In the depth of a forest, an old lady carried out a ritual. She brought an empty pot, a sack of soil, a sack of ash, and a seed in a box made of gold. Very carefully she poured three cups of soil into the pot. Followed by four spoonful of ashes, spread evenly on the surface of the soil. With her index finger she poked a small hole on the soil, she put in a little seed into the hole, and covered it again with a pinch of ash. She closed her eyes, her thin lips smiled full of hope and affection, she recited a passage of chant while giving the soil four splashes of water.
For the past sixty years, she has been repeating the exact same rite on every full moon. It was exactly like how her parents taught her, it was exactly how her grandparents inherited it, as exactly how her ancestors did it. Her pure heart guided her to have an unquestioning devotion and to be faithful, that the glassbead seed that she planted will eventually germinate, grow, and produce fruits of eternal life.
Not far, a group of people gathered and watched. And they debated fiercely.
"It should be ash-soil-seed."
"It should be soil-seed-ash."
"It should be five splashes."
"It should be volcanic ash."
"She chanted too quietly."
"No she chanted the wrong passage!"
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