A Meaningful Meander

Jul 19, 2010 Posted in 『Rosemary's Nihon Okufukai』Rosemary

A Meaningful Meander

In July and August I like to sit by the lotus plants in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. This year is its 100^th anniversary. I am glad the garden is being celebrated, because it offers me so much to see all year round. I enjoy the trees in the fall, conservatory exotics in the winter, cherry blossoms and peonies in the spring, and roses and lotuses in the summer. I wander around the garden until something calls to me, then I settle down with it.

Settling near the lotus plants today, I see the surface of the pond take on different patterns as the breeze moves across the water. It is easy to become reflective here. The lotus plants always seem to create an atmosphere (fun-iki) around them. The leaves spring up from the water, unfurl in a wide sweep of glowing green, and the white or rose flowers rise up on their own stems to open and drink in the hot sunlight. I look at the lotuses and ask myself: How can I see this more deeply?

Dragonflies dart in and out among the leaves, and tiny goldfish swim in groups in the water below. The atmosphere is full of warmth and light. My mind relaxes into the moment. Oddly, being immersed in this bright sun and color brings to me a memory of a garden in Kyoto with just the opposite qualities.

The Silver Temple in Kyoto (Ginkakuji) is all about the moon. When I first viewed it, I had no inkling of the layers of meaning that the garden had to offer. But after one walk through it, I knew I wanted to experience the garden more deeply, so I walked the paths again, taking in the trees, the mosses, the small hill of sand shaped to reflect the moon.

On the third time around, at last I saw it: Everything in the garden was an invitation to reflection—not just the moon’s, but my own. When I looked up at the pines, the rounded curves of the branches turned my attention downward again. Gardeners had shaped the pine branches into a bell, to turn my eyes back down to the path. My attention was reflected back on myself, but so gently that my mind might open to a deeper layer of perception—almost without my noticing.

Suddenly, a dragonfly zooms in front of me and brings me back to the lotus pond in Brooklyn. Here is such a contrast to my thoughts, all direct light and brightness. But now I find that I am seeing both the direct light and the reflected light at the same time—the one held in the other.

I start to sketch my impressions, to try to capture the essence of my new vision. Now I can see the shadows beneath the wide leaves and more shadows at the bottom of the pond trailing the goldfish. The atmosphere around the lotuses showed me brightness—and drew out of me the awareness of shadow too.