I don’t know where I am; the GoogleEarth map of the Palani Hills is not helpful.
Coming up the mountainside in the car I lay down in the back seat avoiding my body’s aversion to hairpin bends, so on arrival I had no clue as to the way.
The morning was magical, seeping in sunshine as the mists cleared revealing oceans and oceans of forest . . . cloud covered, whereabouts unknown.
. . . inviting front row seats stood – or sat – on every side . . . ring-side seats . . .
. . . . like high-chairs each in the midst of an orchestra-pit of forested hills . . .
. . . with shining coffee plants bordering our North,
. . . . Pumpkin and ChowChow vines running up tall trees, west and south . . . almost as far as eye can see . . .
. . . Luscious bulbous Avocado on the east, ubiquitous Banana-plants’ generous leaves – sails gracefully inclining to the wind in all directions . . .
. . . all conspiring to protect and give succour to the inner silence all who come here so highly prize.
This rock and sand garden allows its own immobility to set the measured, mindful, austere tone that juxtaposes so compellingly with the rich and glorious, galloping garden:
It’s a quaint, charming, romantic garden, conjuring up bygone parasols of frivolity.
Wind sighs and creaks through hollow bamboo.
A myriad of bird-calls haunt signatures across intervening empty space between tree-tops, across soft hills.
The syncopated hums of Cicadas rise and fall from valley to valley, to die suddenly – ushering back in the silence, stopping us all in our tracks inside our heads.
And the starlight of the monotheistic night-sky is staggering.
So feel welcomed to this charming haven for contemplation, if you’re so inclined:
There are ponds here for deep reflections, lilies for inspiration . . . moss to lay our palms on, soaking up the succulent handiwork of tiny little energetic chlorophylls.
As ever in the Botanical Kingdom, what is wick intertwines harmoniously with what is dead, the two are so in cohorts that bald AND fuzzy best describes their demarcation . . .
Mother Nature recycles death into life, and life into death, over and over again.
The compost heap here smells absurdly sweet; the rich soil it generates awakens the seeds and feeds the seedlings that become the purely biodynamic vegetables that will be transformed in to cells of our bodies, yours and mine – those privileged to sit at table here.
The leaves, baby flowers and tendrils of these fabulously optimistic pumpkin vines were chopped up and cooked for lunch today . . . tremendously tasty they were too, the texture giving lie to their softly-spiky stems.
The monkeys have had the satisfaction of pulling up baby carrots as you see here below – they pounced early this morning, nibbling here and there. Maybe they were baby monkeys – they abandoned their modest samplings. I’m most surprised that they don’t take up residence on the perimeter, posting sentries to give the all-clear when opportunity allows a family dash for an excellent organic feast.
. . . . We humans walk toward the dining room in a dignified manner when the melodious mealtime clacker hits the silent space.
All this voluptuous growth surrounds the residency buildings which contain a courtyard spotlighting a central super-oriental garden:
As you can see this is a frolicsome little stage-set surrounded by its audience of windows and balconies, with rocks embraced by grasses that undulate in waves and raise capricious little mounds here and there, as if about to burst out comic surprises. Quaint bamboo bridges arch over wavering reflections and fat, cruising carp of almost rainbow colours, and perky flirty birds waddling their behinds above skinny stilt-legs wading knee-deep in the bristly, spongey green green grass.
This is a humourous garden in defiance of the rigid, meticulous conservatism of its role-models in the other hemisphere; here the Awakened One is rolling in delight at the joyousness of itself, inviting us to throw our caps in the air and crawl mindfully about together imitating tortoises – silently of course.
Sitting still and silent as a rock is a talisman for the absence of concreteness.
It seems effortless, doesn’t it, but it is not at all, it’s sort of torture yet it pervasively, magneticly, endears us to all that is, turning the tables on all that was ever worthy of possession, or of coveting.
Once there was the one who persisted tenaciously in peeling back the layers of conditioned deception to the open heart of veracity: the vast spacious inner core of all identity.
Many many new vines were planted today and some children came to stay.