A Splash of Purple
"Discover the beauty in simplicity and the pattern running beneath the changes of nature." So was the young disciple, Lutse, instructed before being dismissed from his master's presence to tend the lamasery gardens; to weed; to sweep and to rake as was Lutse's morning duty, but also to watch; to observe, and as the master had instructed, to discover as was Lutse's life purpose. This day would be a day of discovery for the young disciple Lutse.
In the garden, the mid-morning sun warmed the bamboo handled rake in Lutse's hands. The rocks glistened and shimmered sparkling stark white like stars bright against the background of Lutse's black cotton shirt sleeves. The silence habitual to the oriental garden was disturbed only by the gentle "click, clack, rattle, click" of the rake clattering against the rocks leaving swirling patterns in its wake, like a flatstone skipping across water, creating expanding circles stretching to infinity set into motion by the smallest of actions.
Still, Lutse's mind was restless and his heart too was troubled and anxious and he did not perceive the patterns forming beneath his rake, nor did he picture the white rocks of the garden to be a canvas stretched and prepared for the artistic strokes of the rake. The young disciple‘s arms tensed to drag the tool back against the rocks, moisture formed on his back and neck beneath the black cotton shirt and while the
sun climbed higher in the eastern sky to steal the shadows from the rock garden, Lutse discovering no pattern, seeking no beauty, labored at his work.
A peculiar, misplaced splash of purple, a sudden movement caught from the corner of Lutse's eye, appeared behind the receding shadow of a large sandstone in the garden and captured Lutse's attention, distracting from his toil.
"What is this illusion?" Lutse thought, setting his rake down on the rocks and walking toward the large sandstone, hoping to satisfy his curiosity. A glint of sunshine slanting into a small space beneath the sandstone revealed the petals of a small purple wildflower.
"So, who is this intruder to my‘ garden?" Lutse mocking a stern, commanding voice addressed the frail flower.
"How bold you must be to peek your head above these rocks where Lutse is working with his rake!" Lutse continued to chastise the flower.
"It would not go well for Lutse if the master discovered Lutse had left a stray flower to grow wild in the garden. You must be plucked from this spot Little Flower." The sun had climbed directly over Lutse's head, its rays falling now on the far side of the sandstone leaving the purple flower in the sandstone's shadow once again. "My, what a short sunbath you enjoy!"
Lutse bent down on one knee and caressed the petals of the mute flower. "Beneath the protecting shade of this boulder, you could remain unnoticed by the master and the other boys and Lutse could visit you in the mornings while he worked." Lutse smiled to think that the little purple flower would be his secret.
"Lutse will leave you here for now little flower and will visit you again tomorrow morning." The young disciple left his newly discovered friend in the shade of the sandstone, walked across the garden, picked up his rake and watched with joy as the designs beneath his rake formed themselves into flower-like patterns.
Rainbow lights illuminated the white rocks as droplets of water on purple petals reflected the morning sun's rays onto the ground beneath the large sandstone where Lutse's tiny secret had just enjoyed a morning shower. Lutse set aside the teapot he had been using over the last two weeks to water the flower. It had not been a difficult task to sneak the makeshift watering can from the pantry as Lutse awakened much earlier than the other boys. Though once, he was nearly caught red-handed returning the teapot by an older disciple, Wanlu, whose greedy plan to sneak a before breakfast snack had been thwarted by Lutse's sudden appearance.
Lutse sat down crosslegged on the white rocks and spoke to his flower in the urgent whispers a boy uses when revealing secrets to his best friend.
"Did you enjoy your bath this morning Little Flower? Lutse has to wake up very early so the master and the other boys do not see. The sun is nearly past this boulder and soon Lutse must go to work raking the garden. Do you want to know a secret Little Flower? It is your image that Lutse rakes into the rocks and the other boys are too blind to even notice!"
While the sun's arc passed over the sandstone to leave the purple flower protectingly shaded from the gaze of the boys entering into the garden, Lutse pulled his rake across the rocks and delighted in imagining the scattering white stones to be flower petals floating on the surface of a foamy stream, gathering
momentum, approaching a great thundering water fall.
"Child, you appear to have been very dutiful as of late rising with the sun to rake the garden while your brother disciples cling to their dreams in sleep." Lutse was standing before the master; whom he had met on the portico while returning from the garden.
"For your reward, tomorrow morning you shall accompany me on my early morning walk. l will arrange for your portion of the garden to be raked by one of those sleepy-headed boys."
