When i was a kid, i used to have aquarium jars, big and small, glass and earthen. My favorite was a big jar, with some fanwort plants and a few small insignificant fishes inside. Back in those old days of the 80s, Vietnam was so poor that infrastruture was neglected. Whenever it rained, rainwater made a light flood on the streets and hurried in streams on both sides of the road toward the sewage. The pavement in front of my house got puddle every time. But it was great. When it was big rain, the flood water would be clear, kids would come out in groups to play in the street. I sometimes would took my catfish jar out and poured into the puddle so that the fish could enjoy the fresh rainwater and the experience of real rain. It was such joy to me, not the fun of playing a toy, but the joy of believing I was bringing the fish its real joy, real playtime. I never thought much of how much stress the fish had when i tried to catch it back. Or rather i thought the fish would agree with me that it was worthwhile. And of course, i never thought if and how i knew what the fish felt. Once in a while, I'd loose a fish when it made it out of the puddle and into the stream of water, to its true freedom. I was sad but somehow still felt it worthwhile. I'd risk it again next time.
For a few reasons, i stopped keeping aquarium and having any fishes after 14. The love is still there. I rarely pass by any open water without wondering and hoping for a glimpse of fish inside. But, i tell myself, if i were to have fishes again, I would have them in a pond instead of the glass tank. I want them to have more freedom and privacy, things that a glass tank can hardly provide.
Luckily now i'll have a shot of making a pond.
One of the
most inspiring and memorable passages from The Timeless Way of Building was
when Christopher Alexander described a fish pond and its profound impact on
him. It was almost a spiritual experience to him, just by being there with
something so ordinary and care-free yet having a quality that was true and that
reached deep and connected deeply. It’s almost like wabi-sabi but Chris wanted
to convey a quality which was beyond aesthetics. He didn’t have a name for it
then, sometimes calling it a quality without a name, sometimes ‘wholeness’. The word wholeness which appeared only vaguely, reluctantly in his mind back then would decades
later, in the Nature of Order books, emerged as the name of that quality he’s been trying to reach.
I once saw a simple fish pond in a Japanese village which was perhaps eternal. A farmer made it for his farm. The pond was a simple rectangle, about 6 feet wide, and 8 feet long; opening off a little irrigation stream. At one end, a bush of flowers hung over the water. At the other end, under the water, was a circle of wood, its top perhaps 12 inches below the surface of the water. In the pond there were eight great ancient carp, each maybe 18 inches long, orange, gold, purple, and black: the oldest one had been there 80 years. The eight fish swam, slowly, slowly, in circles--often within the wooden circle. The whole world was in that pond. Every day the farmer sat by it for a few minutes. I was there only one day and I sat by it all afternoon. Even now, I cannot think of it without tears. Those ancient fish had been swimming, slowly, in that pond for 80 years. It was so true to the nature of the fish, and flowers, and the water, and the farmers, that it had sustained itself for all that time, endlessly repeating, always different. There is no degree of wholeness or reality which can be reached beyond that simple pond.
I hope I can update how my pond goes soon. I've designed it with some Christopher Alexander's pattern in mind. It_ together with the house_ is in construction now.
