Waiting for Buddha
Everything has been prepared.
The northeast corner of the yard — for years an overgrowth of spikey campanula and morning bells; a neglected gaggle of the prairie orchid, the lady’s slipper; and an annoying array of interlopers like the sweet, but stubbornly invasive globe flower and the more sinister creeping bell flower, is undergoing a transformation. The plants either destroyed or brusquely transplanted. The earth shifted to create a relatively plane surface. An area defined with a border of sandstone rocks — some of them majestic in a diminutive way. A slab of concrete lugged into place. Then river rocks — only those with a flat surface — arranged around the concrete square and inside the range of sandstone rock that create the sanctuary.
My body will suffer.
Lizzie, my gardener and pal, assessed the project and recommended large plants with abundant foliage – lituguria, echinecia, rudibeckia and then some compact multicoloured stonecrop framed by taller red sedums. But she suggested that all work recommence in the spring. And so I wait.
I look at the newly etched space, walking around the property, sitting in various chairs and benches. I tilt my head and squint my eyes. I try to imagine the Buddha. I stand on the concrete slab to see what the Buddha will assess. I attempt to vibe how the presence of the Buddha will affect the energy of the yard.
I wait for my nephew Adam to return from a motorcycle adventure to the west coast. I wait for Charles to return from his professional engagement in the southern U.S. I wait so that we, together, can lug the 100-kilo one-metre-by-one-metre concrete statue from its temporary respite in Charles’ back yard to my rock sanctuary. I can’t do that alone.