Learning to 'Serve'

"For the Seva (service) hour, you are assigned to the kitchen department to chop vegetables," Sasikumar, the chief co-ordinator at Bodhi Zendo smilingly informed me. I nodded my head in  polite acceptance, even though my being shirked at the idea. "What? Chop veggies?" Reluctantly, my steps moved towards the kitchen, towards the clattering of pots and pans interspersed with the rhythmic sounds of  knives hitting the cutting boards. 

But, before I could even pick up a knife to join a team of some twenty odd hands already busy executing the task, Sasikumar was at my side. "Sorry, I think there are far too many volunteers here. How would you like to work in the garden?"

I beamed with apparent relief.

Equipped with a semi-functional rake, a bucket and a coconut-stick broom, my job involved cleaning up the yard, meaning mainly sweeping off the fallen blossoms of jakaranda, hibiscus, and dry leaves and nuts of silver oaks. But, as I stepped outside, my heart sank...the purple jakaranda flowers were strewn every which way, by the door, on the steps, over the path, and in between the plants on the freshly dug-up beds all along the garden. Not only did the sight translate into an action-packed hour, but it looked so beautiful that I had to wonder why it needed to be swept at all. I presented my dilemma to the lady in charge of the gardens. But, she only laughed and urged me to get on with the work. 

Espousing an attitude of equanimity, I raked, swept, picked and shoved it all in the big bucket...buckets after buckets were filled up and hauled to the other side, down a flight of steps, to be dumped on a huge pile of garden waste. It was the most beautiful pile... colorful, rotting, yet mildly intoxicating.  I had to wonder why can't we just dry the flowers and use them to make floral teas. On googling jakaranda tea, I was surprised to find out that while both the bark and the leaves of this tree primarily native to South America, are used to make medicinal infusions, the plethora of blossoms are generally considered a nuisance. On reading that, I developed a special affinity for these rich-colored purple flowers which offer themselves to us earthlings with such abundance...so lush and ethereal against the stark blue of the sky  and so light and innocent, when strewn across the grass. Some I picked to be pressed in my book and be made into greeting cards at a later date, and some I brought into my room and scattered them on the desk, overlooking the cloud-topped peaks. 

However, the next day, it was with a slight remorse did it dawn on me that  there would be a thousand more fallen jacarandas, waiting to be picked, and wondering where they would land up...in the garden waste, on a greeting card, or on the mountainside desk? Who was I to call the shots? Not wanting to be perceived as a string-puller, I collected the wilted flowers from the desk and the pressed ones from my book, to take them where they belonged: in the organic waste pile, which would soon be mixed in the soil and returned to the garden...so that it can continue to bloom and thrive.

I would like to believe that when the fallen flowers saw me approach that day, this is what they whispered to each other:

"lo the girl with

the broom:

let's fly back to

the tree,

free her from 

duality"

For as I swept the yard, butterflies flitted all around me.