The procession moves out beneath fringed parasols, offerings balanced on heads and a masked figure towering over the crowd.
One boy climbs the rock to jump. His friend sits waist deep in the green pool, waiting to see if he will.Gamelan makers in Yogyakarta
A baby rests in a parent's arms, a smudge of kajal on the forehead to keep the evil eye away.
A figure balances a load on their head, stepping out of the bamboo shade toward the open fields.Men sit shoulder to shoulder on the ground beneath a festival canopy, every eye on something just out of frame.
An elder in a straw hat walks past a stone altar dressed in fresh leaves and flowers.
One man sweeps a leafy branch over another's face, a blessing given in the shade of the trees.A man in white raises one hand to the sky and holds the offering bowl close with the other.
A woman sinks to the grass in the middle of the ceremony, hands pressed to the earth, as the crowd moves around her.
Rice terraces step down the slopes in every shade of green. The mountain keeps its head in the clouds.Chanda Devi, age 70, lives in a small swampy copse just outside of Sangam with her children and grandchildren.
Under the shade cloth, a man wheels in another load of seedlings while the dog claims the only cool spot.
Men in white headcloths dress the shrine in red and gold, lifting the sacred figures into place.Shadow puppets stacked in the cempala (large wooden chest)
One boy wades in to his knees. Another casts from the bank, and the ripples spread through the lily pads.
A woman and a young girl in a market in Allahabad, though divided, share the sameA man lets the river take his weight, arms out, eyes closed to the rush.
Ki Seno breathes smoke moments before he
A young girl balances on a tight rope while another stands stoically below to collect money from bystanders.Gilded masks with manes of hair wait beneath the yellow parasols as an old man lifts his hand toward them.
Shadows of the crew stretch across the fabric as the balloon takes its first breath.
Seen from above, a single bare tree splits the green in two. In nature we sense our primordial selves.A mahout rides his tusker down to the river, neither of them in any hurry.
A single dove crosses the strip of sky between iron balconies, high above the Easter crowd.
Two bathers laugh beneath the falls as the water hammers down on their shoulders.A narrow bridge lays its shadow across a riverbed of rippled sand.
Two young dancers in gold move to the gamelan while the temple courtyard looks on.
A woman kneels among tall green leaves, tending the young crop by hand.Tall trees lean over a slow stream, the grass lit by a low sun.
Pens tucked into her ponytail, a girl leans in to the lesson under the thatched roof.
Families scatter across the granite below the falls, a few brave enough to wade into the pool.A young man rides beside Ganesha through the night, the idol glowing pink and gold above the truck.
Gong in fire
A man stands, captured in crimson light, downloading the teachings from the glowing roadside sadhu. Here at Kumbh consciousness moves. It is pulled and pushed. For some it shrinks and others it expands.The Easter parade inches through the French Quarter, hats and lace and outstretched hands reaching from every side of the car.
Two sadhu’s (Hindu sages/priests) converse while a man stirs a giant kettle of milk representing the Samudra Manthan, an auspicious ocean of milk from Vedic mythology. This scene, peppered with religious symbolism, was one of countless others within the grand theater of the Mela. Every street, a cast of characters with stories and wisdom to share. But this was far more than pageantry. This was a reflection of the dense and diverse Hindu culture. This was a glimpse into millennia. These were the most
Hundreds of windows, each one a life we will never see. If we could see into each other's windows, we'd realize that we are more alike than we are different.Woman stands amidst flower petals on the edge of the Ganges.
A young woman rests her chin in her hand on a mossy boulder, the forest quiet around her.
A passerby's shadow lifts a cup against a rolled steel shutter, the winter sun doing the rest.Backpacks climb through stacked slate and blazing autumn leaves, and the one out front throws his arms up at the top.
A child holds up a freshly painted carving. Around the table, the painting never stops.
Mayuri Ma belongs to a sect of transgender Sadhus known within Hinduism as the Kinnar Akada. Like many transgenders in India, she faced the persistent and malicious discrimination that often led others to begging and prostitution. Her strength and ability to endure suffering led her to become a Kinnar Akada, where she can be a voice for those who are voiceless. When I asked her what made her different she replied “A stone cannot be sculpted without a few good hits, every thread in my saree is sewed with pain, and that made me different.” This year, she and her sisters, attend the Kumbh Mela for the first time.An old sedan sleeps under drifting snow, its chrome the only thing the storm hasn't claimed.
Ferns flood the understory beneath a canopy that lets the light through in pieces.
Two boys hold still in the low light, the younger one meeting the lens straight on.Families wade and bathe in the river below the temple steps, the jungle closing in on every side.
From above, a barrage holds the river on one side and leaves the other to sand and green pools.
An elder in white, cigarette in hand, lets the ceremony swirl around him.A small homestead sits in the fold of the valley beneath green mountains.
Blue ribbon in hand, a teamster stands with the pair that earned it.
A street performer folds himself over an orange amp as the crowd leans in before the cathedral, and one small girl in red can't wait for the trick.Two girls hang on the rail of the rink, chins on their arms, watching the skaters go round.
