Stop and breathe.

In the glow of clear dusk, I wandered narrow alleys and across a wooden footbridge. I watched games of petanque and stared at colonial style French and Lao architecture. And all this, before I stopped and found myself within a pristine temple ground that by setting sun was saturated in color; moreso than any other house or structure on the meandering route by which I had come.

If someone had freshly dumped buckets of paint in the minutes before my arrival, buckets of paint upon the walls, trees, flowers, and even ground and sky, but leaving not a smear, drip, or drop of imperfection -- no white of wall fallen upon green of grass -- this is what it would look like.

Cloud white walls of many rooms border lush grass blades that sheathed the earth, and a stupa glinted in sapphire reflection. Temple fringes burned in cherry wood grains, and a golden Buddha sat beneath the royal shade of a single purple blossomed tree.

The grounds were empty as novice monks disappeared into the temple for evening chants. I turned in a circle and stepped back, trying to swallow what my eyes and ears were feeding my mind.



Nothing seemed outside its proper place. Pieces of fiery orange robes hung from strings tied across open windows and outdoor hallways while few others draped over railings. Umbrellas with curved handles leaned in corners. Even the cat, that laid at the feet of cement steps looked as if it should be nowhere else but here.

Without a footstep other than my own, and without a sound other than tonal prayers that echoed upon stone within, I stopped and I breathed through my eyes and my ears.