Sacred Lake

I slipped out of Candor on the morning of the 5th before the ground fog had burned off. All along main street lawn chairs, construction cones, saw horses and even a garden hose reserved spots for the afternoon’s parade.

I meandered along back roads through rolling hills and farmland before joining I-86 at Corning, NY. Having zigzagged across New York, Pennsylvania and Ohio many times, I sought only to cover as much distance as I could. Just before noon I crossed the chimney of Pennsylvania and entered into Ohio.

Years ago I had watched a Tibetan monk sweep his hand across a sand mandala three days in the making. I followed the procession that carried the sand out to the lake and stood slack-jawed as the Lamas played their Dung Chens – long horns (up to nine feet) whose resonance I felt in my chest. The ceremony sanctified the lake, transferring all the benefits of the mandala to its waters.

It seemed madness to pass so close to the sacred lake without paying my respects, so I turned north on Rt. 11 to Ashtabula, OH and hung a left at the lake. At Geneva, I found a township park: a quiet stretch of lawn on a hill above a busy beach; a lake breeze offered respite from the growing heat. I settled into the shade full of gratitude to eat lentils and turnips my host hand packed me.