Volcanic Grace: Tārā, Goddess of Compassion, from Central Java (Indonesia)

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Volcanic Grace: Tārā, Goddess of Compassion, from Central Java

In the quiet of our home in Bahi Pantad, a volcanic stone bust rests—serene, enigmatic, and steeped in centuries of spiritual resonance. Acquired several yesrs ago through Singapore’s Hotlotz auction house and carried via public transport to our suburban Lion City condo, this sculpture has ventured far beyond the Dieng Plateau in the Javan highlands where it was crafted. The accompanying documentation identifies the stone sculpture as the Goddess Tārā, the Buddhist embodiment of compassion, whose form once graced temple walls and shrines across the sacred landscapes of Central Java. And no matter where she is on display, she carries a whisper of ancient devotion

The bust is believed to date from the 8th or 9th century CE, a time when the Shailendra dynasty ruled Central Java and patronized the construction of monumental Buddhist architecture. This was a period of remarkable cultural synthesis, when Hindu and Buddhist traditions intertwined, giving rise to works of divine serenity and princely ornamentation. Tārā’s elaborate headdress, layered jewels, and tranquil gaze are hallmarks of this Shailendra-era artistry, a sculptural language that sought to make visible the invisible— representing enlightenment itself.

Tārā’s likely origin on the Dieng Plateau, a mist-shrouded volcanic highland whose name derives from Old Javanese di-hyang, “place of the ancestors” or “where the gods reside,” would have placed her in one of the many temple complexes in the area. Dieng is the highest plateau on Java, a caldera complex dotted with steaming craters, mountain lakes, and the remnants of numerous ancient temples. The shrines there, some of the earliest surviving in Indonesia, predate world famous Borobudur by perhaps a century and represent the cradle of Javanese temple architecture. In the early 19th century, explorers such as Stamford Raffles counted hundreds of temple structures in the region, many of which have since vanished, swallowed by time and earth.

The andesite stone from which Tārā is carved is the same volcanic material used in Borobudur and the Arjuna temple complex of Dieng. Its granular texture and weathered surface testify to both the age and durability of the piece. The gentle contours of the goddess’s face, the subtle downward gaze, the elaborate headress and the extended earlobes and adornment all speak to the Central Javanese sculptor’s mastery—a balance between sensuality and sanctity, between earthly beauty and divine stillness.

I first encountered this sacred central region of Indonesia in 1987, having taken a bus from the royal city of Yogyakarta that delivered me to the medieval wonder of Borobudur at dawn. There, in the hush before and after sunrise, I wandered the temple’s concentric terraces, tracing the stone reliefs with reverence. I imagined myself a disciple of the original builder’s faith—one of the many who ascended the stupa’s spiral path toward enlightenment. That journey etched itself into my memory, a spiritual imprint that lingered long after I’d left Java’s historical heartland.

Decades later, the availability of the bust of Tārā startled me as I browsed an auction catalogue. The stone head’s ancient provenance and opulence, together with affordable pricing, allowed me to bridge two very different worlds: the spiritual highlands of Java and the domestic quiet of our home.

Placed on a lotus-petal pedestal of carved wood, the statue seems to evoke the eternal emergence of spirit from matter, religious belief from hard stone. Her calm countenance now inhabits a new sanctuary here in Bohol, far from her Javan origins yet still steeped in the same meditative silence.

Tārā is not merely an artifact; she exudes devotion while also being a survivor of eons of change and cultural transition. Viewing her, our imagination can take flight when we recall that she once stood in a candle-lit temple alcove, watching pilgrims pass, or maybe rested in a shrine where incense curled around her brow. Now, in a corner of our home, she continues to invite that and other reflections—on her resilience, her beauty, and on the quiet power of things that lasts through the ages. Tārā endures as both a relic and a revelation. Her stillness transcends geography; her weathered contours hold the pulse of countless dawns.

 

Threads of History Underfoot: The Armenian Carpet

With the help of both ChatGPT and Copilot along with my interest in and earlier studies of ‘Oriental carpets’, I present this likely Armenian Lori-Pambak Carpet from circa 1910–1930. The region of this rug’s origin is in the mountains of the South Caucasus.

This heavy handwoven carpet, measuring 6’2” × 9’, carries the quiet weight of history, both in and of its own provenance and in my acquisition.

I discovered this piece in Singapore, not in an auction or carpet shop, but through a Facebook buy-and-sell page. For many years I’ve been immersing myself in traditional material cultures, studying artifacts and textiles with growing reverence. I’ve been interested in carpets and trad textiles since university and have a few in my modest collection. When I saw the listing for this one — $500 Singapore dollars for a “used rug” — something stirred. I suspected it could be a steal.

