In the mid-1970s, after I’d (finally) graduated from Mizzou J-School and decided I had no interest in a journalism career, I got a job driving school buses in Columbia, Missouri. It was a perfect gig for me at that nascent stage of my life: I got up with the sun, drove a big yellow bus out into the lovely Missouri countryside, picked up kids of all ages, and schlepped them to their various schools in town. After returning my bus to the garage, I had the day off until 3 p.m., when I did it all again, only in the other direction. It paid good money for those days. I even had to get a chauffeur’s license. I was a laid-back, long-haired guy, and the kids liked me. It was honest work. I didn’t need a damn career.
During my daily free time, I mostly practiced guitar and read. I became enamored with Zen Buddhism and bought several books on the subject. I sat for what felt like long periods of time and meditated, trying to center my restless brain, trying to find “beginner’s mind,” a state wherein we experience things as if for the first time — neither looking ahead nor to the past.
Be Here Now by Baba Ram Dass was one of the books I read — the title of which basically summarized its entire contents. Most of the more authentic Zen books were filled with puzzling “koans” (Chop wood, carry water. No pushing, no seeking. What is the sound of one hand clapping?) and simple but deep stories about ancient Asian monks, with lots of ink-wash drawings. I was trying to achieve satori, man. But of course the whole trick was that you weren’t supposed to “try,” and you couldn’t get there by reading about how to get there. A slippery thing, this enlightenment stuff. Try but don’t try. Achieve, but there is nothing to achieve. Sometimes in the middle of a song at band practice, I felt like I got close, but it was probably the pot.
All this was brought to mind the other day when I unpacked a box of my old books, and there amongst them was a hard-cover copy of the classic Zen Flesh, Zen Bones. I remember I bought it at a hippie co-op (probably along with some rice noodles). On the spine, written in blue ballpoint, was “$3.78,” the price I must have paid for it. It included “112 centering techniques,” and I know I tried them all. (Original hardbound copies of Zen Flesh, Zen Bones are going for $150 online now. Talk about enlightenment.) But I digress. Sort of. I’m getting to a point soon, I promise. Oh, here it is.
Last Friday, I was walking along a gravel road through some woods with my two dogs. My mind, as it sometimes does, finally slowed down and offered me the realization that instead of savoring the gorgeous October day, I’d been caught up in thoughts about work and (argh!) politics, about picking up a prescription at CVS, about getting my rear tires changed. Mundane crap.
It was then that the old mantra came back: Be here now. I began paying attention to the flights of autumn leaves swirling through the bright air and gathering themselves on the ground in piles of brown, orange, yellow, and red — the autumn palette making its annual announcement that summer is gone and winter is on its way, pal, like it or not. I started feeling philosophical, which can happen when you’ve experienced seven decades of autumns. It’s such a transitive time of year — beautiful and quick, sort of like, well, life itself.
I stopped walking and stood still. My dogs sat quietly, already centered. I relaxed my jaw, dropped my shoulders, and took a cleansing breath. I stopped speculating and planning and worrying and just opened my senses — letting in the rustling leaves, the birdsong, the color, the light, and the aroma of the forest. I looked around and savored the moment I’d been given. The woods, lovely, crisp, and deep. The clear blue sky. The sound of one hand clapping.
