There is a beauty that aches. This kind of beauty fuels the connections between people that Don has written so eloquently about and for that reason, is worthy of our attention. Angkor Wat, and the surrounding 12^th-16^th century temples just outside of Siem Reap, overwhelm the mind, with much to admire: the astonishing amount of human drive and effort it must have taken to complete the temple in 37 years; the craftsmanship and artistry, including the “apsara” carvings (women who only dance for gods or kings), each one unique in facial expression, dress, and gesture; the lofty ceilings and huge, vaulted doors (a vault is built opposite the way an arch is); the dialogue between interior and exterior space. It is the kind of place I would give anything to wander through several days in a row, away from the crowds and able to enjoy it from different angles, under the sheltering shade of the “spung” (silk cotton) and strangler fig trees that stand sentinel. This is not the kind of beauty I have been thinking about, though.

Close by Angkor Wat is the temple the King built for his mother (it also happens to be the temple that Angelina Jolie “rented” for one day for $10,000 to make Lara Croft: Tomb Raider). At the center of that temple is an ancient tree that has spread its roots in all directions and riven parts of the temple in two, splitting walls and insinuating itself into every nook and corner. It curves and wraps itself around the temple in impossibly graceful shapes. Experts have debated what to do with the tree: because it is still growing, it will ultimately destroy the temple, yet it is too far grown at this point to remove without destroying the temple. Somehow, over time, the tree and temple have formed a symbiotic relationship; one cannot live without the other. The tree, no longer antagonist, is actually supporting the temple, extending its life, imbuing the temple with a pulse and almost human vulnerability, hence the aching beauty.

No thing is immortal, though a 900-year old temple that has withstood the ravages of warring Hindus and Buddhists gives a proximate sense of the eternal. What is immortal is the flickering spirit that can alight and move within us in times of vulnerability. The guides who shepherd us around know how precarious life is. The stories of each, to an extraordinary degree, are marked by violence and poverty – whether it is Juanach, who is happier now bringing tourists to the waterfalls at his village than making his living as a poacher, or Mr. T, who lost his father at age 10 and his mother five years later, after she stepped on a bear-trap (please see Don’s entry for Mr. T’s story). These young adults relate their past in a matter-of-fact way and often speak about the person or persons who helped them along the way. Mr. T sports a tattoo on his arm that translates, “Benefactor,” and refers to the monk who taught him English.

In the last couple of days, I have been blessed with visitations of the spirit. And I believe these are likely to continue, because when you can’t speak the language, you tend towards deeper listening. I get a lot more information observing how someone is saying something, the expressiveness of their face, their body language, than I do attending to content. It’s kind of like taking the static out of your life, to arrive at the simple essence.

Yesterday at the temple, I decided to pay my couple of dollars and receive the Buddhist monk’s blessing. After his chant, he looked at me and said, “You did good. Good luck.” He knew that I had made myself available to receive his blessing. Later that day, I took a nasty spill on the bike and wondered whether his had been a good luck blessing. Then two things happened. First, after waiting for 20 minutes or so in the park for our tuk-tuk, Mr. T, without telling us, called his best friend to see if he could come pick us up. We still needed a tuk-tuk to get us out to the car, but then we met the friend in his air-conditioned car, which conveyed us in about 10 minutes, rather than 30, and smoothly, to the international hospital. When Mr. T told me that his friend was coming, I burst into tears. His gesture was so kind, so good. Later that night, Mr. T came to the hotel to drop off a traditional Cambodian cake (coconut rice and jackfruit wrapped in banana leaves) that his landlord had given him. The good luck continues. Lying on the gurney at the hospital, waiting for the X ray results, I was in a lot of pain and really thought I had fractured my left arm just above the wrist. They had put it in a splint, which helped a little, but the pain was coming in waves and making me squirm. Remarkably, the results came back and there was nothing broken, not even a hair-line fracture. I owe that monk more than the $2 I dropped in his bucket.

Our lives revolve around each other. My aim is to see the beauty rimming the clouds that cradle the setting sun. This is what I want to have on my mind.