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Chapter 17 - Wandering! Oh Wandering! Is the water of Lake Sammamish at a standstill? No, the water of the lake is still wandering and wandering! There is a very narrow channel at the south end of Lake Sammamish that is connected to the ocean and, through this small exit, the lake runs south into the ocean. The water of this lake is still a wanderer. Oh wanderer! I was once a wanderer too. I was, at that time, young and unmarried. Working as a travelling surveyor, I wandered amid peaks of high mountains, through forests, and along banks of wild rivers. All I saw were animals and flowers, and all I heard was the deep and clear callings of birds. I often say that a travelling surveyor walks the steps of a wanderer in the wilderness. In my days of wandering, I once arrived at a small, bamboo grove village. The village had a little pond and I sat by the pond, admiring the water lilies and tossing pebbles into the water, causing concentric circles of ripplings to form. At noon, our surveyor team asked the proprietress of the only grocery store in the village to heat our lunch boxes. She called out her daughter to steam heat the lunches for us. I greeted the daughter and she raised up her head with a smile. She had an extremely sweet, melon-seed shaped face, with sparkling eyes and a delicate, cherry-like mouth. The grocer's daughter, besides heating up our lunches, also boiled for us a big bowl of egg flower soup. She even stayed to keep us company while we ate and she asked many questions about our job of surveying and problems in the cities. She also invited us to stop again at the grocery to heat our lunches while we were surveying the district. She always smiled while she talked, which was delightful and charming. Even her movements while heating the lunches were gentle, and we could not resist her kindness. So, by the water lily pond, at the time of pebble-throwing, two people were there. When lunch hour approached, at the side of the little dirt road that led to the village, a feminine shape would be there waiting for us. One time her mother greeted me and asked if I would like to stay behind at the small village. At that time because I was a travelling surveyor, when the current project was finished I would have to go to some other place, often far away. I still had many, many roads to travel. How could I stay behind in the small bamboo grove village? Yet, I hesitated. I saw the eyes of her mother asking me to stay, and the girl, herself, was sending many signals of approval to me. When we finally left the small, bamboo grove village, we did so quickly. I hesitated no more, quickly making up my mind to leave, because I was a wanderer, a travelling surveyor, and penniless. How could I disappoint a fair maiden with a sweet, intelligent face and sparkling, dark brown eyes? I was just a wanderer. I wished her happiness! But I still remember the dreams at the small, bamboo grove village... So much time and memories of the past have drifted from me like the water flowing away. During the days when I was a wanderer, there were moments when my heart would flutter. Those were the days of smiles and greetings and the days of throwing pebbles into water lily ponds. Why didn't I remember during those moments that I was a travelling surveyor, covered with dirt and dust, and with hair as shabby as a beggar's, working under the powerful sun, without any established career? How could I have stayed? The water of Lake Sammamish is also a wanderer, flowing to the south towards the ocean. The wandering of this lake water is too familiar. Past events and things forgotten can re-surface. Many people and events from one's past are just experiences one has to go through. Was I right? Was I wrong? I, myself, do not want to touch these events of the past, and yet, when I look at the flowing water, memories are spontaneously resurrected. Thoughts of the past are like the wandering of the water. Nothing remains the same. Now I am walking a positive and sure path. I have never been afraid of criticism, nor slander; I have never tried to cover up my feelings. In this life of mine, I do not look forward to being applauded, nor am I afraid of hissing sounds. After all, I am just like the flowing water, not extraordinary, but with a style of my own.There are no more temptations and seductions. There is no more child-like pure romance. There are no more flickering flames. Life is not make-believe; learning is not imitation. Dreams have already wandered away, like the rumbling lake water. Now, the once wandering heart of Holy-Red-Crown-Vajra-Master has calmed down. All the waves are forgotten-high tides, new waves, whirlpools, ruffles-have all become still. Now, I just gaze at the water of Lake Sammamish. The wandering lake water has the most beautiful, curving patterns and flows like the most beautiful, illusory dreams. Someone thus remarked, one can put one's foot into the water, lift it up, then dip it in again, but the water touched is no longer the same. The water from the earlier immersion has already wandered away. Oh sage, such a life's journey brings, perhaps, more suffering and hardship but, with all the laughter and tears, such a variety of experience is offered! Wandering! Oh Wandering!
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