red bridge genesis
The beginning was a long time ago; when at age twenty, i made a turn and deliberately set out to find some meaning for my life. How strange it seems now to recall that then i had only the slimmest of hints; a clue buried somewhere in history. Being ever practical, self taught, and a book lover i found, Herbert J. Muller’s, Uses of the past.” This find launched a 12-year campaign i now call ‘the book yoga.’
Later this yoga, this ‘quest’ turned again. Walking down a busy street, with no business at hand, innocent and motiveless, i was attracted by the energy of a strip mall; crossing the road i went to it, entered a bookstore, where armed with the élan formed in 12 years of seeking, i circled the racks, reaching out and touching many of the gems previously made known to me. To my surprise i came upon the very same text, Muller’s, Uses of the past! In that moment something inward shifted, a polarity had reversed, seeker became finder; books now came to me.
One of the central themes of this voyage of discovery was the sometimes-painful realization that the cultural world into which i was born (the West) had only part of the story. The West was good at seeking, at making stuff, at coursing along on the surface and blithely denying the value of the East and any sort of interiors. Direct experience had taught me that any view of our world and the human condition not based on the play of the opposites was self-limiting, partial, and not worthy of serious consideration; i looked East.
As Western thought and practice had moved over the millennia on an east to west geographical trajectory, Eastern thought and practice had been moving from west to east, eventually meeting here in what used to be called the new world. Buddhism, for example, had been chased from its birthplace in India, spread to Indonesia, Tibet, China, and Japan; changing form but not essence; and in the 20th Century crossed the Pacific Ocean; where filtered by California, its form changed again and swept East; coming full on with the corresponding counter thrust from the West.
Move forward several decades; where joined with friends, but armed with a similar innocence, i entered the Anderson Japanese Gardens, in nearby Rockford, Illinois –here in the heartland of the United States. The garden holds a sort of inner sanctum, crossing over into it had an immediate and profound effect; my close friend and i were immediately transported into an altered state of being. It was obvious that this shift was intended –deliberate; later i was persuaded by the view that only an illuminated evocative consciousness was capable of such design and practice.
The effect on me was stunning; it triggered an immense sense of gratitude. I experienced it to be an honor to be part of such a marvelous worldwide integration of thought and practice and felt a deep need to honor the traditions that made such realization possible.
Ever practical, i set to work on my one-third acre on a hill overlooking the Fox River; a full quarter of which had been left untouched and wild. Separating these two areas is a swale, a natural device to carry away excess rain. Crossing it was a perfect site for the Red Bridge. What fun! I had never built a bridge single handedly; but i got right into it. It turned out that i already possessed all the skills that i would need to do so; even untried things like laminating the wood for the handrails. Full engagement in a creative process is a wonder; simply contemplating such a thing is apt to produce a literal thrill in me.
Not content with building the Red Bridge, and being ever practical, it had to lead somewhere. Across the Red Bridge a snake like path was cut through the wooded area; into which 50 rounds cut from a previously felled dead branch of a black walnut tree were placed like stepping-stones. And as in a traditional Japanese garden, entrants to the path bow low to pass under tree boughs, and take only small, slow inducing, steps from round to round, emerging down the hill at the previously established fern garden.
The crest of this wave moved on, carried by it i found my way to a favorite library; where, assisted by a librarian friend i found Shenk’s award winning book on moss gardening. This led to yet another turn; plans for the swale changed. Gone was the previous notion of a pond at it’s high point and a pond below, with pumped water recycling between the two. Ah, but taking a (metaphoric) page from the text i was informed that moss gardening likely had its beginnings in the gardens of Zen Buddhist monistaries. So now transplanted moss simulates water under the Red Bridge.
Later this yoga, this ‘quest’ turned again. Walking down a busy street, with no business at hand, innocent and motiveless, i was attracted by the energy of a strip mall; crossing the road i went to it, entered a bookstore, where armed with the élan formed in 12 years of seeking, i circled the racks, reaching out and touching many of the gems previously made known to me. To my surprise i came upon the very same text, Muller’s, Uses of the past! In that moment something inward shifted, a polarity had reversed, seeker became finder; books now came to me.
One of the central themes of this voyage of discovery was the sometimes-painful realization that the cultural world into which i was born (the West) had only part of the story. The West was good at seeking, at making stuff, at coursing along on the surface and blithely denying the value of the East and any sort of interiors. Direct experience had taught me that any view of our world and the human condition not based on the play of the opposites was self-limiting, partial, and not worthy of serious consideration; i looked East.
As Western thought and practice had moved over the millennia on an east to west geographical trajectory, Eastern thought and practice had been moving from west to east, eventually meeting here in what used to be called the new world. Buddhism, for example, had been chased from its birthplace in India, spread to Indonesia, Tibet, China, and Japan; changing form but not essence; and in the 20th Century crossed the Pacific Ocean; where filtered by California, its form changed again and swept East; coming full on with the corresponding counter thrust from the West.
Move forward several decades; where joined with friends, but armed with a similar innocence, i entered the Anderson Japanese Gardens, in nearby Rockford, Illinois –here in the heartland of the United States. The garden holds a sort of inner sanctum, crossing over into it had an immediate and profound effect; my close friend and i were immediately transported into an altered state of being. It was obvious that this shift was intended –deliberate; later i was persuaded by the view that only an illuminated evocative consciousness was capable of such design and practice.
The effect on me was stunning; it triggered an immense sense of gratitude. I experienced it to be an honor to be part of such a marvelous worldwide integration of thought and practice and felt a deep need to honor the traditions that made such realization possible.
Ever practical, i set to work on my one-third acre on a hill overlooking the Fox River; a full quarter of which had been left untouched and wild. Separating these two areas is a swale, a natural device to carry away excess rain. Crossing it was a perfect site for the Red Bridge. What fun! I had never built a bridge single handedly; but i got right into it. It turned out that i already possessed all the skills that i would need to do so; even untried things like laminating the wood for the handrails. Full engagement in a creative process is a wonder; simply contemplating such a thing is apt to produce a literal thrill in me.
Not content with building the Red Bridge, and being ever practical, it had to lead somewhere. Across the Red Bridge a snake like path was cut through the wooded area; into which 50 rounds cut from a previously felled dead branch of a black walnut tree were placed like stepping-stones. And as in a traditional Japanese garden, entrants to the path bow low to pass under tree boughs, and take only small, slow inducing, steps from round to round, emerging down the hill at the previously established fern garden.
The crest of this wave moved on, carried by it i found my way to a favorite library; where, assisted by a librarian friend i found Shenk’s award winning book on moss gardening. This led to yet another turn; plans for the swale changed. Gone was the previous notion of a pond at it’s high point and a pond below, with pumped water recycling between the two. Ah, but taking a (metaphoric) page from the text i was informed that moss gardening likely had its beginnings in the gardens of Zen Buddhist monistaries. So now transplanted moss simulates water under the Red Bridge.
posted by charles at 1:44 PM
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