beginner's mind

You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life
-Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"

It’s all too easy to slip into the constant hustle and bustle of life—the daily commute from here to there; cooking and cleaning and making oneself look presentable to the world; working out or making an effort to do some sort of movement so one doesn’t feel like a total slob; grocery shopping, errands, laundry . . . does this sound familiar?

Lately, I feel like I’ve been slipping. I find myself either too wrapped up in the minute goings on of work and home life, or I’m plagued by the opposite, just distracted by thoughts of what task I need to be finishing next, where I’m heading, and what I’m doing. Sometimes I just zone out in front of the couch watching Iron Chef after finishing my dinner. Is this my life? Shouldn’t I be doing something else? I feel as though I’m missing the point. What point? You know, the point. The dazzle of it all, the gift of life.

Perhaps it’s the weather. (If you’re anywhere in the Midwest right now you know what I’m talking about.)

Yet, more likely, it’s my attitude. The Danish philosopher Kierkegaard would probably say that my listlessness and lack of passion is simply a symptom of the human despair with which we are all ridden, though most of us aren’t cognizant of it. As depressing as that sounds, I’m pretty sure he’s on to something. Have you ever read the Moviegoer by Percy Walker? The protagonist Binx Bolling is the classic example of someone who goes through life without ever fully engaging himself in it. His relies on movies as an escape from the malaise of ordinary life, and the sense of restlessness he feels.

Do you ever feel restless?

I think I’ve been experiencing that sensation lately, but I’m trying to wrestle my way out of it. A couple weeks ago I finished Scott Russell Sanders’ touching and earnest memoir, A Private History of Awe. In it, Sanders reflects on his life, beginning with his childhood and moving on through adulthood, ending with the birth of his daughter; interspersed between those memory clips are moments that take place closer to present day, mostly his reflections on caring for his mother, who is deteriorating in old age, juxtaposed against the growth of his wide-eyed, young granddaughter. Sanders’ life isn’t extraordinary by any means, but that’s not really the point of this work. His writing is honest, poignant, elegant, and insightful. In his memoir, Sanders is able to lift up what so many of us long to do but often forget: those rare moments of enlightenment that can be only described as awe. So he says in the preface to his work:

I wish to recover, so far as possible, the freshness of apprehension that I behold in my granddaughter. . . . I have watched the baby meet the world with clear, open, wondering quality that Buddhists call beginner’s mind. When she sleeps she sleeps, and when she wakes she is utterly awake, undistracted by past or future, living wholly in the present.

It’s a wonderful book, certainly a worthwhile read, that shines light on everyday moments of illumination, standing in stark contrast to some memoirs that seem lack the humility and heart Sanders’ writing possesses.

Inspired by Sanders, I'm reminded of the beauty outside my cozy apartment . . .

Despite the unpleasantness of the cold, damp weather, it’s really been a glorious October week in Illinois. These dark October skies are perhaps the most breathtaking thing I've gazed at in a while. It’s my favorite time of year--the trees are now studded with shades of crimson, gold, and brown; the air is crisp and cool, fall flavors of apple, pumpkin, and cinnamon are in abundance in coffee shops and bakeries. Fall is also a time of death and dying, as nature prepares itself for the harsh winter ahead. Life, we are reminded, is oftentimes a constant state of flux, precious and delicate, brilliant and fading, like the seasons.

Like Scott, I wish to recover my beginner’s mind; I want to recognize the “dazzle and the light of every moment of [my] life.”