In the wee hours at Pelden Farm Pond, the Great Blue Herons are scooping up bull frogs by the gullet full. And I hate to admit it, but I won’t mind a little reduction in the noise: It’s gotten so bad that at night when I go out to count falling stars, OSHA guidelines—and I’m talking about the “Old folks Safety and Health Administration”– require that people my age wear noise suppressors. But what’s a good Buddhist supposed to do? There’s me, the Blue Herons, and the frogs, and all of us are just trying to do whatever it is we do.
The monks up the road tell me that a couple of years ago, they had a ferocious infestation of cockroaches. If it had been up to them, they would have found a way to co-exist peacefully. But it wasn’t just a matter of keeping the venerables tucked in especially tightly at night (duct tape use #694): It was also a matter of proving to the city health inspector that the momos served to the ladies auxiliary contained nothing that wasn’t strictly vegetarian. While calling the Terminix man was out of the question, performing the Tibetan Buddhist version of the Pied Piper ritual was not, and a few hours and a fire puja later, the monastery was once again home to sentient beings with, on average, only two legs.
Out here by the pond, my solution is a good pair of the Shure E2C sound isolating headphones, which the Head Butler recommends. BUT ALL THIS PHILOSOPHIZING MAY BE MOOT IN THE WAKE OF WHAT APPEARS TO BE AN ALIEN SPACE SHIP LANDING, RIGHT HERE AT PELDEN FARM!
Okay, so I’m kidding. If you’re not from around here, this is really just the top of one of the grain bins here at the farm. No, it doesn’t take that much to amuse me. Saturday night at Pelden Farm. Time to sit back in the hammock and count the falling stars. Every now and then, I may throw a rock to shut the frogs up.
But I have a really bad throwing arm, I promise. I never hit any of them.
