My husband has recently taken to reading the essays and prose of Alan Watts. He’s been reading to me from the book: Cloud-Hidden, Whereabouts Unknown. While he was on tour, he would call me to tell me about his latest chapter and the peace of mind it was bringing about within him. Lately, we’ve been spending time during the day or with our heads upon our pillows at night comparing the elemental relationships to that of our own. At first it sounds like some whacked-out, hippie bullshit, but once we got passed that stigma, the jam band in my head fades to black and I can really start to appreciate the art and practice of zen.
This weekend, we attended a beginners class on meditation at the Zen Center in Asheville, NC. The instructor was clearly a retired southerner who’s taken a keen interest to Buddhism in his new found free-time. He was crass in his explanation of meditation (“ya see what they say here kids is that really, it’s just about sittin and shuttin up”), but well-educated when it came to the history and various forms of practice. The idea of clearing my mind of conscious thought has always seemed laughable. At any given moment my head is micro-managing itself. A revolving door of apprehension, reflection and debate. Round and round, thoughts, ideas, inspirations, fears and frustrations battle it out for who gets the inner-dailogue, while the rest converse amongst themselves in the waiting room in the west wing.
Years ago, after a recommendation from a good friend, a copy of The Celestine Prophecy fell off a shelf at a Minneapolis Goodwill and hit me on the head (literally). Considering that my 19-year-old self had the self-identity of Silly Putty, at roughly 40 pages in I was pretty certain that I too could see “energy colors”. The book guided me towards a meditative process that used objects and chants to clear your mind. Even with these, the linguistics nerd in me traded breath-focused mantras for critiquing poor use of alliteration, lack of rhythm or uneven syllabic structure, let’s face it, Buddha was a lacking poet, haikus are for pussys.
Needless to say, it’s been years since I’ve considered adapting the practice of meditation into my life. Just last year, our dear friends the Akron/Family and later the boys from Daredevil Christopher Wright stayed with us in our home in Raleigh as they traveled through on tour. A few of the members of each band were diligent about taking time out in their day to devote towards meditation. Phil was intrigued and enthralled by their dedication, I only found reasons to be jealous that they had a spare 20 minutes in their day.
So as we began instruction, my heart was open to the idea, but I was mostly happy to be fulfilling a desire of my husband’s new curiosity. The class started by an explanation of the history of meditation, it’s various practices and specifically what the Zen Center of Asheville had to offer. Next he moved into the posture and finally into the “clearing of the mind” . Here’s where my apprehension kicks in, I can’t sit in the lotus position for more than about 30 seconds before I loose all feeling in my legs. Secondly, the aforementioned inner-dialogue is always heightened when in new surroundings. Already I had mapped out a pattern for the pillows in we were sitting on, found two cracked tiles that needed replacing and wrote my own version of the life-story of the guy sitting to my left (he just finished caring for his ailing mother and now that she’s passed, he moved to the mountains to get back to his own life, starting first with self-reflection and healing. Also, he’s a sex-addict and loves micro-suede. )
The instructor proceeded to explain that when starting out it is near impossible to “completely” clear your mind. Instead, he used the metaphor of a train. The train represents your everyday thoughts, your worries, your fears, etc. Throughout a “sitting” you simply have to redirect yourself to get off the train and watch those thoughts go by, instead of riding along with them. I’m a sucker for a good metaphor, so when the bell rang to announce the beginning of meditation, I did my best to follow his advice.
Instead of 15 minutes of clearing my conscious thought, I wound up giving clever titles to the cars as they passed me by, compartmentalizing my ideas and frustration, felt like organizing my mental closet. Seated in a grassy knoll, freight-car after freight-car chugged along, color-coordinated, clever and concise. It was tough not to jump on at certain points, like facing some sort of addiction. So tempting to dwell on reoccuring one’s like”Debt-onator”, “Falin’, Palin”, “Yoko” or “Other People’s Problems” (OPP for short) . But the point of the practice is to see things moving away, to the past or the future and sitting in the present, aware of your surroundings, undisturbed by all the rigamoro. Riding the rails (and singing the song..eh? no. ok, sorry) is the dangerous retreat into that mental spiral. A place that feels safe, familiar, but makes only for more inner-turmoil, more stress, more grey hairs.
Sooner than I could have thought, the bell signaled to end our session, we unwrapped from our pretzel positions and the instructor fielded questions. While we were guided in the beginning not to have any expectations, I couldn’t help but evaluate my mental health for the remainder of the day. Was I more aware? Was I thinking more clearly? Honestly, no, but quietly breathing for 15 minutes while sitting still is never a bad way to start your day. Furthermore, this was the kick-off to a weekend celebration of Phil and I’s first 6 months of marriage. Doing anything together at this point seems like a blessing. Between work, tour and general day-to-day, we don’t have a whole lot of face time.
From Asheville, Phil and I continued on to a camping spot in the Pisgah National Forest. We continued our day with conversations about expectation, self-doubt and forcing change. Still, skeptical, flashing back to my eye-squinting practice of looking for spirit colors, I asked questions, even criticized Zen’s purpose and place in modern society.
The next morning, we set out for a hike on one of the trails atop Mount Pisgah. Phil packed a lunch and a joint while I laced up my Chuck Taylor’s. What was meant to be a day-hike, a few miles in and then a few miles back, turned into a much grander adventure. When the day was done, we had climbed down and then up the face of a mountain (roughly 7.5 miles and over 3,000 ft in elevation each way). Sure we got stoned and messed up the map and maybe Phil failed to mention the “Most Difficult” marker at the trail head, but once we passed the physical tests of the hike, the rewards were well worth it. This day, was my meditation. As we hiked, the sight of my husband, my dog and the most beautiful of surroundings had me awestruck. No words to speak, no thoughts to churn, for the first time in a long time, I went blank. It could have been overload or it could have been a zen moment, I can’t tell for sure, but what I do know, is that the entire experience changed me. My feet ached from improper footwear, I had given most of our water supply to the dog at our lunch break and having hiked the first half (downhill), we reached a road where a farmer passed us and said that the most sensible way back was to head back up. He gave us a wink, a nod and two apples.
Somewhere into our first mile, after getting high, we had looked at each other and said, “Man, if this isn’t the loop we think it is, it’s gonna suck to climb back up this!” But as stoner moments go, this thought fleeted as quickly as it came in and led to neither action or a change in course, we just kept heading downward. With every switchback (down and back) new scenery emerged, canopies of magnolia bushes, trails littered with acorns, water falls, sliding rocks and changing leaves. I swore at the mountain a couple of times, for being too steep, Phil commented on the art of trail-making, suggesting that some “humanitarian” guidelines need to be set.
When we reached the top we jumped up and down and high-fived and then promptly went to the patio of the Mt. Pisgah Inn and ordered two beers. They were brought to us in chilled glasses and we both agreed, they were the best beers we’d ever tasted, we also agreed that we should purchase a compass. As we sat in rocking chairs, looking out into the Blue Ridge Mountains, I felt as though I had a good starting point for finding my personal Zen. Contrary to my previous thoughts, it’s not about any one thing, it’s not about focus. It is however, about letting go and starting new in each moment. It’s about breathing, loving and every now and again, climbing a mountain.
h.a.w.c.
3 years ago
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