Mowers and Blowers

Meditations in a Suburban Landscape

I cherish the time I spend with my Sangha. The Buddha would laugh at the little boxes its members fill on my screen, some I have been fortunate enough to share space with, others familiar to me though I have never had the chance to embrace them.

This summer has been tropical: early heatwaves, the air thick with ash from the Northern fires, and these last few days such rain that I thought I might go searching for Noah’s boat, though I wouldn’t qualify, no longer being one of two, now just one of one.

To amble back to the point of this story: my time in meditation with the Sangha is precious. Lately, the Dharma talks have turned to the art of concentration, a tricky one at best. Where do we put our focus? How many needless things do we pretend we can juggle, only to shake our heads at the time we haven’t left for the one healthful thing that, had we thought deeply about it, we would have set as an intention?

I sit outside beneath a canopy of trees, in a hoodie against the sweet chill in the air and close my eyes after a moving talk to follow my breath. Then the morning mowers and blowers begin. At first, I cursed the interruption. Now, instead, I lean into their hums and whines, even their variations. They soon abate, and I am serenaded by bird calls.

What I am only beginning to absorb is that the world simply is, and wishing it otherwise is as futile as charging windmills. What matters is how we meet it as it exists, in all its imperfection. Mostly, I have learned that it is not the silence or the emptiness of thought, but the training of the mind to focus that is the path to awakening.