The other day a cherished neighbor gave me a gentle challenge: Could I just once not write about our political situation?
I thought over the past month or so. It’s that magical moment as the earth wakes up sending out signals in color — suddenly grass is that healing shade of fresh green; goldfinches become yellower each day; first daffodils, forsythia and even a couple dandelions open. Birds and flowers are mysteriously the same shade of yellow.
I talked with friends about the Buddhist monks who walked for peace 2,300 miles from Texas to arrive in Washington, D.C. mid-February. Their reception all through the deep south was remarkable. Their little rescued dog trotted along. One friend walks his adorable canine daily, and we discussed what would happen if every dog being walked had a sign saying “Walking for Peace.” The next I hear he put the sign on himself, not the dog. He says the reaction has been astonishing. People he’s never met, including several young men, ask if they can give him a hug. People strike up conversations or simply signal “Thanks!” “I’m not sure I’ve changed any minds,” he says, “but I’ve been changed.”
Last week brought uncommon experiences. Monday we attended the Mystical Arts of Tibet presentation at UMass Amherst. To honor the Dalai Llama’s 90th birthday, 2026 has been declared “The Year of Compassion” by Tibetans around the world. Six monks, arrayed in saffron and goldenrod robes, held several instruments: a complicated drum, cymbals of two sizes, and two long highly decorated metal horns that rested their bells on the floor. One monk introduced the ceremony: they would create a complex and intricate mandala using brightly colored grains of sand. After a week of construction, the mandala would be intentionally destroyed signifying the temporal fragility of all things.
The monks donned bright yellow crescent hats and began to chant, some with impossibly deep tones I have only heard in Tuvan throat singing that produces multiple notes simultaneously, one of the oldest forms of music. Instantly my body began to tremble, beginning deep inside and spreading outward. Tears streamed from my eyes. An in-breath brought a surge of electric sensation from crown of head to soles of feet. I was lost in sound. The words were unknown, but it did not matter. We were in the presence of something elemental and depthless.
Several times they lapsed into more familiar chanting and singing sounds, then added a cacophony of cymbals, drum and finally the resonate base sound of those long horns that felt like the penetration of sound into all cells.
After the opening, monks positioned a square, glossy black table. Wordlessly, they used chalked strings to precisely mark lines on the table. Working two across, they extended the string just so, then one snapped the line; sharp snaps made thicker lines, lighter snaps thinner markings. Round and round they went, adding line after line, carefully, precisely. Two monks joined using compasses fitted with wax pencils to make tiny measured marks at the intersections of chalk lines. Then with metal rulers and wax pencils they laid down another set of lines. Finally came a circular outer edge and suddenly the mandala form was evident. To my shock they swept away the chalk dust, but that revealed the wax pencil patterning to guide coloration of the design.
Nearby, brass bowls held mounds of brightly colored sand; thin brass cornucopia-shaped tubes were used to scoop up a color. Monks pointed the tiny opening of the cone over the design and scraped with a little metal tool depositing minute amounts of sand just so. In nearly silent choreography, the monks worked their art. It felt like they were painting us right into the mandala.
Friday we returned for the closing ceremony. Amazingly, the gorgeous finished mandala was three dimensional — tiny ridges of sand created raised embroidery throughout the intricate design. Again chanting and horns brought tears: I gasped as one monk made the first cuts through the mandala, then with an ornate brush swept the sand in gentle curves. To my astonishment, a new beautiful pattern with rainbow colors emerged. Suddenly I was filled with calm, deep and sure. Beauty resides even in loss.
After presenting tiny bags of sand to participants, the monks proceeded to the nearby pond where they offered the remaining sand to become part of the water cycle of life. We looked up to see the deep, clear blue sky above and felt the blessing.
Judy Wagner lives in Northfield. She sends gratitude to the monks of Drepung Loseling Monastery for their gift. Find them at www.MysticalArtsofTibet.org