Work on the gazebo rebuilding went better than expected with the assistance of the kindly gentleman who he had first met at this resort.
Beside the exchange of customary pleasantries (weather, how one slept, and a quick mention about the coffee incident — amazing how fast word travels in a small community) very few words were spoken as they worked. They worked as if they had been working together for decades, smoothly, almost psychically. If he needed a nail, the other already had it in his hand and would pass it to him.
The sunshine of the morning was bright, yet the heat from the sun was not making the wearing of a hat or other protection from the sun necessary. The cool breeze from the ocean kept the air at what felt like the perfect temperature so that, even though the work was strenuous at times, he never had to roll up his sleeves to allow the air to cool the heat generated from his hard work.
Occasionally, they would take a break from their labors. The construction work seemed more as if it was, dare he say it, pleasure?
When they stopped, they joined a few of the other people working in the neighboring garden area, to watch some migrating female California Gray Whales, southbound to give birth to their young, and later, in the Spring, heading toward Alaskan waters, where they would feast in waters full of krill and plankton.
The gentleman told him how their migration route is the longest of all the whales, and this phenomenon happens every year, and how, amazingly, these large animals are some of the most peaceful and passive animals around, like almost all of the cetaceans, or whale families, some of the most compassionate of animals on earth.
He told him about a reported story of a dolphin who, in trying to help a dying shark, held him up and kept him swimming as long as possible, to keep him alive, even though they are known to be “natural enemies.”
The gazebo was finished, just as the lunch bell rang. “Not a bad job for half a day’s work,” he thought to himself.
He went back to his room to wash his hands and face, and then strolled with a feeling of satisfaction and glee toward the dining room, knowing he had begun to ‘pay back’ some of his karmic debt, as he thought of it, from the previous day’s actions.
He was greeted by many faces, most of them standing in line, collecting their lunch fare. Like breakfast, it smelled absolutely delicious. Had he learned a new appreciation for the sense of smell? Maybe. Some were picking up hamburgers, others cheeseburgers, and yet others were taking cold sandwiches. Everyone took a salad and what looked like a pudding. He got in line and decided on the sandwich. He did not want to eat any meat, especially beef. ‘Moo cow food’ never did settle well in his stomach. He had a filet mignon once and, after three days, still felt it sitting heavily somewhere in his digestive tract, between his stomach and his transverse colon. As he sat down, he noticed people sitting down to eat, they would put their hands together and seem to say a prayer, then eat. It was very quick — no more than two seconds long. Quietly, he turned to a gentleman to his left who appeared to be in his mid ‘40s, and asked about this ‘prayer.’ He said, “Some may call it a prayer, we call it giving thanks. Many cultures do it. In both monotheistic and polytheistic religions, they thank their concept of God or Gods for their food.”
“In Japan, they have a similar cultural action. They thank every one and every thing involved in creating the meal for their meal, including the animal or plant, the farmer, the cook, the server, everyone. We have the similar action. Everyone likes to be thanked for their contribution they give to the universe. It is a form of thanks and celebration. Enough about culture. Please don’t let me keep you from your meal.”
“Interesting,” he said. “Thank you. That is most enlightening.”
He examined the sandwich. Ah, bacon, lettuce and tomato. He would eat the sandwich so he would not hurt the feelings of these kind folks. Bacon was not high on his list of great food, either, as it was usually high in either fat or grease.
The gentleman sitting across from him noticed a look of concern on his face.
“Would you like some ‘coffee’?” he asked in an impish manner. His neighbor, a lady in her late ‘50s, jabbed him with her elbow, knowing that the gentleman had also heard about the breakfast incident and that he was teasing the visitor.
The nudging lady spoke up and said, “Please excuse him. He has a rather ‘odd’ sense of humor.”
“No problem,” he replied. “It was really good, and yes, I would like some more! Thank you!”
As he poured, the man said, “And you need not be so concerned. The bacon is made from soy. It is not made from animal products — just like the hamburgers we have here. All soy.” He finished pouring the coffee and continued eating his cheeseburger.
He realized that his mouth was slightly agape, astonished over the fact that this person who he had not even met before offering to pour him the coffee, knew he was concerned about the food. Amazing. They must have many visitors who are vegetarians here. Santa Monica, which is just down the road from this place, is full of the ‘picky’ or en vogue eaters.
He picked up the sandwich, not sure if it was going to even be edible. Soy? Oh, god, what an adventure. Gingerly, he took the first bite. Hmmm. No! This tastes like bacon!
Hungrily, he finished the sandwich quickly. As he finished the last bite, he realized he had almost hogged the sandwich, hardly aware of anything or anyone around him. Sheepishly, he looked around and saw nobody noticed, he hoped. He finished the entire lunch at about the same time everyone else did. Good stuff! I wonder what dinner will be!
After lunch he found his morning coworker.
“What’s next?”
The gentleman answered, “Time for some rest. Please go to your room and take your lesson. You will know what to do.” With that, the gentleman smiled, turned, and walked toward the dining room door, which led to the garden.
He returned to his room. On his way, he thought, “Why does everyone talk in indirect terms? Always like a code! Confusing. If it didn’t feel so blasted welcoming, I could get frustrated by it all.”
Looking out the window, he saw the same lone tree, branches swaying gently in the afternoon breeze. The tree, even though it stood alone, did not seem ‘lonely’. It was growing brightly and beautifully.
Admiring the tree, it reminded him about a true story he had heard from a very dear friend he once had (and what relationship he so cleverly sabotaged). She told him how she had a tree in her yard, and a neighbor, who lived across the street, had an identical tree. His friend mentioned how these two trees had been through much — thunder and lightning storms, heavy winds, hail, everything, yet they survived and grew well.
One day, the neighbor decided to chop down the tree in his yard, part of the landscaping project to redesign his front lawn. Within two hours, his tree was chopped down, cut up, and disposed of, leaving only a small stump to be removed at a later time. Within a month, the surviving tree died. There was no disease, no invasion of insects. His friend told him that her tree had died of loneliness, grieving for the loss of her ‘fellow tree.’
Connection.
“Now, what?” he thought. “Nothing else to do. Might as well lay down a bit and try reading this book. After a bit of reading, maybe I will take a nap.”