It was a special day at the temple. (What I like about China Travel, is amazing Chinese temples.) I never learned which one, which deity from the pantheon I know little about was being feted for supernatural feats. People from across the city of 12 million had gathered at the largest temple in the region. Fridays are not usually busy days for religious observance in boomtown.

I love old things. Maybe that’s my attraction to China, and China Travel. Temples, tombs, and houses that hold the energy of the generations that have lived within their walls, fascinate me. I’m far from spiritual, professing only a belief in the FSM, having been touched by His Noodly Appendage.

Chinese Temples, large or small, ancient or recent, give me reason to pause. The incense in the air, the chanting, the devotion, contrasted with running children, men on cell phones, and lovers holding hands and snapping photos, make temples a place for me to both reflect and people watch. They are a microcosm of Chinese society, ancient beliefs still observed in a nation economically bursting at the seams.

The monk was standing by a table full of offerings: Fruits, vegetables, flowers and cooking oil. I have a friend that professes the ability to see auras. While I call that new-age claptrap, for a moment, the briefest one, I thought I saw him surrounded by white light. He smiled benevolently, like the golden idols behind him. Serenity rolled from him in waves. His eyes were clear and kind, but with a glint, a small spark, of something that made me wonder what he did in his life before he donned the robe.

He saw me, standing in the afternoon sun, a camera in hand. A smile and he waved me over. No pause, no dropping jaw, something I often experience. He had seen enough foreigners at this place, his home, to be unshocked by my presence. The temple doves watched us from their perch above the religious chaos.

I froze. I didn’t understand his beliefs, or his language. My camera in my hand, I wanted to raise it to my eye and freeze the moment, the smile, and the calmness I knew my CCD couldn’t possibly capture. He smiled a little wider before turning away. After wiping some dust from the offering table, and looked at the group kneeling in prayer before leaving the main courtyard.

He meandered, moving in stops and starts. At the shrines, he looked at those offering their thoughts to the ancient Gods. I followed, waiting for an opportunity.

I hate posed shots. You see only a facade. There is enough posing in the world, people keeping up appearance for friends and neighbors.

The China Travel guidebooks say not to take photographs of monks. Since guidebooks are usually wrong, I wasn’t worried about causing offence. (Maybe a little, the thought of a thrashing from a monk trained in Shaolin gongfu isn’t appealing.) I could tell by his demeanor that he wouldn’t have minded a photo, he probably would have posed with me if someone else held the camera.

I’ve done some sleazy things with a camera. A newspaper photographer is not everyone’s friend. Standing at the side of a road snapping photos of mangled bodies covered in bloody blankets isn’t pleasant, nor is the feeling in your gut afterwards. A drink can make you forget for a time but doesn’t erase the act, the utter invasion of privacy.

No, he wouldn’t mind. My motives were pure. I wanted to capture him, who he was.

A moment.

A feeling.

He stopped by a pillar. The sun cast the last of its golden light over the courtyard. He turned a little, away from the shrine. I raised my camera.

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