Lutse silently bowed as was expected. It was not a young disciples place to speak and certainly not to argue with an elder bestowing rewards. Rebellious tears welled up in his eyes; and in his mind, Lutse's thoughts were raging. "How can another boy be allowed to rake the garden! Little flower is sure to be discovered and plucked like a common weed! Lutse must not allow this horrible thing to happen!"
"Wanlu, you must follow Lutse to the garden." Lutse was tugging at the hand of the same boy who had nearly discovered him with the teapot. Lutse had found out that it was Wanlu who had been charged by the master with tending the rock garden in Lutse's absence.
"What is this excitement? is it not enough that I do your work for you tomorrow morning? Must I also hold your hand like a nursemaid Lutse?‘
"Hurry!" urged Lutse as he pulled the perplexed and aggravated Wanlu through the garden to the place where the shadow of the sandstone hid Lutse's flower.
"This is Lutse's treasure Wanlu. It is a very rare and beautiful thing Lutse is about to show to you. You must keep it a secret."
Wanlu curiously looked beneath the sandstone to where Lutse was pointing; and seeing there only a ragged looking purple wildflower turned to Lutse shaking his head and spoke sarcastically, "What is this? Treasure? Has Lutse been working in the heat so much that he cannot tell a weed apart from a jewel? How the other will laugh to hear of this!"
Quickly sweeping his hand beneath the sandstone, Wanlu tore the purple flower from the white rocks and ran across the garden with Lutse screaming and crying and chasing behind, both boys running for the porch where the master was instructing a group of students.
The late afternoon sun's rays like a weight dropped hot and heavy on young Lutse's shoulders as he raked around the sandstone boulder where no shadows were cast on the glittering stark white rocks that Lutse watered with a rain of teardrops for his lost little flower. Turning his back to the sandstone and walking back toward the porch across the garden, Lutse raised his tear washed eyes to see Wanlu standing before him smiling.
"Look Lutse! Look behind you to where your tears have watered the garden's rocks!" Lutse looked back slowly over his shoulder and ran over to the sandstone to find that where each of his tears had fallen, there was blossoming a perfect, beautiful. purple, little flower.
Wanlu woke from his dream. His heart was heavy and in need of repentance. His mind too was troubled.
In the garden, the early morning sun was throwing a shaft of light onto the white rocks beneath a sandstone boulder while miles away, a young boy fleeing from a lamasery was walking across a rice field desperately looking for a splash of purple.
In the garden, the mid-morning sun warmed the bamboo handled rake in Lutse's hands. The rocks glistened and shimmered sparkling stark white like stars bright against the background of Lutse's black cotton shirt sleeves. The silence habitual to the oriental garden was disturbed only by the gentle "click, clack, rattle, click" of the rake clattering against the rocks leaving swirling patterns in its wake, like a flatstone skipping across water, creating expanding circles stretching to infinity set into motion by the smallest of actions.
Still, Lutse's mind was restless and his heart too was troubled and anxious and he did not perceive the patterns forming beneath his rake, nor did he picture the white rocks of the garden to be a canvas stretched and prepared for the artistic strokes of the rake. The young disciple‘s arms tensed to drag the tool back against the rocks, moisture formed on his back and neck beneath the black cotton shirt and while the
sun climbed higher in the eastern sky to steal the shadows from the rock garden, Lutse discovering no pattern, seeking no beauty, labored at his work.
A peculiar, misplaced splash of purple, a sudden movement caught from the corner of Lutse's eye, appeared behind the receding shadow of a large sandstone in the garden and captured Lutse's attention, distracting from his toil.
"What is this illusion?" Lutse thought, setting his rake down on the rocks and walking toward the large sandstone, hoping to satisfy his curiosity. A glint of sunshine slanting into a small space beneath the sandstone revealed the petals of a small purple wildflower.
"So, who is this intruder to my‘ garden?" Lutse mocking a stern, commanding voice addressed the frail flower.
"How bold you must be to peek your head above these rocks where Lutse is working with his rake!" Lutse continued to chastise the flower.
"It would not go well for Lutse if the master discovered Lutse had left a stray flower to grow wild in the garden. You must be plucked from this spot Little Flower." The sun had climbed directly over Lutse's head, its rays falling now on the far side of the sandstone leaving the purple flower in the sandstone's shadow once again. "My, what a short sunbath you enjoy!"
Lutse bent down on one knee and caressed the petals of the mute flower. "Beneath the protecting shade of this boulder, you could remain unnoticed by the master and the other boys and Lutse could visit you in the mornings while he worked." Lutse smiled to think that the little purple flower would be his secret.
