Nature’s Temple
The Deschutes River courses through a small canyon and is relatively quiet on this autumn day. Waterfalls are softer, signs of reduced streamflows in early fall. Gentle ripples gather into deep silent pools hosting hovering insects doing whatever they do before winter’s chill. As I descend the river access trail, I am enveloped by a the musty smell of a riparian zone. I hear the river speaking the language of changing seasons and a water-smoothed boulder calls me to take a seat and relax in the space before me.
A hint of pink-lavender catches my eye and I notice a plant with tubular flowers occupying a sandy depression among the boulders. I feel a bit giddy at the sight of a blossom out of its season. Of course, it is only my sense of this flower’s season. It does not care whether or not I think it should be blooming right now. The joy of seeing this rock penstemon overwhelms my assumptions and I simply behold the beauty while blissful awareness paints a wide smile across my face.
Such simple joy is a gracious gift from the natural world, but not always seen or appreciated. One must slow down and receive what is bestowed without preconceptions. I suppose I have always known this, although I’ve not always acted is if I understood. It can take a long time to get over the less important things we find so important. The river does not get involved with my dramas, nor should I.
When I let my thoughts dissolve into the river, everything settles and opens up at the same time. It is like entering an awe-inspiring cathedral hosting an unfamiliar religion and knowing every tenet without study. Uncontrived nature lays the foundation for a temple without walls, an ever-changing altar, and the choir of wind and water. No human-built place of worship can engender this kind of experience.
I think the Tibetan word for temple, gompa, is an apt word describing the true intention of a house of worship. Gom-pa means “meditation place” or “solitary place.” A Buddhist gompa is dedicated to offering a temporary shelter to inspire meditation. Even so, it does not replace the boundary-less experience of immersing oneself in the vastness of the natural world.
Nature insists herself wherever we are. If we are attentive, she will break through the shell of our thoughts and offer some light. Now, as I write this while sitting in the garden behind my home, a scrub jay invites a call and response. The bird is the priest, the pastor, or the lama, who suggests an invocation, a prayer, or a mantra—and disappears into the sky; the Church of the Vanishing Clergy.
Blue jay calls to me
Teasing rambling thoughts away
Chanting ha ha ha