Lasting Impression

It is the end of the day. We unload and walk down the gravel street to the edge of the world. Or so it seems.

The road ends at the beginning of steep stone stairs that go down into a lush green valley. The steps are flanked by rickety shopping stalls. Each Ibu calls out "Good deal!" as we pass. One displays trinkets and necklaces draped over her forearm. Hand crocheted purses catch Leasie's eye. I promise an Ibu I will come back to look at her beautiful batik quilts.

The stones steps are worn to a smooth softness. Dipped in the center. The steps wear the footprints of one thousand years of travelers.

We climb down through rice paddies - layers of emerald green pools cut into the hillside. We descend, step after step until we enter a jungle valley. Our climb is like something out of an Indiana Jones movie. And it is here, amongst the towering trees, the hanging vines, the moss tipped rocks, and a babbling stream, that we see what we have come for. Gunung Kawi. A tenth century Hindu shrine.

The rock face holds eight shrines, carved out of the cliff. To add perspective to the picture below - the first three steps on the stone staircase in front of the shrines are at our head level. The temples then extend upward almost thirty feet. The massiveness.

There is a beauty in ancientness. There is a tangible reverence that fills the air. To see something that has lasted, existed, endured weather, earthquakes, and generations. It smells of earth, of stone, of mineral, of permanence.

I think of the many hands, the labor, the sweat, the hours, the days, the years of chinking away at the cliff to make these monuments. And I cannot help but ask as I look up at the towering shrines, what is my purpose here? What will I leave here? In what way will I leave my mark upon the earth?
In my least self-doubting moments, I think maybe I will leave my writing...even if it is only in the pages of my journals. Or perhaps it will be through my teaching - though sadly there is nothing lasting or permanent in any measurable or visible way.

And then I hear it. The sound of laughter that seems to fit perfectly even in the hush of this place. A laughter that rings above the rush of the stream and the call of the evening birds' song.

My children. My life's work. I place my hand on the stone step that is rough with lichen. It crumbles on my palm.

I listen to the music of laughter echo off the cliff shrines, and I am content.