"Lutse will leave you here for now little flower and will visit you again tomorrow morning." The young disciple left his newly discovered friend in the shade of the sandstone, walked across the garden, picked up his rake and watched with joy as the designs beneath his rake formed themselves into flower-like patterns.
Rainbow lights illuminated the white rocks as droplets of water on purple petals reflected the morning sun's rays onto the ground beneath the large sandstone where Lutse's tiny secret had just enjoyed a morning shower. Lutse set aside the teapot he had been using over the last two weeks to water the flower. It had not been a difficult task to sneak the makeshift watering can from the pantry as Lutse awakened much earlier than the other boys. Though once, he was nearly caught red-handed returning the teapot by an older disciple, Wanlu, whose greedy plan to sneak a before breakfast snack had been thwarted by Lutse's sudden appearance.
Lutse sat down crosslegged on the white rocks and spoke to his flower in the urgent whispers a boy uses when revealing secrets to his best friend.
"Did you enjoy your bath this morning Little Flower? Lutse has to wake up very early so the master and the other boys do not see. The sun is nearly past this boulder and soon Lutse must go to work raking the garden. Do you want to know a secret Little Flower? It is your image that Lutse rakes into the rocks and the other boys are too blind to even notice!"
While the sun's arc passed over the sandstone to leave the purple flower protectingly shaded from the gaze of the boys entering into the garden, Lutse pulled his rake across the rocks and delighted in imagining the scattering white stones to be flower petals floating on the surface of a foamy stream, gathering
momentum, approaching a great thundering water fall.
"Child, you appear to have been very dutiful as of late rising with the sun to rake the garden while your brother disciples cling to their dreams in sleep." Lutse was standing before the master; whom he had met on the portico while returning from the garden.
"For your reward, tomorrow morning you shall accompany me on my early morning walk. l will arrange for your portion of the garden to be raked by one of those sleepy-headed boys."
Lutse silently bowed as was expected. It was not a young disciples place to speak and certainly not to argue with an elder bestowing rewards. Rebellious tears welled up in his eyes; and in his mind, Lutse's thoughts were raging. "How can another boy be allowed to rake the garden! Little flower is sure to be discovered and plucked like a common weed! Lutse must not allow this horrible thing to happen!"
"Wanlu, you must follow Lutse to the garden." Lutse was tugging at the hand of the same boy who had nearly discovered him with the teapot. Lutse had found out that it was Wanlu who had been charged by the master with tending the rock garden in Lutse's absence.
"What is this excitement? is it not enough that I do your work for you tomorrow morning? Must I also hold your hand like a nursemaid Lutse?‘
"Hurry!" urged Lutse as he pulled the perplexed and aggravated Wanlu through the garden to the place where the shadow of the sandstone hid Lutse's flower.
"This is Lutse's treasure Wanlu. It is a very rare and beautiful thing Lutse is about to show to you. You must keep it a secret."
Wanlu curiously looked beneath the sandstone to where Lutse was pointing; and seeing there only a ragged looking purple wildflower turned to Lutse shaking his head and spoke sarcastically, "What is this? Treasure? Has Lutse been working in the heat so much that he cannot tell a weed apart from a jewel? How the other will laugh to hear of this!"
Quickly sweeping his hand beneath the sandstone, Wanlu tore the purple flower from the white rocks and ran across the garden with Lutse screaming and crying and chasing behind, both boys running for the porch where the master was instructing a group of students.
The late afternoon sun's rays like a weight dropped hot and heavy on young Lutse's shoulders as he raked around the sandstone boulder where no shadows were cast on the glittering stark white rocks that Lutse watered with a rain of teardrops for his lost little flower. Turning his back to the sandstone and walking back toward the porch across the garden, Lutse raised his tear washed eyes to see Wanlu standing before him smiling.
"Look Lutse! Look behind you to where your tears have watered the garden's rocks!" Lutse looked back slowly over his shoulder and ran over to the sandstone to find that where each of his tears had fallen, there was blossoming a perfect, beautiful. purple, little flower.
Wanlu woke from his dream. His heart was heavy and in need of repentance. His mind too was troubled.
In the garden, the early morning sun was throwing a shaft of light onto the white rocks beneath a sandstone boulder while miles away, a young boy fleeing from a lamasery was walking across a rice field desperately looking for a splash of purple.
Another Splash of Purple
The Dream, the Desert and the Penance of Flying
The flowers here are white. A few are purple. Still, most are white with delicate petals and subtle fragrance. They are sparsely scattered. So sparsely in fact that even when bowed by the hot winds that blow half -forgotten desires across the empty mesa, not one of them ever touches another. Not like those crowded yellow flowers growing on hilly green places close enough to suffocate each other with their too-sweet perfumes. Here, from the empty mesa up to the cloudless sky, there is room to breathe.
