There is a homeward road in Lhasa, not on any map. It keeps to the white walls, keeps to the river. At first light the wind goes ahead to wake the prayer flags. Stones wake and recall yesterday’s footsteps. Monks circle the hill. A yak carries the sky on its horns and herds the shade before it. Flowers kindle along the roof ridge. Mountains bear gold on their backs. Swallows keep watch under the eaves like postmen, and at night the stars find their own shortcuts. After dark, the road thins to a filament and sleeps inside each door latch. By morning the snow range draws it straight again, threading temple gates, old alleys, rivers, and the market’s warm breath - made for people and for every living being to walk together.
Spring travels with a drift of blossom, summer with lightning’s blue breath, fall with wind-bells, winter with the first clean snow. Pilgrims’ steps, a herder’s flute, a dog’s tail, the seed in its husk - each takes a turn at leading and being led along this way.
Walking it, the heart learns to keep a small hearth: a slow melting of cold. Through the seasons it finds a clear, quiet coolness. Wherever the road comes to rest, home gathers.
2025.8.23, Lhasa
