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Cicadas! A familiar song. In a clearing by a waterfall near the river Khwae, the moaning droning voices of a hundred chanting monks. This was the Sangha, immune to the travesties of man and the desires that kindle suffering and regret. Here was a symphony, each element seemingly oblivious to the other, yet complementary in more ways then one could see or know. Insect, waterfall and man in harmonious song. As the sun began to set, I approached silently. Although I have lived in these woods for many years, these faces—this ensemble—were new to me. Silly, I thought, what is there to fear from the pious? But wait. They have put down their coverings and unmasked their faces. And they are chanting still. What is this? What kind of man recites the Dhamma with lips pursed closed? What truths are evident without having to be spoken? Stephen Landau
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