QUARANTINE SIMPLICITY AND ZEN SIMPLICITY
Now that our lives have been reduced to a simpler lifestyle by the pandemic, I have been listening to the clamor of voices that include complaints, suggested diversions, protocols, and sage advice. Amid all of this, I recalled another simple life I lived at Eiheiji Monastery in Japan some 20 years ago.
I lived for a year with a small group at Eiheiji. The monastery is nestled in a cedar forest on the northwest coast of Japan, far from the bustling industrial complexes of Tokyo and Osaka. It was built eight centuries ago as the mother temple of the Soto sect of Zen Buddhism. The beauty of the monastery and its surroundings is an integral part of life at Eiheiji.
As soon as I was old enough to leave home I set out to find America.
I don't mean the heritage or principles that hold the workings of our culture and institutions together, such as they do or fail to do—but the real America—the mountains and plains, the forests and deserts that awaited discovery on my roundabout hitchhiking journey from Pennsylvania to the West Coast. It was all about beauty.
In the spring of my life, 1968, it was all there for the taking or, I should say, for the joining: the peaks that I climbed, the woods where I slept, the rivers where I rinsed away both preconceptions and expectations. It was a journey that opened my eyes to all around me, a journey to be remembered, and one that shaped who I became.
Everywhere we look, from the dirt under our feet to the edge of the expanding cosmos, and on every scale from atoms to galaxies, the universe appears to be saturated with beauty. What are we to make of this?
If you believe that so much stunning design can only be the work of a cosmic Designer, then the Designer must be inordinately fond of beauty (as the British biologist J.B.S. Haldane is said to have remarked about God’s regard for beetles). It would seem to follow, for anyone who holds such a belief, that this beauty is sacred to the Designer, and is therefore deserving of our care. We can’t protect the glittering stars or flaming sunset or cycling moon, but we can protect the streams that salmon need for spawning, the high plains where sage grouse dance, the ancient forests required by spotted owls, the Arctic calving grounds of caribou. We can defend the last groves of redwoods from loggers, the creeks and mountaintops of Appalachia from miners, the ocean floor from trawlers, the atmosphere from polluters.
One summery Saturday morning, I pulled a beautiful shawl from a cardboard box across the street. The box was part of a massive free pile—table after table laden with treasures from my friend Mandy’s life. Mandy loved nature, children, and beauty, so there were animals in all shapes, sizes, and textures, from books to bubble blowers. Children’s toys, delicate napkins, and the prettiest of notecards. I chose the shawl to remember Mandy, who died when she could not handle any more pain and took matters into her own hands.
I knew about Mandy’s lifelong struggles, and I was aware that both children and nature were safe refuges for her, but I didn’t realize how much beauty mattered to Mandy until her memorial service. For her, beauty was healing, a balm to her battered soul. Whether it was the spectacular patterns of frost on a winter window, or a carefully color-coordinated outfit, Mandy sought out everyday beauty like a sunflower leans toward the sun.
What if instead of a ‘stay at home’ order we were ordered to ‘stay at college’ and had to design a major for ourselves? What would spark your curiosity and comfort your soul? For me, I’d like to understand how beauty works. I suspect a deep exploration into the subject of beauty would improve our understanding of ourselves, others and the planet.
In that silence, I heard a voice say “What are you doing?” I figured I had been busted by security, but no one appeared to escort me out. A recalcitrant skeptic of the paranormal, I discounted ghosts, apparitions and suchlike, but to this day I have no explanation for the conversation I recount here. I asked, “Who are you?” and the voice replied, “I used to live right here by the pond.
Walking along the American River near Fair Oaks Bridge to write, take photos and share these experiences is as much as a healing journey and a reconnection to nature, as it is a time of quiet observation. The river is my place of peace and joy to share as a gift. So many quiet mornings I see no wildlife flying in, swimming or diving. The river flows swiftly and deep. I need to look for other ways to tell the story of this beautiful place hidden away from busy urban spaces.
