Earlier that week, I'd been invited to pay a visit to a Tibetan Buddhist temple by one of the congenial Buddhists who pray and meditate there. They've been a vital partner in my congregation's efforts to feed the hungry in our little town. One Sunday while helping unload a van-full of donated food for our Little Free Pantry, I remembered that I'd not been out to visit their community for nearly a decade. So I got the invite, and puttered out to the temple on my scooter.
Kunzang Palyul Choling, which we just call KPC, is a rather more complicated and symbolically rich ritual space than our simple, soft sanctuary, and its bright flags and sacred iconography rest on acres and acres of land in the agricultural land around Poolesville. In addition to a visually lush central worship space, they've got all manner of delightful gracenote accretions on their property. Hiking and meditation trails. Stupas and statues. A large, productive garden. Burbling ponds filled with slowly circling and brilliantly colored koi. Pettable goats and pigs, all of whom are undoubtedly grateful for Buddhist vegetarianism.
In the thick of it all, there's also a parrot sanctuary.
Parrots are remarkable birds, justifiably known for their intelligence, sociability, and their capacity to mimic the human voice. They also live for a very, very, very long time, with lifespans approaching that of human beings. Meaning, they often outlive their owners, and family isn't there to offer a new home. Or their jungle-born voices prove more voluble than apartment dwellers realize. Those birds need somewhere to be, and so there they are.
As I approached their large outdoor enclosure with the monk who was kindly showing me around the temple grounds, I thought to myself:
My gracious. I don't think I've ever seen quite so many parrots.
I stepped nearer to the space. "Do they talk?" I was assured that they did. So after my host affirmed it'd be fine, I said hello. How does one start parrots talking? You start talking.
"Hi!" I said, in a squawky parrotish voice, which for some reason also came out sounding faintly Australian.
The parrots replied in a cacophanic chorus. "Hi!" "HI!" "HI!" The human words cascaded out of their beaks, along with squawks and shrieks that pierced the air.
"Hello," I returned, and a few of them said "Hello" right back, while the remainder continued with their sharp, avian "HI!" To my left, in the middle of the cage, a single older macaw sat hunched over itself, grumbling inaudibly, for all the world sounding like a disgruntled older man mumbling quietly to himself in eternal irritation.
They kept at it for a while, croaking out greetings and salutations and muttery grumblings, as my initial "Hi!" echoed from parrot to parrot, ricocheting from one psittacine voice to another.
It felt paradoxically both like communication and not like communication, as their parrotish utterances reflected nothing of their true and inscrutable internal mindstate. It was just an endless reflective imitation, as they screamed exactly what they heard around them back into their surroundings.
"This is a lot like Facebook," I thought.
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