Rosemary M. Magee makes her living as an administrator at Emory University. She is also a traveler who writes short stories and personal essays. Lately she has been exploring both the inner world and the external terrain of places near and far. She seeks enlightenment.

Moon Peak (August 20, 2011. Issue 30.)

I followed the moon to Dharamsala, and she followed me home again.

Before my travels commenced, I observed the moon taking shape. Its elongated crescent filled out on dark summer evenings until hearty enough to endure the rigors of a journey halfway around the world. She led me to that ancient yet present land where my daughter abides, where projects unfold, where chaos prevails, where holiness presides. My stated intention: to circumambulate—to experience sacred sites by walking clockwise around them in a suspended state of meditation. Such circular rather than linear pathways promised to take me somewhere new, closer to the elements of being, of nature, of meaning.

Until she presented herself at the start, I did not anticipate that the moon would become my guide, blossoming forth just like the journey itself—from the bud of an idea to a fully formed flower, a rose or a lotus, resplendent in the heavens. But who better to guide my orbits than the heavenly being already pursuing a roundabout pathway? Never ceasing, now and again throughout the depths of eternity she draws nearer, propelling tides as well as the rhythms of our own bodies with monthly and yearly cycles. The very particles that make up her being, just like our own, come from primordial carbon constellations that burst into being with the beginning of known time. We are stardust.

The moon, at the outset just a sliver, guided me and my fellow travelers across velvet skies, first to New Delhi with its busy commerce, cows, dogs, and monkeys ever present, its beeping auto rickshaws and beseeching vendors pushing and begging for space. Like a clerestory window, perched above the daily clamor, she opened up the night, her luminosity showering moonbeams on homes in distant spheres of the universe. Tashi delek, blessings and good luck, she whispered in our ears.

Up winding mountains we pursued our path—in and out of villages, haphazard construction zones, and dusty fields—together moving from the oppression of heat toward the promise of cool mists. The moon, accompanied by shooting stars that soared through the darkness, did not falter or vanish from our sight. Planets, too, playfully asserted themselves in her celestial neighborhood. Mountains glowed at night, ignited by her embers, as were we, her followers. Entering the roundabout stairway to the stars, we found the snowcapped crown called Moon Peak—after muni, the wise sage. Little by little, the destination of Dharamsala rose into being, enlivened by lunar radiance. And high above the mountain peaks floated that silvery sliver turning Indian gold. We are golden.

New rhythms arose as well. My daily circumambulations around the temple followed the lessons the moon radiantly displayed each evening, reminding me and other wayfarers to return to the place we started while finding something altogether new. Under her spell, congested village streets turned into a mystery of moonshadow as our circular paths consumed daylight and dreamlike nights. We came upon prayer wheels, sacred cows, and watchful monks as plentiful as fluttering prayer flags: all acknowledging the suffering of suffering, wandering on the wheel of becoming, and seeking the cycle of rebirth. His Holiness the Dalai Lama himself joined our journey, bidding us with prayer shawls and gleeful enlightenment to find the inner sanctum of self-knowledge, where one's own heart becomes the temple, where words transform our being: Om mani padme hum.

Dharamsala offered what its name augurs: "a place of shelter" for weary travelers. Along its byways, ramshackle stalls served up milky chai, lemon tarts, t-shirts, sacred objects—and the moonstones that became my touchstones. Those ancient gems of iridescent feldspar now shimmer on my wrist, my neck, my ears, serving as reminders of the enchantment of life's turning, changing ways. Just as we had arrived with the moon waxing, she still floated above, ready to turn us homeward. Thus one bright morning our circular paths led down the mountainside, away from the towering presence of Moon Peak and her nearby monastery with its thangka paintings, monks' orations and chants, and all that had animated our spirits.

Along those treacherous avenues, hanging over precipices with switchback turns, we made our way through villages where young children danced in the innocence of sister starlight while world events rotated on perilous axes. Upon our return to Delhi's hot clamor, the moon had nearly reached her fullness. Gazing at the hazy heavens from my daughter's balcony, I became intoxicated with thankfulness for our shining astral guide—all the while recognizing that she, as life itself, could wane as well as wax.

I took my leave from the crazy magic of India, returning across the earth's curved crust, never dreaming that upon my return that very same moon, the one who had started out with me—lighting my way over seas and hills and plains and city streets—would follow me back home again. And that I might come to understand unknown things from the roundabout circumambulations we pursued together. Along our pilgrims' path, something shifted inside of me, a certain deepness seeking to revive the inner life. The moon's shimmering proof of enlightenment kept tugging me toward a new understanding of home, both nearby and faraway.

All manner of serendipities shaped my pilgrimage in its auspicious unfolding, from the generosity of fellow travelers and guides; to holy newfound friends living on the other side of the world; to far-flung family brought closer together. None of these separate beings felt fully connected until they swirled together—that is, until energies and dreams encircled us in what Tibetans call madrip lhundrup, unplanned or spontaneous convergences. Together we found our interdependence.

Happiness—as with love, grief, despair, desire, and all those other unfathomable emotions—runs in a circular motion. So, too, an ancient prophet proclaims, "One plods along in a state of amazement, sometimes smiling, sometimes weeping." Certain conditions in life resemble earth tremors, if not quakes, where exile becomes the most natural pursuit or holiest response. But the comings and goings of the moon remind us of the steady middle way: at once living, working, and loving in this world, even while seeking refuge from it.

Like the moon, we do not generate our own light. Through reflection, the inner life calls and enchants, there for us when needed—if nurtured. Without such devotion it withers, becoming endangered, hard like a fossil, the remnant of a forgotten dream instead of the vibrant, breathing sentient being it is born to be.

The path is long, the incline steep—the truth lies within. From suburban yards in Atlanta to dusty roads in Dharamsala then back again, the moon's magnetism accompanied my pathway. Through her transforming presence, I recognized the fleeting peace of impermanence. With my daughter in Delhi, and with kindred spirits abiding still in Dharamsala under the spell of Moon Peak, at home I found fullness: recognizing that in no time at all she, the moon, would be both new and old again, as would we.

I followed the moon to Dharamsala, and she followed me home again.