Fall Harvest Moon
Enlightenment. Chop wood, carry water. I got it. Today. Suddenly. While the air was cool, the sky clear.
(Isra Box)
Here’s how. Gertie knocked the back door off its track a couple of nights ago. Not bad for a 45 pound dog. But. Had to get it back on. I’m not a handy guy. Never have been and never aspired to be. That means I greet these kinds of tasks with a dread reinforced by all those damned nights I had to help my dad bail out the basement of our house, bucket by bucket. He refused to buy a sump pump. Not to mention the days mowing our yard with the old, clunky push mower. He wouldn’t buy a power mower. But, hey. That’s then.
The perverse privilege of screwing ourselves up with things that happened long, long ago is part of what makes us human, I know. And I wouldn’t want to make myself less human.
Then. I had the strip of rubber coated aluminum off. It holds the door in place. I remembered that I usually get frustrated, want to move onto something I prefer to do. Remembered, too, that that feeling was not necessary. That I could stay with the door until I finished. There was no hurry. No next thing. There was only this thing.
That was it. Satori. Not exactly be here now, although that is a result. But, not the cause. The aha was nothing. It fitted me into the task and nothing else. I finished the door in an unhurried manner, but efficiently. Also. It worked. Hey.
When chopping wood, chop wood. When carrying water, carry water. When fixing the door, fix the door. When revising the novel, revise the novel. When being with your love, be with your love.
