All Things Go / Grow / Know

One rainy weekend (it was a Wednesday, but that's our weekend around here), we went on a misty walk, found lessons in compassion and samsara everywhere, and practiced a song.

I've been playing my guitar around a lot lately, because it's getting summery and the summer camp counselor in me cannot be denied. That same inner summer camp counselor wanted to have a sing-along, and so I needed to teach a song. Thinking long and hard, I decided on Chicago by Sufjan Stevens. The monks had liked it when I played it, it has a simple to learn and repetitive melody, and the more I looked at it the more it seemed like it could be read with a Buddhist message (given that it's Sufjan, that was probably not the particular religion he was going for... but come on, it's a song about impermanence). 

On Wednesday afternoon we headed out into the misty drizzle, armed with books and umbrellas.

Although we started on the main road, heading towards Old Rumtek, we veered off and took a path I'd never taken before. Because if you're going to have a day full of metaphors, it should be a day full of metaphors.

That day was the day chosen by thousands upon thousands of winged insects to disperse and meet their fates out in the world. This insect flies away from its spawning grounds in swarms, but soon parts ways with its fellows and lands. After it lands it has to struggle to shed its wings in order to take the next step in its life, especially difficult in the rainy-wet, with sodden wings and dangerous rivulets of rainwater on all sides. Even when it is successful, it soon dies. 

The path we took was covered with these insects, landing and attempting to release themselves from their winged exoskeletons. The monks, who make every attempt to never harm a single living creature, proceeded very carefully, at times climbing up onto the metal railing in an effort not to trod on them.

As these insects struggled, small ants would come and try to carry them off, overpowering them in their weakened state by sheer force of numbers. Although many escaped, many more were taken.

Ngawan, who often stops to move ants or snails who've wandered onto roads and paths out of harm's way, spent ten minutes trying to help just two of the insects, but ultimately he was unsuccessful.

(Ngawan, leaf in hand, making his best effort)

At the end of the path we came upon a gazebo perched at the edge of the hillside, with 270° of valleys and hills stretching out for miles below.

I didn't just want to teach the song by rote, I wanted everyone to make some sort of personal connection with it. To that end, Sherab (who speaks English nearly as well as I do) translated the lyrics and we all talked about what they could mean. If you don't know the song, I suggest looking up the lyrics and thinking about how to read a Buddhist message into them. It's kind of amazing how deep it can go, just another instance of how different dharmas often lead to the same places.

(Sherab and Yunten discussing in Tibetan the "all things go, all things go" part of the chorus, a true affirmation of impermanence if ever there was one)

Then it was time to sing.

(I didn't bring my guitar, because of the rain, so we practiced a capella)

(Why practice while sitting, or standing on the ground, when you can be standing on a bench?)

(The monks also did a whistled rendition, with master-whistler Sherab leading it off)

As the light gave out on us it, it became time to head back. We took the main road, which was strew with insects and their discarded wings. Due to the obscuring powers of dusk, and the sheer number of insects, even our best attempts and a glacial pace were not enough to keep us from stepping on a few.

As we neared the end of our walk, Sherab told me that I should say three rounds of om mani padme hung that night, concentrating on those fallen insects and the hope that they would have a better birth this next time around.