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The interior of the monastary is pretty much as I expected, clean and
fairly spartan. The monks, many of whom are elderley, all have shaved
heads and long beards. They wear blue, hooded robes. (although most
prefer to leave the hood down) They shuffle through the candle-lit
hallways silently, lost in prayer or thought, acknowledging each other
with nods or brief words.
"We haven't had any visitors for quite some time." my escort, whose name is Brother Jess, tells me in a voice barely above a whisper. He leads me to the large room at the center of the building, where a large statue of a figure rests upon an altar. Several other monks sit cross- legged on the floor around the statue, in what looks like a trance of some kind. "This is the shrine of Baran." "Is he your...god?" I ask tentativley. "No, Baran was a man, a great man, who brought to us a philosophy of learning, strengthening the body and mind through meditation and discipline. He lived over 1000 years ago. Many followed in his footsteps at first. Through the years, though, our philosophy has fallen out of favor. The majority now shuns Baran's teachings, instead opting for the warlike path of the Sultans and their false gods. But Baranism is not dead yet, it is far older than the Artazian Empire as a political entitiy, and will endure, even in small monastaries like this one. Perhaps in time we can guide more people back to the righteos path, but not yet." I'm not what you would call religious, but I am open-minded, so listen to his story with interest. "Would you care to meditate with us?" he asks.
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9/6/2006 1:55:44 PM
Extending Enabled
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