![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_S3Y7LTvt0yD-Rs65JOmNVLL_X7G4BQ8nJIIEaqKlWBVOp1zB-3XjqHZs6sKA5IzbB_glh1AHECYxL8r7OcDrOhCJ5oFUuSBJepldm2SRewVUxtXdFNZXSv0rwhQWg9Upuceb/s320/padmapani.png)
Hand of bodhisattva, holding a lotus bud with blossom, Gandhara, c. Second - Third C. BCE
Broken at the wrist, the body gone—but wholeness isn’t a steady state. All bodies transform like this representation of god: breaking, broken, vanishing bit by bit until our mud and dust is compressed to stone by the weight of time. Art turns that mud into the compassionate one, still holding a lotus, its grace moving, transcendent. I’ll join those who set flowers and fruit at its feet, offer up thanks that its beauty hears, won’t be separated from, all our suffering.