Kopan

The way to the monestary les me through places I never thought existed in the kathmandu Valley. Open fields and mountain vistas with broken rusting Tata trucks, roofs of thatch, naked children screaming. A butcher's shop, his wares, bloodied and swarming, spread out for all to admire. Tiny hobit holed hovel houses, infested with filthy inhabitants lined the dusty, rock strewn path, that maybe once was paved, maybe it wasnt. Tibetans and Nepalis living together side by side in astounding normalcy, in a region of the world where people die every day for their beliefs. And finally, on top of the hill overlooking the ancient stupa and medevil valley below, Kopan Monestary, a place of such ornate simple beauty. The thakpa's (Tibetan murals) awed me with their unashamed ferocity, what beauty, what colors. The monks were debating and yelling and loudly clapping their hands in the yard. I thought it was anger, but there is no anger in this place, only passion, and beauty, and struggle.

what is born will die
what has been gathered will be dispersed
what has been accumulated will be exausted
what has been built up will collapse
and what has been high will be brought low