Rugged Interdependency - Amaravati Buddhist Monastery

Golden Highways Revisited: 1998and tangy fragrances of the woods are richer than ever and the lime-green mossescovering the rocks and rotting logs seem to spread and glow even as you look atthem. They are in their element. That phrase from the funeral chanting: “chuddoapetaviññāno, niratthamva kalingaram”– “hollow, void of consciousness and uselessas a rotten log,” comes to mind again and again by way of it being belied by the lifeof the forest floor. Just on the “dead” trunk lying on the bank outside my windowthere must be 20 species of moss, grass, lichen, flower and even a couple of shrubsgrowing, and that’s without counting all the animal life and plants not readily discernedby the eye. It’s a metropolis, a nation of its own. It’s Nature’s sweet ironythat it’s the falling of the great that provides the nursery and food source, foundationfor the next generation and for the world of the very small.Stone lanterns and brown standing rocks punctuate the paths and gardenpools. Delicate bamboo clusters rub them with the soft, dry edges of their leaves,mosses climb their sides and form coronets of living lace around their heads. Waterboatmen and pond skaters scurry here and there, bending the skin of the waterslike the mind landing on the moment.Fleshy fish of dark brown and silver dodge and flow just below the surface,occasionally bursting forth with an audible gulp as they broach the air barrier frombelow and seize the some unwary six-legged passer-by. An incongruous yellowplastic duckling floats gormlessly on the murky waters; nearby, next to the reedbeds on the far side of the pond, a couple of slightly more convincing adult decoyssit. So far they have all failed to attract little more than the imaginative attentionof a few meditators, triggering childhood memories of our favorite bath-toys andbemused speculation on the possibilities of flocks of plastic wildfowl homing induring their flight northwards to the rich feeding grounds of the bathtubs of Seattleand Bellingham: “Oh what joy, what a triumph it would be to bob on the three acrepool of Mr. Gates!”The retreat winds down through the reintegration program of 1) writing taskat noon; 2) institution of Noble Speech at teatime; 3) the evening sharing (as preciousand sweet as ever); and 4) the bhajans of Secret Flame at dawn. We topped itoff with the requiem for our sojourn together and had our final and heartful blessinglingering on a rash of last minute philosophic conundra (e.g. “As Buddhists,what is the relationship of heart, soul and spirit?”). Energy levels were diminishingby now and, as the last goodbyes were made after the meal offering, we piledthankfully into the car of Adrienne and Greg Satir by half past two.More philosophical puzzles plied the air as we passed the giant silos of Kalama:“Do you feel hopeful for humanity in the light of these turbulent times, or do youfeel we are headed for social and ecological disaster?” “How do you feel the emancipationof women is affecting life on earth?” Dear people and sincere enquiriesbut, by the time the plane is on the runway, I am glad indeed for the numb familiarityof the safety instructions and the empty seats around me. Noncontact withsense objects and the relative bliss of a suññatā-vihāra, aaaahhhhhhh...Of course, at every step of the way, each being who is helping you along is gladto have the opportunity to spend time together; this is part of the Blessed One’s56