Rice Bowls

 Rice 

Being is always becoming. - Buddha

It was a most spectacular sight in the early hours of morning.

As sunlight began its slow journey across the sky, monks dressed in bright orange, carrying bowls, purposely walked down the hill in single file.

Led by the oldest monks, they processed silently, barefoot.

Hubby says it was in Thailand. I don't really remember where.

What I do remember is that it was truly awe-inspiring, seeing hundreds  of them lining the streets. They were collecting alms. Gathering food for the day. 

Intermittently, they paused to have rice scooped into their bowl by men and women positioned along the road in intervals, almost like water stations in marathons. Neither monk nor lay person made eye contact with each other. 

Since then, I've learned that this was a silent and sacred ceremony that is steeped in tradition.

Historically, before the days of monasteries, the first Buddhist monks were homeless. Their only possessions were their robes and begging bowls. Disciplinary rules instructed them not to engage in agricultural labor and to keep only a few possessions. They were to eat only what was offered in their bowls each morning on the alms rounds.

Returning to the temple, they shared the food among themselves as part of their common meal. They ate twice a day, breakfast and lunch. They were forbidden to eat after midday.

I admire the asceticism.

The tenacity of spirit to let go of what they were, to become what they might be.

I'm thinking, a steaming bowl of arroz caldo or relleno shrouded in a scoop of rice would be a boost to their ever-evolving self.