I once went to the place bathed in the most light and saw people returning to the human world — a force that is indescribable and beyond one’s power — from *The Divine Comedy – Paradise*
Writers and artists poetically liken Barkhor Street to a clock, with the Jokhang Temple as its axis and the circumambulating devotees forming the hands. Walking into Barkhor Street is like entering a circular time. It is a time that has transcended temporality—where sunrise and sunset, the cycle of seasons, life and death all present a perpetual, recurring rhythm.
One often sees countless worshippers prostrating themselves on the spot in front of the Jokhang Temple, murmuring prayers. “Mantras are sacred sounds, auditory symbols. They hold no concrete meaning, but like the tones and rhythms of music or poetry, they can evoke deep inner emotions, transcending thought and the ordinary forms of daily language.”
For beginners, reciting mantras in a direct and sincere manner can awaken latent inner strength. For others, it remains a mysterious practice. Without adequate preparation and the right mental state, merely reciting mantras is futile. Because the sound of the mantra is not only physical but also spiritual. Such mantras must be generated within the mind, allowing the soul to listen.”
The cyclical nature of time on Barkhor Street is reflected in the daily practice of Tibetan people walking clockwise around the street and the Jokhang Temple for one to three rounds. Barkhor Street resembles a giant spinning millstone, guiding everyone who enters this “field” to walk in a clockwise direction. “Those who step onto the streets at dawn, treading on dew, are the city’s earliest risers — the circumambulators. While the entire city remains asleep in the hushed fog, standing at the western end of the road leading to the Jokhang Temple, you can already hear the faint footsteps of worshippers who have just turned eastward. Most of them are elderly.”
Early-rising dogs like to bark at any sound or shadow, but never harm anyone. I, too, became a target of their greetings. When I came to understand the secrets of Lhasa at dawn, and walked fearlessly through the silent streets no longer startled by sudden noises in the darkness, I too became like a calm and focused circumambulator.” Ba Huang wrote this in *The Temptation of Sunlight and Wilderness – Ba Huang’s Spiritual History of Tibet*.
Spencer Chapman, a Briton who visited Lhasa between 1936 and 1937, wrote in his book *Lhasa the Holy City*: “The city of Lhasa itself is surprisingly small, with the perimeter of the small square in front of buildings being only two miles… The Jokhang Temple is the holiest pilgrimage site in all of Tibet.” “When a ray of sunlight glints on the golden roof of the Potala Palace, you will be deeply moved.” Aside from the basic biological routines like eating, drinking, and relieving themselves, much of the Tibetans’ daily life on Barkhor Street is spent prostrating, chanting scriptures, basking in the sun, and meditating. Prostrating on the spot is also called “Qia Cha” in Tibetan.
I knew a Khampa woman from Qinghai, an A-Jia, who would prostrate herself over two thousand times every day in front of the Jokhang Temple. In Lhasa’s winter, night falls more abruptly than in summer, almost impatiently. At ten in the evening, when all shops and stalls on Barkhor Street had fallen silent, passing by the Jokhang Temple, you could catch a glimpse of the A-Jia’s wind-chapped, flushed face. Her slender frame possessed an unimaginable energy, resisting hunger and cold from within. Standing in the flickering lights of the Jokhang Temple, she was like a lighthouse steadfastly guarding the seas day and night.
I remember the latest I ever saw her was at eleven at night. There were very few people left prostrating in front of the Jokhang Temple, yet she remained. I walked over to greet her. Seeing me, she smiled warmly, then took my freezing hands in her own, calloused and warmed by countless touches with the earth. Much of our conversation wasn’t based on language, but on gestures and smiles. Though we spoke different languages, it didn’t hinder our interaction. My halting Tibetan left me, usually quite talkative, feeling tongue-tied and frustrated.
The A-Jia said she prostrates from five in the morning until eleven at night, every day. Day after day, it becomes a habit she cannot break. She is perhaps the most “early-to-rise and late-to-bed” among all the devotees at the Jokhang Temple. Her life maintains a certain constancy, with the rhythm of military discipline.
For her, time seems unimportant. She gambles her whole life on a future life whose rewards are uncertain. And yet, time treats her rather harshly. She rises early and stays up late to prostrate, never late, timing everything just right. Even the most precise scientific calculations can’t match her keen perception of the passage of time. My sense of time is completely reversed compared to hers.
Often, just as she wakes from sleep to begin her prostration practice, I begin to feel a bit drowsy and drift off. When she murmurs softly under the sunlight, my biological clock has shifted into night mode, and I snore wearily. When she offers her final devout prayer to bid the day farewell, lies down, and quickly falls into a deep sleep, I have just begun to write. My biological clock says it’s daytime — my peak period of concentration. Thus, it seems we walk at opposite ends of the time spectrum, our perceptions of time entirely divergent.
Perhaps, when I pride myself on living in the present, immersed in the meaning and value of work, Tibetans silently and calmly fulfill their vows of spiritual devotion and reverence to the divine. Their bodies exist within the physical realm of the present world, but their spirits have long transcended the boundaries of this life, yearning toward the next. But this process is something we cannot perceive — whether the soul is oriented toward this life or the next. As the saying goes, seeing is believing. Within the realm of material facts, this standard generally holds true, but it is entirely inapplicable in the domain of spiritual value.
Ideals, faith, truth, love, kindness — these spiritual values never exist in a visible form. Their realization can only take place within the human heart. Undoubtedly, whether or not one possesses faith will inevitably manifest in outward behavior. Yet, the root of the difference lies within, in this intangible realm. Some live in light, while others live in darkness.
The lights of the Jokhang Temple are the first to be lit and the last to be extinguished. The ignition and dimming of these lights symbolize two of life’s greatest philosophical questions — birth and death. Here, not long after a baby is born, they are taken by adults to the Jokhang Temple to be blessed — a ritual called “the first outing.” And when someone dies, the family will offer the deceased’s name, light lamps, present khata scarves, and perform merit-making rituals in front of the Jokhang Temple’s statue of Shakyamuni Buddha, praying for the Buddha to guide the deceased’s soul to the afterlife.
On the morning before the body is taken to the sky burial site, under the guidance of incense bearers, someone carries the body to the front of the Jokhang Temple for a final prayer. A khata and a lamp are left beneath the porch of the Jokhang Temple. Only after circumambulating Barkhor Street is the body taken to the sky burial ground. Thus, for the Tibetan people, birth and death are inseparably linked to the Jokhang Temple. Barkhor Street penetrates the entirety of a Tibetan’s life — it is both the essential starting point of life and the ultimate endpoint of existence.
Mysterious Tibet teaches flower-like maidens to pledge their lives to love and stirs the hearts of even the proudest men. About Tibet, most know about the Potala Palace, but few know about Tibet’s first palace — the Yumbu Lakhar Palace. About faith, many have heard of circumambulating sacred mountains and lakes, but few have experienced the piety of prostration or the hardships of spiritual practice. About vows, many yearn to visit Tibet to admire its scenery and purify their souls, but few choose to stay here, or even to “marry” this sacred land.
However, Gu Yesheng enjoys such a life: bathing in the pure blue sky, sipping the homemade yellow wine of the Monba people, and celebrating the Lhamo Festival with Tibetan compatriots. This woman who makes Tibet her home has compiled her essays into a book, simply to tell the world: even when leaving one’s homeland and wandering, if the soul has a place to rest, one will not feel adrift. For where the heart finds peace, there is home.