“It all goes by so fast. Even “the before it blooms” stage is like a blink, and then the blossom is gone. Which is why statues persist. Put in the right place, in the right way, with the right intention, their super power is to stop time. But it’s not so much about that, at least as far as moving a pallet of rocks is concerned. That they’ll end up at the base of a much touted Buddhist shrine, is nice. I’ve always loved art that mimics the imaginings & divinations of humans, or beyond that, creations that seem to hold magic. Not my place to argue! I feel reverent in certain places, in front of certain things, and we can leave it at that. If I’m honest, I don’t know much about it. Enter: my Chevy truck, skirting dangerously close to the grassy ritual dance grounds, hopping recently back-filled ditches of buried fiber optic, while on guard not to run into any old cement BBQ grills hidden by weeds. Encountering any from the wrong angle, could spell disaster. But, as the truck goes silent, its key turned left and pulled out, I return, unguarded, to the sound of fluid water, running a makeshift dam. The pond lies behind a row of bushes; while the mountain rises above, more felt than seen. The sacred deity coming in and out of focus, is etched in marble and quietly lost, to all but the few who’ll travel here. It’s our second load. Three years we’ve mowed around it, and considered its future use. Whereas today, with the help of a chicken, and a nearly deaf and blind old dog, that very same pile has been transferred one mile. The dog, usually more interested in lying on the lily-of-the-valley, while crushing it to extinction, has instead decided to loiter underfoot, as we pass stones, over his head, from pallet, to truck liner. So, the chicken, aptly named “Red”, the last of a flock, turns to us humans for companionship out of necessity. As the rocks move from their slumber, revealing ant farms, grubs and worms, both Red and her canine are uniquely positioned to be stepped on, tripped over or, worst case, crushed by a paver. It’s an odd dance of familiarity, cross-species love and annoyance. And so, in this way, the remnants of a rotten pallet of rocks from one garden, are lifted into flight, and set free, to serve another. Not without backache, not without limp curses, not without one on the ground, and one holding court in the truck bed. Which may be the only path, to the Lotus throne, I’m afraid. Strong-arming, story-telling, debriefing from a more poignant real life, felt in painful snatches, between meditations, Amazon orders and missed communications. Here, where foundations can still be dug with shovels, where marriages are done, undone, and done again, where disciples can be deluded to think they’re the master, or Jesus, it’s all fair game. You have to sort through it. You can, for the price of a Mexican coke, maybe come to terms with how you’ve suffered. Lend an ear, or muster some atrophied heart muscle, for the next round. For the next friend. The next “new” relationship. The old ones, the dead ones, the hated villains who’ve failed you as miserably as you’ve failed yourself. So erect stands the Buddhist statue, in the old campground, eerily translucent and calm, that one could cry for a lifetime, and still not fix everything, and still not be done.”
