There is a splendid garden whose boundaries hold everything that knows existence.
Winding paths burrow through verdant foliage of kinds both seen and unseen, colourful and green, generous and mean. In their winding these paths find shadowy dells and swales in which rest and hushed conversations can be had. They find ridges and summit tops with mesmerising views of the far and wide when the whole garden seems to be visible at once and quiet contemplation is drawn close. An ark of creatures share the paths and the measureless wild spaces in between, each living according to their nature and nature living according to theirs. It is easy to lose the way in this garden, even on the paths, as they are endless, eternal and constantly changing so those that live there huddle together to feel safe and known. They cultivate and shape their worlds within this world and make spaces of their own that allow them to remember where they are and to show others. The edges of the garden, such as its inhabitants believe they exist, blend into the most magnificent skies, overflowing with wonder, light and the infinite. It is without doubt, a very splendid garden, beautiful to behold and be held by.
A group of friends walk together along one of these winding paths. They have walked for a very long time. Boisterous conversation carries on the air wherever they go. Before them, as they journey and after them. Heard always by the garden. Sometimes they don’t hear each other. Often they don’t hear themselves. It isn’t uncommon for them to forget they are friends. Long flowing robes of every colour and decoration hide their nakedness and they are each proud of the way they appear. Their lilting voices, their scent and their decorated hats. Especially their decorated hats which they imagine make them look like the blooms they see alongside the path. Their debate continues from the past through the present and shows no sign of slowing or finding resolution. They talk of how they see the garden, how they understand it, have been shown what it means and their belief that their sight is true sight. View clashes with view and sight clashes with sight and this is how these friends forget that they are friends and that they walk the same paths in the same garden.
In their search for truth the friends had decided to visit some very particular parts of the garden in turn. Those where representations of their differing understandings had been wrought from the garden itself. Made outside of them so that others could understand too and made of the garden they were so earnestly trying to depict. They were blind to the strangeness of this approach and yet they pursued it with passion. The truth was along the path somewhere. On this occasion they were approaching a place where they knew to be a large statue of a sitting Buddha. On arrival their conversation would lean towards the Buddhist way of understanding and they would compare their own. Measuring the distance and the difference and the disturbance in a conflagration of division without aspiring to unity. Afterwards they would move on towards another great effigy and hope that they might find more to agree with there.
They could see the outline of the Buddha amongst the foliage ahead. It wasn’t far now. They became excited at the thought of another intense debate. Perhaps this time they might find what they were seeking. As they crowded along the path, deep in conversation, one of the friends tripped and fell to the ground. Surprised and shaken and rising back to their feet they looked for what they had tripped on. A willow, wicker trug lay toppled on the ground. A host of colourful, cut flowers of every kind lay sprawled across the path. Indignant they came to notice a person crouched down in the depths of the border. Simply dressed, with straw hat, gloves and a pair of secateurs in hand. In their frustration, shock and embarrassment, because it doesn’t do for one so fine to be seen to fall in front of their debating fellows, they reproached the person crouching before them. Their specific words will not be written here for they were not kind, nor generous, nor endearing. Suffice to say that you would not enjoy being spoken to in such a way and would recoil before this mighty being and their decorated hat.
The-flower-bearer – Gavin-Birchall
When their fury was spent and their words had run their course and their audience held their breath for the response, there was a moment of silence. Into that silence the crouched person stood. They might have placated or cowered or ran away. But they did not. They stepped onto the path and bent at the hips. Their hand reached out and picked up the nearest spilled flower without looking. Rising to their full and diminutive height and without speaking they gently handed the flower to the affronted, behatted friend. With a smile. Just a flower and a smile. With great dignity and grace they collected the spilled flowers into the trug and carried it away along the path. This caused a great ruckus amongst the group of friends for a sorrowfully sad amount of time as they returned their attention to their journey and continued towards the Buddha statue.
All of this was witnessed by a watcher in the garden. Sat in the shade of a tree and on the petal of a flower and in the trickle of a river and on the flight of a bird and in the hearts of the very friends who had passed by. The watcher, having watched, wondered about what had transpired. Wondered if the group of friends had found the Buddha they were looking for. Wondered if they recognised the teaching that was shared. Wondered how their journey might continue and what they might find. Then in its fullness as the the fall of rain, the turning of seasons, the flicker of the sky and the expansion of galaxies, the watcher noticed how the flower bearer understood that all flowers are as beautiful as each other. Then the watcher returned to watching and experiencing what it watches. All parts of itself a way to see. All parts of itself a way to be.
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