Involuntarily to write a unique waypoint at the destination, which countless masses have been visiting for many decades? Do not be. Concentrate on your unique experiences.
I had the privilege of spending a week at Niagara Falls in September 2009. The greatness and power of nature were in full screen in the loud waters, surrounded by peaceful autumn foliage and colorful untouched gardens. The evening fell, and I walked along the misty periphery of the Canadian Horseshoe Falls to a multitude of international tourists and tourists. I turned, going uphill about a quarter of a mile away from the waterfalls and towards hotels and casinos. I curved up right on Fallsview Boulevard. The ghostly height of the street, the bustle slowly left the air. A patch of copper colored street lamp fell on the neon light of a closed tattoo parlor. The road ended, and a new, perpendicular to the first one began. The young man was a nightmare from me through the intersection. In the late 20s, he lived with a wise beard; he made jumping jacks, counting each jump. Suddenly, he shouted his head loudly to the side, grunted and rushed towards me. Having passed, he shouted: “White power!” And then fell, lost quiet shadows on the street.
The next morning I continued my tourist taste. Arriving on the White Boat Walk, I was surprised to see a Buddhist temple across the street. For reasons that I do not know, I have never been able to resist visiting houses of worship. Instead of walking to the White Water Walk, I rushed to the temple. Rows of tinned Buddhas decorated the sculpture garden outside the entrance to the temple. Oddly enough, the Buddhas in the same row were headless, carved and flat on the neck. The image was striking, it awakened many curious questions and assumptions in my mind: perhaps the Buddhas in this series have risen to heaven, and where their head sits; this series symbolizes ill-considered life; These Buddhas represent the eternal aspirations of man to attain spiritual fullness.
I moved from the garden of the sculpture through the large wooden doors and into the temple itself, to clean wooden floors. Hundreds of brass Buddhas decorated the shelves along the back wall, and the serene and faint smell of incense and sandalwood kissed the air. A tall, thin man with a shaved head was sitting quietly on a long folding table next to what looked like a center with a modified zone. I walked past him; he held a loop of wooden prayer beads in a relaxed palm, his thumb slowly pushing from one ball to another, a distracting look on his face. He smiled as I passed by, and I could not help answering his muffled greeting with a question: “There are a number of headless Buddhas in the sculpture garden outside. What do they symbolize? ”
“Actually,” he replied, “one night a group of drunks passed and shot down all their heads.”
I'm still embarrassed.
I was outraged.
I told him that I was very sorry to hear that; I shifted the folded account to the donation box.
I left, having learned that even here, in the depths of nature and boundless beauty, we humans cannot help but succumb to our weaknesses and neuroses -
White power ...
Without the head of the Buddha ...
We have a long way to go.
Will we go there?
