Every morning in Luang Prabang, as earliest dawn winks at the navy-hued sky, monks prowl the neighborhood like an orange-clad street gang.
Their alms bowls are slung over bare shoulders, empty vessels waiting to be filled.
On the road, the devout unfurl bamboo mats and squat on their haunches. Vats of sticky rice are ladled into woven containers. Plates of fruit are arranged.
The monks wag their way down the street, a caterpillar made of robes. The air is electric, but silent. I think the birds even stop chirping in a display of respect.
The people fill the alms bowls with fistfuls of warm sticky rice and bananas the size of thumbs. Along the way, others toss in packages of instant noodles, candy, juice.
The Buddhist monks exist because of what is given to them. They live off these alms, eating only until noon each day, eating only the things that end up in their bowl.
If there are no believers on the pavement, the monks go hungry. But day after day after day, they are always sustained.
The daily ceremony is a perfect symbiotic moment. Where giving and receiving are the same. Where offering becomes accepting. Where everything is one.
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