Part I: The Escape to Write It's hard to separate
yourself in the garden from the commercialized world on the outside. As I delved deeper into its depths, I found a
truly beautiful pond where the light split through the trees and surrounding
flora and glinted off the water majestically.
"This," I thought, " will be my zone of reflection." As I perched myself in a relatively shady
nook overlooking the streaming water, I let the sound of the trickling consume
my mind. Yes. This was a nice quiet place. Just then a group of eight
people, three of them children, came clomping down a path. I was rather surprised to find that
simultaneously, another very separate group was coming up another path, and the
serene illusion I had immersed myself in
quickly evaporated. The wildlife,
greenery, and undulating water was now alien to me as I noticed a rubber hose
creeping through the flowers, the placards identifying the specific species of
vegetation, the sprinkler pipe jutting out of a bush, and the handicap
accessible entrance leading into the gift shop I had inadvertently positioned
myself directly behind. CRAP.
This
will not do. I walked away from the
laughter of children and tried to quarantine myself from the sounds of the
distant city bustles. I was on a mission of utmost artistic snobbery. I wanted to zone back to that place, the
feeling of suspension in the most
natural of environments. Though a garden
is very much a contrived space, with carefully plotted landscaping and
maintenance done by the Mexican-American immigrant worker who sees this garden
as his lively-hood—a place that fosters food for his family and health
insurance for his children, though it is a programmed amusement for families to
come and view on their lazy Sunday afternoons, only to return to a life of
work, school, and television, though it can quickly transform into an overdone
and trite serenity, there must be something more for me to find. I tried traipsing off the
path in search of solitude, but Bump's students were scattered everywhere,
trying to find their own personal piece of the garden. Earlier I had spotted an interesting wood
carving which seemed to be a winged figure.
It reminded me vaguely of Mother
Tree, so I sat on a cool damp rock where I would be face to face with this work
of equally human and natural creation. Part II: Reflections on the path. It was hard for me to escape
the paths and people—there's a set route we're generally supposed to follow in
this garden and certain things have been carefully selected for you to "Ooo" and "Aww" at. I didn't want to have an "Aww,
that was a pretty place" experience; I wanted to see past that! The minute we set out on the
path, I spotted something Mother Nature had crafted herself—A
violently green leaf captured in pristine youth, suspended in a marvelous
spider's web that branched between several radiant bushes. The sunlight broke through the overhanging
foliage to cast an illuminating glow on
the uppermost edges of this floating leaf, highlighting its simplistic beauty. I wondered if anybody else had noticed this
masterpiece, or was it just an exclusive artifact added to my personalized
garden experience? This natural
occurrence reminded me very much of this artist who, like the creator of the
garden, worked in a partnership with nature.
Whether it be a dry imprint of his body against a rock that had been
saturated with rain, or the careful suspension of simple hoops in spiders' webs
along the We continued along the path
and I heard several people on all sides of me become tickled with
excitement. A butterfly quietly perched
on a sign that warned visitors not to disturb the wildlife or garden. How strange to me that something as simple as
a butterfly, a creature we see almost daily, would produce such vocal reactions,
while the garden itself seemed to pass through clouded peripheries. That to me was a reflection of the two
different societies we currently were experiencing. The Japanese garden is supposed to be a place
of relaxation and meditation, and the trickling water and foliage would create
a sense of peace and connection with nature.
Perhaps a Japanese student group, overlooking the butterfly, would "Ooo" and "Aww" at the giant coy
fish as they leisurely drifted about the
pond. It's funny how beauty can be
personified in two entirely different creatures by different cultures. The group trekked forward, and I spied a
moist mushroom growing solitarily from a hole half way up an ordinary
tree. Now that was beautiful! I wonder what cultures would fawn all over my
little mushroom. The path continued, and we
were suddenly confronted by a stone path which made its trail across one of the
ponds. We carefully skipped from stone
to mossy stone, and on each one I planted both of my feet squarely in place,
imagining myself as an offshoot of something secured to the pond's floor. In this sense, I felt I was just like the
lily pads that dotted the water's surface.
I felt I had made the garden into an artwork completely attuned to me
and my being. Part III: Cynicism
and Reality I'm brought back to earth by
the sounds of a plaintive photographer coaxing an overly dressed and primped
sprite of a girl to smile for a generic nature tableau. Her arm is propped unnaturally on a tree and
her feet are crossed at her ankles; a slight breeze could topple her precarious
pose. I see a little Japanese girl
carrying paper lanterns, two in each hand, making her way up a different
path. To my left, an unaccompanied
photographer frames a shot of a voluptuous purple flower sprouting from the
earth; there's a few seconds of focusing, a snap, and the photographer moves
on. I make the uncomfortable but relieving
realization that I am not the only one to make art out of a seemingly stagnant
exhibit. Two little girls stroll past
me, whispering secrets to each other about a world only they're apart of. |