Jurassic Siddartha
In sheets, in hammers on the corrugated roof of the clinic building, in a roar through the metal gutters, in a torrent on the ground, the tropical rain fell-- fell on Roberta Carter, the Chicago-born, the visiting physician. Fog cloaked her view from the clinic when she looked out, when she sighed, when she acknowledged the loss of her expectations. Sun came in her dreams, in her hopes, in her expectations, in the ocean beyond, but not to Bahía Anasco. She was already settled in Bahía Anasco, had been for three weeks, losing the grueling years of residency in emergency residence, letting them out through her work as visiting physician. She did not yet understand how to know Costa Rica in her innermost being, to relax in the torrential rain instead of her expected sun, indestructible, at one with the rain.
Jurassic Park:
The tropical rain fell in drenching sheets, hammering the corrugated roof of the clinic building, roaring down the metal gutters, splashing on the ground in a torrent. Roberta Carter sighed, and stared out the window. From the clinic, she could hardly see the beach or the ocean beyond, cloaked in low fog. This wasn't what she had expected when she had come to the fishing village of Bahía Anasco on the west coast of Costa Rica, to spend two months as a visiting physician. Bobbie Carter had expected sun and relaxation, after two grueling years of residency in emergency medicine at Michael Reese in Chicago.
She had been in Bahía Anasco now for three weeks. And it had rained every day.
Siddartha:
In the shade of the house, in the sunshine near the boats on the riverbank, in the shade of the sal forest, in the shade of the fig tree, Siddhartha grew up--the beautiful son of the Brahmin, the young falcon, together with Govinda, his friend, the son of the Brahmin. Sun tanned Siddhartha's light shoulders on the riverback when he batherd, when he performed his holy ablutions, his holy offerings. Shade flowed into his black eyes in the mango grove, during boyhood games, during his mother's singing, during the holy offerings, during the teaching of his father, the scholar, during the conversations of the sages. Siddhartha had long been taking part in the conversations of the sages, practicing the verbal battle with Govinda, practicing the art of contemplation with Govinda, the service of meditation. He already knew how to soundlessly speak the om, the word of words, soundlessly speak it into himself, breathing it in, soundlessly speak it out of himself, breathing it out with all his soul, his forehead enveloped in the luster of his clear-thinking mind. He already understood how to know Atman in his innermost being, indestructible, at one with the universe.
Jurassic Park:
The tropical rain fell in drenching sheets, hammering the corrugated roof of the clinic building, roaring down the metal gutters, splashing on the ground in a torrent. Roberta Carter sighed, and stared out the window. From the clinic, she could hardly see the beach or the ocean beyond, cloaked in low fog. This wasn't what she had expected when she had come to the fishing village of Bahía Anasco on the west coast of Costa Rica, to spend two months as a visiting physician. Bobbie Carter had expected sun and relaxation, after two grueling years of residency in emergency medicine at Michael Reese in Chicago.
She had been in Bahía Anasco now for three weeks. And it had rained every day.
Siddartha:
In the shade of the house, in the sunshine near the boats on the riverbank, in the shade of the sal forest, in the shade of the fig tree, Siddhartha grew up--the beautiful son of the Brahmin, the young falcon, together with Govinda, his friend, the son of the Brahmin. Sun tanned Siddhartha's light shoulders on the riverback when he batherd, when he performed his holy ablutions, his holy offerings. Shade flowed into his black eyes in the mango grove, during boyhood games, during his mother's singing, during the holy offerings, during the teaching of his father, the scholar, during the conversations of the sages. Siddhartha had long been taking part in the conversations of the sages, practicing the verbal battle with Govinda, practicing the art of contemplation with Govinda, the service of meditation. He already knew how to soundlessly speak the om, the word of words, soundlessly speak it into himself, breathing it in, soundlessly speak it out of himself, breathing it out with all his soul, his forehead enveloped in the luster of his clear-thinking mind. He already understood how to know Atman in his innermost being, indestructible, at one with the universe.