Yesterday and today I spent part of the afternoon planting garlic. Being outside, hands in the dirt, weeding and pulling out old vines, shifting compost—all these tasks move me out of my head and into physical attention where I notice the nuances of nature and relationships between growth and decay. I am struck by the smell of the frost bitten dill still hanging on by a thread or the withered Mexican marigolds that are particularly fragrant. Today’s goal was to plant garlic. I slip the garlic bulbs into the holes, sweep soil over them and cover them with a mulch of shredded leaves. The bulbs hold potential but are now gone from my sight. I trust they will grow. It is actually a mystery, the mechanics of how it all works, but perhaps that is why it is thrilling when they sprout and later when they are harvested.
In our friendship with Mikio he would often disappear for stretches of time, sometimes we might even be in the restaurant discussing a potential plate or bowl. I was left to wonder what next? He would return with an idea. His absences to Japan, Italy or California were often a mystery but for him nuances and projects were brewing. It was not unlike the miracle of garlic growing in the ground in the winter months.
“According to Buddhist teaching, there is a very close interdependence between the natural environment and the sentient beings living in it. These verses express the essential gentleness of the human spirit. They tell us that we should not only maintain gentle, peaceful relations with our fellow human beings, but that it is also very important to extend the same kind of attitude toward the environment.”
—The Dalai Lama, April 11, 1997, in the preface to Mikio’s book of his father’s calligraphy, Talk To A Stone: Nothingness, A Joost Elfferts Book published by Stewart, Tabori & Chang