and begin to ponder what she'll be wearing in French today.  Maybe a thong.When I return from French with Erica, the mandala has progressed greatly.  The defining features have moved outward, and small patterns are now in every petal, of every one of the symbols that represent blessings, and the picture is coming in to shape, moving out in it's borders, nearing the edge of the table."It's amazing," I whisper, observing each of the monks is now wearing a face mask to prevent heavy breathing."We never saw these types of things in Argentina," Erica says, sipping in a diet coke lazily and observing the mural with a passive attitude.There are four monsk now, each robed in a beautiful crimson robe stiched together lightly.  One of the monks is adjusting the lights on the stage so they face a small altar at one end where a picture of the Dhali Llama rests inside a golden frame, surrounded by beautifully embroidered red and yellow silk.  two monks now sit, sorting grains of sand to create impossible shades of pink and green and red and white, impossible simply because it is sand.  I glance at my watch and realize the bus will be there in about 5 minutes. "I gotta run.  See you tomorrow?  Might skip class to check out the closing ceremonies."  "Sure, I got nothing better to do.""Alrighty then.  Good luck in athropology.  Hope you don't pass out.""With that teacher, I'll be lucky.  I still have half an hour, might watch this a little longer.  See you."The bus is late, and I take the 112 rather than the 93.  One of the informational pages contains a listing of all the seperate blessings and their respective symbols.  Another displays the list of monks of the temple where these monks come from, and a series of happy smiles and red-and-yellow robes look back, along with a small personal writing from each of the monks about what their life is like.  Another poster contains information about the genocide in Tibet, and the pictures surrounding it of protesters who aid them.  I see a picture of my "Crazy Aunty" holding a sign that says "Free Tibet" while walking among a rather large demonstration.  She leads yearly tours to Tibet.  As I drop a dollar(all I had for all you "cheap bastard" accusers out there) I casually look towards one of the lunch tables where about ten monks sit, eating chicken wings and breaking open can of coca-cola.  The Mandala is now nearly complete, and two monks work tirelessly on fine lines surrounding the mural.  The lines are so fine and perfect that they look like pipe-cleaners bent into fine lines rather than sand.  Each line is so perfect, and each color is so sharp and vivid.  The mural is beautiful thing.  An art student stands next to me, gasping."Amazing."He took the words right out of my mouth."Yeah."Fine symbols of thin amounts of sand border the inside square, and sraight diagonal lines divide the square into four sections- red, green, yellow, and white.  The symbols are odd colors, but are so thin and layered so perfectly they look to be just normal section dividers.  The grains are sorted into sharp lines, forming in to curves, and each curve is mirrored perfectly by the other three dividers.Art is such an amazing thing, throughout all cultures.  All tools, all canvasses, all paints- be they oil, sand, or colored water- represent the deepest emotion we can muster.  The world itself is art, and the blind, the deaf, or the mute can still feel the art that life is.  Everyone can, no matter the handicap.  I just wish all people could see, feel, hear and smell the art that life is, for at least one day and for the rest of their lives remember the beauty that it was.  Remember what a gift all life is, and love all that is around you, no matter the shape, for the art of life is everything. This article comes from Shmeng http://www.shmeng.com/ The URL for this story is: http://www.shmeng.com/modules.php?op=modload&name=News&file=article&sid=159