| Volume 1 Issue 2 |
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| Mow Lawn. Pull Weeds. By Kim Steutermann Rogers |
Zen saying: "Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.
After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water."
After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water."
My car overheats three miles up the mountain as clouds stretch across blue skies. As
soon as I turn off the engine, I hear water boiling in the radiator. It’s early, and the air is
still cool at this elevation. Fields of tasseled sugar cane slope to the ocean below. I’ve
driven 50 miles, a mere 10 shy of my destination – a day-long silent retreat at the top of
a mountain where, I think, all such retreats should be held.
My car is packed with food, water, a jacket, my journal and, thankfully, a cushion I’d
snagged off my chaise lounge before I left the house. I toss the cushion on the grass
and write in my journal: It is 9:00 a.m. One hour into my day of silence, and my car is
about to boil over. Truth is, I think I am, too.
A few months ago, my job was restructured, and I’ve yet to replace the income. As these
things feel, the timing couldn’t have been worse. My husband Eric and I are building a
house, and I've just started graduate school. A couple weeks ago, I wrote a check from
a credit card to pay this month’s mortgage – creating debt to pay off debt. This is not
my way. For the past few days, I’ve felt disoriented. I start one task and move on to
another, forgetting the first. I double up errands – making a second trip to the post
office because I forgot to buy stamps the first time. Worry twists in my head like rubber
bands. So, when I heard about the silent meditation retreat at the top of Kokee on the
Hawaiian island of Kauai that I call home, I thought it was the perfect place for me to find
equanimity and guidance about what to do about replacing that lost income.
As I turned up the mountain, I formulated a question for the day: How can I increase
financial flow in my life? I repeated the mantra in my head over and over like a senile
dog circling a spot to lie down. The thoughts twirled faster and faster, so fast there was
no room for any answers. That’s when a long beep interrupted my torrent of silence,
and I looked down at my car’s instrument panel to see the temperature gauge needle
pointing to red.
Damn. Should I call Eric? But then I’d have to break my vow of silence.
It’s now 10:00, and I’m getting hot. A shade tree would be nice, I think, so I walk down
the road and discover a view of a vast canyon carpeted with green walls and spliced with
a silver sliver of river at its basin. I see in the great gulf in front of me what I feel inside.
A hole. And yet, the canyon adds a new dimension to my silence. It matches all my
empty spaces inside. It feels like I’m wrapped in a quilt. I am comforted. I think surely,
there are plenty of answers to my questions here. Should I take that tedious travel
guidebook writing assignment? Should I drop out of grad school? Should I give up
freelance writing and get a real job?
I walk back to the car. Its temperature needle points to safe again, so I start back up the
mountain. I pass the 1,000-foot elevation marker, then the four-mile marker. I keep an
eye on the temperature gauge, driving to the retreat center slowly. Maybe this is the
answer, I think, keep moving toward the goal – the retreat, the writing, school – carefully,
slowly.
There’s the 1,500-foot elevation marker. The road continues gaining in elevation, and
the needle on the temperature gauge is moving, too. I edge up; it edges up. At mile six,
the needle enters the red zone, and the car beeps again.
This time, I throw my cushion down on a red dirt wash below the canyon lip. The native
Koa trees bloom white puffs. Mountain apples proffer their tasty-sweet fruit. I hear
goats bleating, doves consoling, a Shama thrush worshipping. A slight breeze cools the
sun’s heat and a high ceiling forms a second skin. Nature is reassuring me. I watch an
ant crawl across my hand. I try to meditate, silently chanting om mani padme hum, but
other words are running through my head, and I follow them instead. Those must be
Kukui trees veining their way down the canyon wall following that stream. Should I
perform some kind of forgiveness ceremony for my boss? Should I call Eric and let him
know the car is overheating again?
Is this cheating, I wonder, to think in complete sentences on this my day of silence.
A gecko chirps in the grasses. Dark and white clouds play tag overhead. It’s 12:15, and
I’m hungry. Back in my car, drops mingle with dust on my windshield, as I eat a few
cashews and a carton of yogurt. On this day of retreat, I now find myself in retreat from
my retreat. Surely, there’s meaning in that. Maybe I don’t have to go to all the way to
the top of the mountain for insight. Maybe I don’t have to go to anyone else’s retreat but
my own. That is, take a step away from the madness – pet the dog to snap her circling.
Focus more on the machinations of daily living – fill the radiator with water – and what
needs doing now. Follow the sage advice of Zen masters, even though it sounds too
easy: Chop wood and carry water.
I turn around and drive back down the mountain and through the town of Waimea, noting
the new Nukumoi Surf Shop, Barefoot Burger, JoJo’s Shave Ice, and Waimea Plantation
Cottages. I remember the town was recently named one of the United States’ “Dozen
Distinctive Destinations.” I notice an art fair under way. I feel my blood cool, and my
breath lengthen.
Radio off, the only sound I hear is blood rushing through my ears, and I head home
through the country towns of Waimea, Hanapepe, Kalaheo, Lihue and Kapaa to our two-
acre parcel of land that needs mowing. Down here near the ocean, my car doesn’t
overheat. What’s more, I can’t remember a single thought from the hour’s drive home. It’
s mid-afternoon. I haven’t spoken out loud all day. No mantra chases its tail inside my
head. Finally, the inner narrator is silent.
