Hands Unnumbered | reminiscence of Kyoto
Eyes closed in eternal slumber. Waiting, waiting.
It was a large chamber with paper windowpanes on one side, and high walls on the other. An aroma of sandalwood incense drifted faintly at the edge of my nose, although its origin was out of sight. With every step cold and firm on the hardwood and matted floor, I crossed the narrow entranceway. And as a mountain ridgeline surges suddenly from swirling mist, jutting into the sky as some felled colossus, sending a shiver down the pilgrim’s spine, so was there looming, towered in a shower of golden light, the first of a thousand Kannon. Opulent, hands clasped in silent thought, hands held in momentary positions — judgement, pardon, atonement, denial, salvation, deep and echoing insight — hundreds of hands fanned the figure of the bodhisattva. Eyes closed in eternal slumber. Waiting, waiting. Rows upon rows upon rows of kannon, all lustrous and still beneath the candlelight, all opulent in solitude, all gold upon gold upon gold. Beaming, each with a solar dais encrusted in golden light. Radiating the air of supreme judicator, as if to say to all who gaze — Look upon my works, ye Mortals, and despair!
Written in the hall of a Thousand Kannon Bodhisattva, Sanjusangendo, Kyoto. 10 April 2023
