“Out beyond understanding
At a pivotal point in remembering,
the spark burns.”
(Al-jaioun´s Story, Swan, 2002)
The city with the golden domes lies before her eyes. The air is clear, the sky a crystalline azure, with wide beaches of cerulean and cyan colors. The high mountains roll down towards the west; snow-capped, ancient, powerful. An icy wind blows from the heights and makes her shiver, time to go down, towards the temple-city.
It feels so good walking down the rocky path that she smiles. This could be another planet, she thinks, another time, another dimension, perhaps.
The yaks, like woolly packages, stand in the grey-green early spring meadows. Time for tsampa, it seems. She hates tsampa, but she takes it when the monks offer it to her. Anyway, she tells herself, it is something warm in the sub-zero temperature, and her fingers are grateful to close around a steaming bowl.
The Forbidden City of Shamballa leans against a high cliff, nestled at the end of the valley, the monks washing lines clearly visible on the ochre terraces. The pieces of cloth are of all the possible hues in the red and yellow spectrum, from bright orange to joyful crimson, to deep wine-red: the robes, drying in the sun, dance in the wind, like prayer flags.
She takes it all in, the beauty of it all, the golden domes, the red robes, the ochre buildings, the blue sky, white clouds floating by, the sun warming her skin. She herself looks like a bundle too, with the heavy layers of red and gold and turquoise damask superimposed against the cold. A bundle of joy, she drily muses, squinting her eyes against the sun that now, at midday, is shining like hell itself over the pristine mountains.
Oh I wouldn´t like to be anywhere else. This is home, after all this time.
Then she hunches her shoulders a bit, and enters through the magnificent dragon-carved door, into the city.