Back home, I mow the lawn, water the newly-planted hibiscus, pull a few weeds in the
rock garden. I still don’t have any answers, but, at least, I’ve found peace. I just hope it
lasts for a few days.
soon as I turn off the engine, I hear water boiling in the radiator. It’s early, and the air is
still cool at this elevation. Fields of tasseled sugar cane slope to the ocean below. I’ve
driven 50 miles, a mere 10 shy of my destination – a day-long silent retreat at the top of
a mountain where, I think, all such retreats should be held.
My car is packed with food, water, a jacket, my journal and, thankfully, a cushion I’d
snagged off my chaise lounge before I left the house. I toss the cushion on the grass
and write in my journal: It is 9:00 a.m. One hour into my day of silence, and my car is
about to boil over. Truth is, I think I am, too.
A few months ago, my job was restructured, and I’ve yet to replace the income. As these
things feel, the timing couldn’t have been worse. My husband Eric and I are building a
house, and I've just started graduate school. A couple weeks ago, I wrote a check from
a credit card to pay this month’s mortgage – creating debt to pay off debt. This is not
my way. For the past few days, I’ve felt disoriented. I start one task and move on to
another, forgetting the first. I double up errands – making a second trip to the post
office because I forgot to buy stamps the first time. Worry twists in my head like rubber
bands. So, when I heard about the silent meditation retreat at the top of Kokee on the
Hawaiian island of Kauai that I call home, I thought it was the perfect place for me to find
equanimity and guidance about what to do about replacing that lost income.
As I turned up the mountain, I formulated a question for the day: How can I increase
financial flow in my life? I repeated the mantra in my head over and over like a senile
dog circling a spot to lie down. The thoughts twirled faster and faster, so fast there was
no room for any answers. That’s when a long beep interrupted my torrent of silence,
and I looked down at my car’s instrument panel to see the temperature gauge needle
pointing to red.
Damn. Should I call Eric? But then I’d have to break my vow of silence.
It’s now 10:00, and I’m getting hot. A shade tree would be nice, I think, so I walk down
the road and discover a view of a vast canyon carpeted with green walls and spliced with
a silver sliver of river at its basin. I see in the great gulf in front of me what I feel inside.
A hole. And yet, the canyon adds a new dimension to my silence. It matches all my
empty spaces inside. It feels like I’m wrapped in a quilt. I am comforted. I think surely,
there are plenty of answers to my questions here. Should I take that tedious travel
guidebook writing assignment? Should I drop out of grad school? Should I give up
freelance writing and get a real job?
I walk back to the car. Its temperature needle points to safe again, so I start back up the
mountain. I pass the 1,000-foot elevation marker, then the four-mile marker. I keep an
eye on the temperature gauge, driving to the retreat center slowly. Maybe this is the
answer, I think, keep moving toward the goal – the retreat, the writing, school – carefully,
slowly.
There’s the 1,500-foot elevation marker. The road continues gaining in elevation, and
the needle on the temperature gauge is moving, too. I edge up; it edges up. At mile six,
the needle enters the red zone, and the car beeps again.
This time, I throw my cushion down on a red dirt wash below the canyon lip. The native
Koa trees bloom white puffs. Mountain apples proffer their tasty-sweet fruit. I hear
goats bleating, doves consoling, a Shama thrush worshipping. A slight breeze cools the
sun’s heat and a high ceiling forms a second skin. Nature is reassuring me. I watch an
ant crawl across my hand. I try to meditate, silently chanting om mani padme hum, but
other words are running through my head, and I follow them instead. Those must be
Kukui trees veining their way down the canyon wall following that stream. Should I
perform some kind of forgiveness ceremony for my boss? Should I call Eric and let him
know the car is overheating again?
Is this cheating, I wonder, to think in complete sentences on this my day of silence.
A gecko chirps in the grasses. Dark and white clouds play tag overhead. It’s 12:15, and
I’m hungry. Back in my car, drops mingle with dust on my windshield, as I eat a few
cashews and a carton of yogurt. On this day of retreat, I now find myself in retreat from
my retreat. Surely, there’s meaning in that. Maybe I don’t have to go to all the way to
the top of the mountain for insight. Maybe I don’t have to go to anyone else’s retreat but
my own. That is, take a step away from the madness – pet the dog to snap her circling.
Focus more on the machinations of daily living – fill the radiator with water – and what
needs doing now. Follow the sage advice of Zen masters, even though it sounds too
easy: Chop wood and carry water.
I turn around and drive back down the mountain and through the town of Waimea, noting
the new Nukumoi Surf Shop, Barefoot Burger, JoJo’s Shave Ice, and Waimea Plantation
Cottages. I remember the town was recently named one of the United States’ “Dozen
Distinctive Destinations.” I notice an art fair under way. I feel my blood cool, and my
breath lengthen.
Radio off, the only sound I hear is blood rushing through my ears, and I head home
through the country towns of Waimea, Hanapepe, Kalaheo, Lihue and Kapaa to our two-
acre parcel of land that needs mowing. Down here near the ocean, my car doesn’t
overheat. What’s more, I can’t remember a single thought from the hour’s drive home. It’
s mid-afternoon. I haven’t spoken out loud all day. No mantra chases its tail inside my
head. Finally, the inner narrator is silent.
Back home, I mow the lawn, water the newly-planted hibiscus, pull a few weeds in the
rock garden. I still don’t have any answers, but, at least, I’ve found peace. I just hope it
lasts for a few days.
| All files © Copyright 2007 The Sylvan Echo |