Paro, Bhutan. A street, a wall, a yellow burst of life in the mountain air, and there it is—the symbol of it all, the cosmic jest painted boldly in strokes of faith and humor. The phallus. It’s not just a phallus. It’s an ancient mantra written in form, dripping with the smoke of timeless prayers and the laughter of monks who know the secret of the void. This is not prudishness; this is freedom.

You see it everywhere here, on the houses, on the walls, on the winds that swirl around the hills—meant to ward off the evil eye, a divine joke on the demons who seek to invade the sacred space. It’s the Buddha’s outrageous, earthy truth, telling you to let go, to laugh at the absurd, to see the spirit in every line and curve of creation.

The mustard-yellow wall and that window, framed with its carved wood, cradle the painted phallus like it’s holding the pulse of the earth itself. It’s alive in a way Western minds might struggle to grasp, standing tall against shame, speaking for joy, for life, for raw, beautiful existence. It’s the wisdom of the Himalayas that says, “Here is life, here is spirit, here is everything.”

december 2024