Thousands of lanterns, rising together above a thousand-year stupa

The sky is not yet light, and the monks have already formed a line, barefoot, heads bowed, walking slowly around the thousand-year-old stone stupa of Borobudur. The air holds the cool of dew and stone, the distant volcano only an outline in the morning mist. No one speaks, only footsteps and low chanting; standing at the very outer edge of the crowd, even one's breathing unconsciously softens.

Vesak is Buddhism's most important day, marking at once the Buddha's birth, enlightenment and passing, falling on the full moon of May. The day before, the monks set out from nearby Mendut temple, pass Pawon temple, and walk all the way to Borobudur, bearing along the route holy water drawn from a sacred spring, a flame lit from an undying fire, and the scriptures — that walk is itself part of the rite, carrying faith step by step to this stone stupa raised twelve hundred years ago.

The instant the full moon rises to its zenith, thousands sit in silent meditation beneath the stupa, no one making a sound. That time I came with my mother — she is old now, her legs poor, yet she insisted on completing the whole circuit around the stupa. The moonlight washes the whole stone stupa white, the volcano's outline floating behind. I helped her sit at the crowd's edge; she closed her eyes, pressed her palms together, a sight I had seen since childhood, yet in this silence of thousands, for the first time I felt her small, quiet devotion carried a particular weight.

After nightfall come the sky lanterns. Thousands are lit and released at once, rising slowly above this largest Buddhist monument in the world, the stupa's outline drawn out by the lantern light, as if floating in the night. Mother held her own lantern, slow to let go, her lips faintly moving, as if confiding something to someone. I asked what she had wished for; she said she could not tell, that to tell would break the spell — and then we let go together, watching the two lanterns rise side by side into a sky full of light, no longer any telling whose was whose.

The instant the lantern left her hands, a wave of heat struck the face, the faint scorch of cotton paper mixed with the cool of night dew. Thousands of lanterns floated up together, the light brightening a little every upturned face. I turned to look at Mother; she was gazing up, her eyes bright, like a child — it had been a very long time since I had seen that look on her.

The lanterns rose far off, the sky neared dawn, and the crowd slowly dispersed. I helped Mother slowly down the stone steps; she said little, only kept looking up at the sky that had just been full of light and was now returned to night. What I came to remember was not any one lantern, but the feeling, supporting her arm, of a hand lighter and thinner than in my memory. I think if you too accompany someone growing old to see lanterns like these once, you will likely be like me, and what you remember will not be the lanterns, but the person beside you.