The sellers were an elderly Chinese couple living in an HDB estate. Their home was modest, their demeanor kind. They didn’t know much about the rug’s origin — and they didn’t share whether it had been in their possession for years, or possibly acquired through a pawn or passed down without ceremony. As I inspected the piece, its design spoke louder than any origin document could. I knew I was holding something special. The vivid colours and various motifs struck me as particular to the Middle East, and the apparent crosses on rooftops led me to suspect it was Armenian.

Once I got it home via taxi, I had a chance to learn more about it.

The rug’s design is a woven prayer (though it isn’t a prayer carpet, per se). At its center lies a large yellow diamond with a red ‘heart’ form — a sunburst medallion symbolizing divine light, eternity, and protection surrounding the personal element —- in what might be a symbol to ward off evil. This is, according to online sources, the weaver’s symbolic signature, echoing both Christian and pre-Christian Caucasian symbolism.

A vertical vine — a simple Tree of Life — runs through the central field, linking earth to heaven, mortality to salvation. In the red field sit multiple triangular motifs resembling church roofs with crosses on top, offering sacred shelter and spiritual guardianship. The ‘trees’ on opposite sides of the gold medallion include petaled flowers.

The outer border is also rich with symbols: rosettes, ram’s horns, and vine leaves, and it forms a protective fence around this symbolic universe.

According to ChatGPT, the colors, too, carry meaning:

Red for vitality and spiritual defense

Yellow for sunlight and joy

Green for fertility and paradise

Blue for faith and eternity

Woven in the South Caucasus — likely in an Armenian or Georgian Christian village within the Lori-Pambak region — it embodies a sacred geometry of faith, protection, and continuity. Its construction features symmetrical Turkish (Ghiordes) knots, a wool warp and weft, and naturally dyed wool pile — all hallmarks of tribal craftsmanship from the late 19th and early 20th century.

Now, this carpet lives in Bohol — threads of history underfoot, bridging continents and centuries. It’s much more than a decorative piece for us. It’s the story of a typical Saturday morning in Singapore, with me and the girls going off on an adventure to see if Daddy’s hunch that there was a bargain awaiting us could prove right.

The rug is also a testament to the enduring power of craft, faith, and quiet migration. From the highlands of the Caucasus to a long period of residence in, first, colonial Malaya (maybe in the home of an Armenian immigrant family), then in a Singaporean Chinese home, and finally into the Blackstone residence. And now here, on a tiled floor in our home in Bohol, the carpet continues to speak.

The Dragon From Beneath Robson Hill

Kuala Lumpur (KL), Malaysia — early 2007

In March 2007 I moved from a house in rural Yuwa-machi, Akita-ken, Japan, to a condo on a hill in central Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Robson Hill rises quietly above the Klang River Valley, its slopes once thick with jungle. Before the condominiums and the arterial roads, this ridge was home to Chinese settlers who carved out lives in the wilds—clearing land, building shrines, burying their dead. By the late 19th century, this very hill had become a spiritual anchor: temples bloomed, cemeteries expanded, and dragons—those fierce, protective emblems—began to appear in stone and plaster, watching over the living and the departed.

Urbanisation creeps in. Roads are widened. The Klang-Kuala Lumpur Highway was started in the late 1950s and by the 80s -- when I first lived in the area -- it was a full-fledged highway just below Robson. Many of the hills of central KL were cut up in the name of progress. By the 1990s, Robson Heights Condominium was built on the crest of Robson Hill, a modern sentinel overlooking the Thean Hou Temple with the vast Kwong Tong (Chinese) cemetery behind it. Rumors circulate: an old temple building may have been razed during construction. No records that I know of confirm it, but the land bears scars—terraces carved and slopes reinforced.

While I’m living in Robson Heights, and on a quiet afternoon, I wander down the mostly clear cut hillock below the condo. The air is still, the ground hard from a lack of recent rain. Bamboo and saplings lean in from a more densely forested edge of the large clearing just beneath the condo’s outer wall. I’m not searching for anything—just walking, looking for a path that will take me even further down to a city road that leads directly into the cemetery.

Then I see it. A shard in the soil, half-buried. I kneel. Brush away the earth. A dragon’s face stares at me—flared nostrils, fierce eyes, stylized mane curling like smoke. The fragment is cast from concrete or grout, not carved stone. Its texture is rough, its edges broken. It’s clearly part of something larger, now lost.

I lift it gently. The weight is modest, but its presence is immense. Mounted later on the stand shown in the photos, it reveals more: scales etched with care, a mouth mid-roar, the suggestion of eagle-like talons. This is no garden ornament. It’s a guardian—perhaps once affixed to a temple wall, a funerary gate, or a ceremonial arch. Its style echoes the dragons of nearby Thean Hou and other Chinese folk architecture: protectors, boundary markers, symbols of power and continuity.

