Rugged Interdependency - Amaravati Buddhist Monastery

Golden Highways Revisited: 1998movies: Dick van Dyke or was it Bewitched? Trees are everywhere and the aura ofvernal power dominates the view – large suburban homes poke through the linesand blocks of lime-green leaf.New York Botanical Gardens open up to us and Jill’s sister Kris shows usaround. Like Jill, a slender blonde presence but somewhat more filled with thetightly sprung gotta-get-goin genre of the area. Blossom clusters burden the treesall around. Pink cherries, dazzling white plums and almonds. We pass throughthe walks and head directly for the seven-acre hothouse, a stupendous Victorianedifice of whitened glass and connected domed pavilions, like the Middle Easternsplendors of the Royal Pavilion in Brighton. Here, however, the glories are in thedripping richness of the greenery within, not in the traceries and decor of thearchitecture.Steamy tropics, like Fern Valley in Jamaica, tender Mediterraneans, arid cactiof the southwestern desert and the bowers of impossible metallic turquoise, scarletand gold pitcher vines, jasmine towers load the sticky air with aromas of love.Soon crowds of multihued tots, trailing behind their teacher, names emblazonedon cards upon their chests, flow around us in harlequin waves as we makeour way around the buildings. Hanging epiphytes drip with the morning’s sprayand a strange sterility hovers about us in the absence of insect noise, frogs and butterflies.Awesomely realistic faux tree trunks, laden with moss and climbing plants,arch above our heads and fill the chambers of our vision – black pools of rush andwater plants are dotted here and there, peppered themselves by the glint of coins,little hopes shining from the dark underworld.We glide on to the rock garden – “Nation of Islam?” one local enquires ofus, perched with his buddy on a bench by the gate – the world is in bloom; dogwoods,fritilleria, shocking scarlets and purples everywhere, gentle alpine bluesand whites abound.What vision the garden-makers had! How well they intuited the rising tidesof the city around them. Not only Central Park but this botanical garden in theBronx, now surrounded by clutches of mean and uncertain streets. What wisdomto define these sanctuaries, to keep the presence of Nature’s bounty visible, breathablein the midst of our human creations and their outflows. It sits here like a greenand pulsing source of reviving energy in the midst of heart-sapping confusion andcompulsion.We had cancelled our luncheon at the members dining room at the MetropolitanMuseum (probably due to a divine hand intervening) and had rearranged to eat atKhun Wan’s restaurant Siam Inn II in Hell’s Kitchen – being somewhat more gentrifiedthese days it would probably be more appropriate now to refer to the areaas Bistro de l’Infer or some such. Suwit, Wan and Gaew were there (the latter twohaving been at Abhayagiri the previous year for the May alms-giving ceremony)plus many others who worked in the restaurant. We met Wan’s husband Daeng forthe first time and a sweet elder lady known as Pat.It was a delight to see them all again and they were plainly very happy to havethe chance to offer a meal to one of their monks. Gina, John and Jill were seriously49