Another peculiarity concerning these flowers is discovered in the cracks in the ground. There are cracks in the ground here where the sun has baked the earth like poor pottery left too long in the kiln. No flowers grow where the ground is cracked. This is not meant to be a source of sadness. it is just the way here. Where the
ground is cracked completely and there are no flowers for miles, there is great difficulty distinguishing where the empty mesa ends and the cloudless sky begins, or if such distinctions exist at all. It is a good place for flying.
At the ceremony the night before, there had been stories and dancing. After the celebration, his father and few others, those with names, gathered beneath the etchings of the Circle on the black basalt that cooling lava had sculptured in prehistoric times and in future times would be referred to as the petroglyphs,
named for the etchings his ancestors had scratched onto the stones. The gourd containing enough water for three days journey on the mesa had been tied to his belt, and a single purple flower, those being more rare than the white, had been tied to his arm by a strap woven from sage roots.
When he would succeed in flying and discover his name, the flower would be replaced with a feather, a symbol of his manhood, and he would enter, as had his father and all those with names before him, into the community. When he asked how he would accomplish that which was expected of him, he was simply told, "If you knew these things now, there would be no need for you to walk into the desert."
So, he prepared on this cloudless morning to venture alone and nameless into the wilderness beyond the sparsely scattered flowers to where the ground is heavily cracked. He tightened the woven rope that knotted the water gourd to the beaded belt around his waist, and bound his bronze hair to one side down the length of his shoulder with a newly clipped braid. The image he would hold in his mind while crossing the flowered mesa would be the startling contrast between the blackness of the braid against the whiteness of her trembling knuckles as she tightly grasped the lock of her freshly shorn hair and promised with tears of conviction to accept his companionship when he had returned with a name after joining with the sky.
After only one day of journeying east through the sparsely scattered white flowers with the sun easing out of the cloudless sky, inching its way down the length of his braid bound hair, threatening to disappear behind his left arm where the purple flower was tied, he reached the first cracks in the ground where no flowers grow, looked far across the empty mesa up to the cloudless sky, stretched out his arms from elbows to fingertips across the wilderness and transformed himself into a silhouette against the indescribable sunset behind him. Feeling there was room here to breathe as his father and all those with names had before him, he quietly prayed, ‘This is a good place for flying."
That night he slept with no blanket on the open mesa warmed by a good omen of seven stars that formed themselves into an eagle that flew its way into his dream world and carried him into a cloudless sky where his fingertips brushed against white feathers while a blur of purple flowers rushed for miles beneath him. The ground was cracked nowhere.
He awoke that morning, his body chilled by a strangely familiar shadow being lifted from the desert rocks as the sun climbed higher in the cloudless sky to reveal no purple flowers growing on the heavily cracked ground. Comforted by the good omen of his lingering dream; however, he untied the gourd from the rope and sipped carefully a meager share of the cool water. Retying the gourd, he turned to look toward the distance he had travelled.
Already the heat was rising from the ground in successive waves merging the mesa with the sky. He squinted his eyes to encourage the mirage and turned east, extended his arms as if they were wings, held his thoughts to the promise of his dream and waited for an invisible, benign current to lift him from the cracked ground into the cloudless sky where his fingertips would brush against eagle feathers.
He waited. The sun climbed higher into the cloudless sky. Still, he waited. The shadows lengthened across the cracked ground. Still, arms outstretched, he waited. His lips dried. He thirsted. Still, he waited. The sun set again, transforming him into a silhouette and still, arms nearly at his sides now, he waited until the last wash of silvered pink and golden rose disappeared from the sky behind him and the seven stars appeared above his head to mock him. Only then did he fall to his knees exhausted. That night, he slept nameless with no blanket, his body heavy on the cracked ground beneath the seven stars, his dream world inundated with their laughter.
Failing to fly, lacking a name, yet retaining his purpose, he woke, wiped from his sealed eyes the residue of tears wept the night before and set himself to the task of retracing his steps and setting right his mistakes. His father, he thought to himself, had not instructed him to turn east, stretch his arms, and wait to be lifted to the sky. However, he had seen birds do so. Yet, even though prompted by his dream of the eagle, he had still failed. He reasoned that others had succeeded. The task must be possible. A new approach was needed and if it too failed, then he would attempt another until he had succeeded in flying as his father and all those with names had before him.
