The white scarf

As the Fourth of July was celebrated on a Tuesday I was in New York and made plans to spend the day at the New York Botanical Garden. The NYBG was founded in 1891 and is considered one of the finest botanical gardens in the world, with over 250 acres of gardens and a herbarium, conservatory, exhibitions, public programs, and art. Currently, the NYBG is featuring Dale Chihuly’s stunning, brightly colored blown glass sculptures tucked randomly, here and there, throughout the Garden.

Independence Day began as a beautiful July morning, with a cloudless sky, and I decided to walk uptown to the Metro North train station at 125th Street. Usually, I am traveling south down Lexington Avenue, infrequently walking in the other direction. When I passed 98th Street the culture changed. Now there were bodega’s and salons for hair braiding. Music wafted from the windows of the buildings bordering the avenue and people around me were conversing in Spanish. This is New York. One can be just a few minutes from home and surrounded by a different culture.

This thought came to me because of an experience the week before. A friend invited me to a Buddhist Temple in Queens to participate in a prayer service for her husband on the first anniversary of his death. A traditional ceremony in the Buddhist tradition.

The Temple is about twenty minutes from my apartment on the new Q subway line that leaves from Second Avenue and 96th Street. After changing trains at 63rd Street I reached the Jackson Heights-Roosevelt Avenue station and emerged into a neighborhood where a large community of people from Indian, Nepal, and Tibet live.

Most of the people worshipping at the Temple were seniors, brought to the United States by their relatives. They do not speak English and dress in traditional Tibetan clothing. For the women, this is a wrap dress covered with a colorfully striped apron called a pangden, which signifies that a woman is married. Jewelry, created with silver jade, gold and other stones and colorful tassels, and woven into chains of leather or threads that dangle from the neck or the wrist.

After a buffet of traditional Tibetan dishes, we entered the Temple for an afternoon of praying led by several Monks. At exactly 3:00 tea and a sweet biscuit were served. Then the woman who had served as a mother to my friend, and visiting from Canada, presented me with a Khata,  a white silk scarf, which symbolizes the joy of a visit and reverence for the person who is receiving it. A gesture of peace and graciousness.

At the end of the afternoon I walked the few blocks to the subway entrance, and down the steep stairs into the underground station to wait for my train. Traveling back to Manhattan I could imagine the cool breeze of the sacred mountains in Tibet and feel the damp earth beneath my feet. I cannot begin to understand the pain of the many people who have been driven from their homes in Tibet and forced into exile. In Jackson Heights they have found a place where they can gather peacefully and participate in traditional Buddhist ceremonies. This was my thought on the Fourth of July.