At the Kumbh Mela, two elder women press close to the camera, hair still wet from the river, their hands on each other's shoulders.
The crew holds open the mouth of a rainbow envelope while the basket waits on its side. Every flight begins like this, held up by many hands.A stone mausoleum crowns the hill beneath bare trees, the snow melting back into the grass. May my life mean more than words on a headstone.
Woman prepares colored pigment to apply a bindi to her forehead
Candles rise one by one as the congregation stands on Christmas Eve.Kayaks rest in their steel racks behind the mesh, the late sun slipping through to find them.
A boy swims face down through the dark water, his red shorts the brightest thing in the river.
Heads tip back in folding chairs as the fireworks bloom out of focus overhead.An old jeep rests in the clearing beside stacks of clay roof tiles, the forest pressing in.
Steam rises from the street and swallows the umbrellas, and a man in a hat walks straight into it.
Women push through the crowd to bring puja offerings to the Ganges.From the back seat of an auto rickshaw, the road climbs into green hills with a truck close enough to touch.
Through the phone, the moment is already a memory, two friends caught mid-laugh in a hug.
Ornate hand-painted shadow puppets known as GununganA woman carries a pole hung with woven palm leaves along the edge of the rice field.
A boy slips out from inside a balloon still swelling with cold air. Before the burners roar, the envelope is a room a child can walk through.
A sea of NYPD caps fills the sidewalk while mannequins look on from the shop window.She curls into the couch with her phone. The cat keeps watch below the window, and the city glows behind the curtains.
Harvest hands haul rice straw across the field, a concrete wall rising right at the paddy's edge.
Men bathe and wash in the river while their nets dry in a yellow heap on the rocks.An elder in a white lungi stands on the beach between the breakwaters, the sea gray and restless behind him.
A father crouches at the fountain's edge as his toddler reaches for the spray.
Two trains meet inside the iron ribs of the Williamsburg Bridge. Somewhere above the East River, Brooklyn and Manhattan trade passengers.Headlights swell in the tunnel while a woman on the platform keeps her eyes on her phone.
Alone beneath a stone bridge in Central Park, a man paints the air with the warm tones of his saxophone.
A man throws his net wide, and for a moment it hangs in the air like smoke.Three boys duck into a bark-covered shelter in the woods, the smallest keeping watch outside.
A man in a worn bucket hat pauses on the corner long enough to be seen.
Gamelan manufacturers preparing ordersA man lifts a banner painted with the Maya calendar, its day signs circling a green heart.
Huddled by a fire, a family gathers on the outskirts of the Mela, preparing for their morning walk to Ganga.
A rider leans from his float toward the sidewalk, where every hand is up and every neck is heavy with beads.An elder looks up past the palms, reading the afternoon sky.
Arms up at the summit, she takes in the whole river at once.
Beneath a yellow ceremonial umbrella, three people stand waist deep with their offerings as the falls pour in beside them.Spectators claim the only shade on the field, lined up against the horse trailer with a cooler at their feet.
Water spills from the line over cupped hands and into the rocks, the garden drinking it in.
A street dog picks her way across a hillside of plastic and looks back, as if to ask what we expected.Sweets for children are placed in front of a door during the performance
A stilted cottage hides among the trees, light breaking through the canopy.
Snow softens Pell Street in Chinatown, where the red signs are the brightest thing for blocks.Two paddlers find their rhythm on the river as evening settles over the hills.
A soap bubble rises with the whole street caught inside it. Up, towards horizons well beyond my view.
A soul stuck out of time leans against a vintage car. Face to the sky, she challenges the sun.A girl with beaded braids reads right there at the Little Free Library, too curious to carry the book home first.
Morning light rakes across the rice fields, and the mountain rises clean above the haze.
Fireworks flicker in her glasses as she watches with a hand to her cheek.A pair of draft horses dig in and throw up the dust while their driver leans back on the lines.
A woman shouts over a sign in Farsi as Iranian flags crowd the barricade. Beside her, a placard in English reads No to Rouhani.
From Brooklyn, the Manhattan skyline burns down to silhouette at sunset.Performers pray before show
Sunrise breaks behind a lone summit in the French Alps, the light arriving long before the color.
Someone squeezes through a narrow crack in the rock, sandaled feet and a bright sari the last things left in the light.Offerings gather at the foot of a tree, stone figures, woven sashes and scattered petals, laid out by hand.
A bench waits in the snow beside the river. We all have one, a place that has borne the weight our hearts amass.
Stars fill every gap between the branches. We look into the night sky and we see ourselves.A dancer hangs in midair above the park, folded like a secret, while the crowd below barely looks up.
Billboards, taxis and passersby dissolve into one another in a Manhattan window.
The last light ignites a single tree above the river. Hush, my love, the day is done.A lone tree keeps its footing at the water's edge as the clouds gather over the far hills.
Three hikers stand on the ledge as the sun drops toward the river, the bridge a thin line of light below.