I speculate. Could the fragment have belonged to the vanished temple mentioned during the condo’s construction? Was it discarded in rubble, buried in fill, forgotten as the hill was reshaped? Or did it fall from a grave marker, a silent sentinel dislodged by time?

Whatever its origin, the dragon shard speaks to the Chinese presence on Robson Hill and throughout the Klang Valley—their labor, their rituals, their resilience. The dragon, in this context, is more than myth. It’s a declaration: We are here. We guard this place. We shape the land and honor our dead.

This piece, found by chance, becomes a portal for me. It links KL's urban present to a spiritual past. It’s testament to the fact that history isn’t just preserved in museums—it can be scattered in the soil, waiting for someone to notice.

The Museum Above Grandpa’s Garage: A Legacy of Wonder and Quiet Learning

Thornville, Ohio, USA – Mid 1950s until …

Long before I stood in front of classrooms in a wide variety of places, one of my first ‘informal’ classrooms was tucked above a garage on High Point Road, just outside of Thornville, Ohio. It wasn’t a formal space—no chalkboards, no desks—but it was a personal collection curated with a reverence for learning that shaped me more deeply than any syllabus ever could. It belonged to my great-grandfather, Ira Franklin Cooperrider, a man whose quiet passion for collecting and cataloging artefacts transformed his home and small farm into a living museum.

Grandpa Cooperrider wasn’t a professional archaeologist or botanist; in fact, he wasn’t even college educated, but he was something rarer: a man of boundless curiosity and a steward of pre-history/history. His varied collections—of Native American artefacts, of coins and botanical specimens, and of curiosities from the Ohio countryside—were meticulously labeled and lovingly displayed. He built cabinets, mounted boards, and even planted a garden where each tree bore a hand-lettered sign. His museum wasn’t just for show; it was a place of inquiry, wonder, and his storytelling.

As a boy, I wandered that space with wide eyes and eager fingers, absorbing the textures of flint, inspecting the patina of old and foreign coins, and exploring the nature of objects that had outlived their makers.

Inside the house, those coins waited for curious hands. I remember sitting beside Grandpa, just the two of us, sorting through them, tracing their origins, imagining the journeys they’d taken. Grandpa also had a small but focused collection of books—on butterflies, reptiles, trees, and the mysteries of the natural world. He was always happy to share, a quiet teacher, never instructing, always inviting.

It was the museum up rickety stairs above his standalone garage though that gave Grandpa Cooperrider some renown. It was that museum that introduced me and others who were invited to unknown worlds, and it showed us that culture and history weren’t just subjects you read about—they were something you could touch, question, and pass on.

Alongside the arrowheads, stone tools, and ceremonial fragments there were also remnants of early America’s farm life, from household goods like ceramic crockery and candle moulds to handmade toys, 19th century photographs and an extensive collection of firearms—each piece carefully laid out and categories thoughtfully arranged, all a testament to the lives that had shaped central Ohio before us. Grandpa Cooperrider didn’t collect for prestige—he collected to preserve, to understand, to honor.

One of the display sheets from that magnificent collection (said to number 3000 arrowheads alone), is shown here in a photo, and it illustrates these lessons up close and personal. It’s a simple board wired with stone artefacts—arrowheads and gorget fragments—arranged by my grandpa with great care. Besides the range of pieces what catches an observer’s eye is a faint pencil mark around one particular arrowhead. That circle, I believe, was made to honor a small but meaningful moment: the discovery of an arrowhead by Ira’s daughter, my grandmother Carrie Elizabeth Cooperrider Blackstone—or Katie—when she was young, sometime in the 1920s or ’30s.

Grandma Blackstone would have been a girl then, wandering the fields near their home in the tiny community of Bruno Grange, her eyes trained on the ground the way Ira had instructed her (and then taught us great-grandkids 40 years later). Her find wasn’t just added to the collection—it was celebrated, circled, preserved. That gesture speaks volumes about Grandpa Cooperrider’s style: every object had a story, and every story mattered.

For me, that circled arrowhead is more than a relic. It’s a thread connecting multiple generations—a child’s curiosity, a father’s pride, and a great-grandson’s lifelong pursuit of meaning through objects. It reminds me that collecting isn’t just about possession; it’s about making these connections. It’s about honoring the hands that came before us and the stories that get passed on.

Ira Cooperrider and his museum above the garage may be gone, but the quiet lessons I learned from him still shape the way I see, touch, and remember.

    

Two ancient hammers from the Ira Cooperrider collection.

Some of my own finds from over the years.