"What's with the Indian chicken thing?" I asked her, pointing toward the strange-looking Hindu carving on the shelf.

At her desk, the princess laughed; her beautiful butterscotch face upturned, her dark eyes squinting. She always laughed at my antics, endearingly and undeservedly. If not for my ignorance, I would have seen it as a humorously-cloaked kind of pity. Not that she wasn't offended and embarrassed in equal measures.

It's just, well, they didn't teach us about this stuff in the Catholic classrooms just a few miles north at Loyola.

"That's not a chicken, it's Garuda, a Hindu deity." I forgot the Hindu name seconds after she said it. "Vishu rides upon Garuda." Then she stared back down at her paperwork.

I picked up the chicken sculpture and carried him over to the window-ledge, which overlooked the icy, choppy waters of Lake Michigan. Artistically, he was captivating; sharp and complicated and twisted. He contrasted nicely with the endless monotony of the slate winter water that extended to the horizon.

"Although I have to admit that is a cool picture," she said, later, as if trying to convince herself that there was at least one redeeming thing about my disrespect.

I would learn eventually that Garuda was indeed anything but a chicken. He embodies the five vayus within us: prana, apana, vyana, udana, samana - through his five forms: Satya, Suparna, Garuda, Tarkshya, Vihageshwara.

These five vayus, or vital life forces (also known as "winds"), can be controlled through yoga Pranayama - which can lead to Kundalini - the awakening process that leads to higher levels of consciousness. Oops.

Oh Garuda, I'm so sorry.

Perhaps the Hindu deities had also pitied me, which would explain why I escaped existentially unscathed. And why the beautiful princess at her desk still smiled.

A few weeks later, I saw Garuda again. His form towered just past the door, on a plinth overlooking all who entered. This was a much bigger sculpture, with dramatic spikes and sharp feathers. Along with a near-defiant posture of claws and glares. Garuda in his glory - beauty and power, protection and will.

His presence is a reminder of the principles of Duty in the Gita. A Duty to preserve Good over Evil. A duty to take the path of the morally right and just. And Garuda is a reminder that this isn't an optional thing.

The princess asked me to look through the large windows beyond the Garuda plinth and into the forested property behind the house.

"That's the oldest living oak tree in the entire county," she said, pointing out past the sloping lawn.

Even without its sap-green summer canopy of leaves, it was stunning. It's broad trunk was covered with knots and swirls of deeply grooved bark, like the wrinkles on the face of a old man; tanned and tested and wise.

From the massive trunk, branches twisted and crossed and split into more branches, over and over again, until they towered over everything in sight.

Like Garuda, its essence was stirring. It spoke of ancestry and age; of the past and the present. Of permanence.

It reminded me of the picture. The one just past the window, where the princess stopped, looked up, and said, "And this is my family, although there are many more." It was a colorful, bursting collection of genealogy. Rows upon rows of the cousins, aunts and uncles. Grandfathers and grandmothers. A photographic document of the blessings of their generational bounty.

And each of them appeared to be equally calm, content and connected.

She pointed at the picture again. There, high above the colors and faces of the collected family, was a black and white photo of a mother and father. It was the patriarch and matriarch, still remembered and respected. Perhaps like Garuda, the photograph reminded all of them of their duty.

The tree. The one that spread its giant, ancient branches, twisting and growing in the vayu winds.

Garuda. The Hindu deity that I so underestimated.

And me. A freckled, blonde haired guy who would need to ride Garuda to ever climb up that ancient and almost mystical tree.

Like he would let me.

#personal connection

Garuda, the Oak Tree and Me