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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 10, Number 1, March 2016

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Andrea Cecon
Cividale del Friuli, Italy


Apricot

This is definitely the smallest Buddhist monk I've ever seen. He might be six or seven years old, probably sent here by a monk of a higher rank. He's wearing a purple robe and his head is completely shaved. During the audiometry he doesn't open his mouth, giving me answers with quick nods. I congratulate him, telling him there isn't any hearing loss, but he keeps silent, observing with utmost seriousness and composure. He probably doesn't speak English.

On the table of my working room there is a bag of dried apricots: a gift from Dr. Namgyal. I give one of them to my little guest. He accepts the offer but to my surprise, instead of eating it at once, he falls into a long and silent contemplation, holding the fruit in his small hand. After a while, giving me a quick glance, he wipes the apricot on his robe and hides it somewhere in its many folds.

Buddhist temple
a gust of wind brings
the mantra back

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