Still quite dark, I was awakened this morning by two competing prayers. As I lay in bed in a room that is basically floating on a lake, not too far off in the direction of my right hand there was the persistent call of a rooster declaring (much too early, mind you) his praise of imminent dawn.
On my left, far more distant and far more amplified, the voice of a single Buddhist monk leading morning prayers in a language foreign to my ears. Welcome, even at this hour.
My guess is that this lake, which is 36 kilometers long and 11 kilometers wide, 3 meters at its deepest but on average, only one meter deep (which is to say, not deep at all), along with the early morning air, acts as additional amplification, an auditory mirror of sorts.
I should also mention, it being about three degrees above freezing at this locale with its climate unique to the rest of the country, there was a third prayer, much less elegant, but never the less, still ferverent.
It was not may I remember the beauty and grace of this moment. It was not a prayer of gratitude to find myself breathing, or for the fine companionship in which I find myself on this trip. It was, instead,
may I stay in my warm bed just an hour longer.