Across the expanse of cracked ground ahead in the distant horizon, he watched the cloudless sky melt into the horizon. A single thought pierced through the morning stillness and reached out to him with the unmistakable heart-stilling sureness of intuition.
‘There, the sky reaches down to meet the world like a friend. Here, the sky escapes the world like an enemy. There, the sky and the world are friends. Here, the world and the sky are enemies." He repeated this thought over and over in a sing-song chant as he walked over the cracked ground toward the horizon. The walk gathered speed...faster...faster..faster, until it was a run. His pace matched his self created rhythm of his chant. ‘There, the sky and the world are friends. There, the sky and the world are friends. There, the sky and the world are friends..."
He ran faster, repeating the mantra, ‘There, the sky and the world are friends. There the sky and the world...‘ His eyes filled with heat and closed tight against the sand the desert wind blasted from the cracked ground. On, he ran, singing his victory song, ‘The sky and the world...the sky and the world...the sky..."
Suddenly, between-his long strides, he felt the sensation of missing a step. Instead of stumbling, he held his balance and opened his eyes and for an instant, he saw that the cracked ground had receded beneath his feet. The sky, like a sweeping arm, had grabbed and carried him upward; and then, just as suddenly, had let go sending him crashing against the desert floor tumbling in an ecstasy of astonishment. He shook his head dazed, fragments of his chant on his lips, "...sky...friends...sky."
Sitting on the cracked ground, bruised and scraped, he secured the purple flower tighter around his arm, untied the gourd from his beaded belt, then drank deeply in preparation for his return home.
After only one day's journey, he reached the first sparsely scattered flowers where the ground is cracked nowhere. His heart rose to his throat and tears filled his eyes. His father was there to meet him at the place of the circle.
That night there would be stories and dancing and those with names would gather around a ceremonial fire where he would recount his adventures in the desert and tell of his flight and reveal his name. Then, the purple flower would be offered to his beloved, the feather would be bound to his arm and together they would accept their place in the community.
Night came. Stories were told. There was dancing. The fire was lit. His father and those with names gathered. He recounted his time in the desert. He told them of his journey beyond the sparsely scattered flowers to where the ground was cracked. They listened.
He told them how he felt there was room there to breathe. He told of the seven stars he slept beneath and the eagle that flew into his dream world. He told of his trials and how he failed in his first effort to fly. He told them of his determination to succeed. They listened.
He told them how the sky met the world at the horizon, but escaped from the world where he stood on the cracked ground. He told them how the sky and the world were friends there and how he raced toward the
horizon to join the sky. He told them of his song and of his run with the sand hitting his eyes. Still, they listened.
So, he told them how the ground disappeared beneath his feet and how the sky had grabbed him, carried him and dropped him back to earth. Then, he told them his name, "Friend to the Sky." They laughed.
They all laughed at him. He could see that standing beyond the fire even his beloved laughed at him. His own father laughed at him. They laughed so hard their eyes filled with tears. They slapped their thighs and some even rolled on the ground from laughing so hard.
"Did you think you were sent into the desert to become a bird?" His father ridiculed him and tore the purple flower from the sage root band and laughed while trampling it into the ground.
He pleaded with his father telling him that he did not understand.
‘This much is obvious," his father replied. "You were sent out because you did not understand and because you still do not understand, you must now leave again."
"I will not forgive you father for treating me this way." He looked again beyond the fire, drew his knife and cut the black braid from his hair and ran from the place of the circle.
He ran through the night with no name, past the sparsely scattered flowers, beneath the seven mocking stars out to where the ground is everywhere cracked. Longing for understanding, belonging, compassion, he cried to the unresponsive sky like a coyote howls at the moon until he had spent his last strength and fell like one dead onto the cracked ground where he slept with no blanket to warm him.
Toward morning in those significant few moments of clarity that exist on the cusp of sleep and wakefulness, he dreamed.
He saw there was a purple flower tied to his arm that glowed with a light like a glint of sunshine then was abruptly shadowed and he felt a longing he could not identify. Next, he saw himself racing over the mesa. The cracks in the ground widening to a vast canyon. At the canyon rim, he met his father who urgently tore away the purple flower and cast it into the vast precipice. The flower turned to a stone crashing against the canyon walls, shattering as it dropped, sending a foreign sounding echo reverberating through the world, drowning the laughter of the seven mocking stars above his head. He saw his body floating weightless above the mesa.
He woke with a sudden gasp of breath. The memory of his dream forming foreign sounding syllables on his lips. He listened to himself slowly and carefully repeat the dream echo, "Lutse...Lutse... Lutse."