Zestful Blog Post #263
The other day as I was taking a walk down the nearby parkway,
a runner came along from the opposite direction. Each of us politely bent our
paths to give the other extra room. I noted he was young and solidly built; not
fat, but not in possession of the typical whip-thin runner’s body. I was struck
by his expression, his general vibe, which I can best describe as calmly committed.
I got the impression he was neither joyful nor anxious. His pace was faster
than a jog, but not a lot. He seemed in a comfort zone, cardio-wise; he was
running easily and showed no tension on his face or in his gait. It would seem going
on this run was part of his workout schedule and this is what he was doing. Perhaps
the running was to provide conditioning for a different sport, in which case
the run could be considered a means to an end, or perhaps he simply very much
liked to run. But whatever the case, it felt to me as if he was running for the
running itself.
The thing I’m trying to grasp or convey is he seemed not to
expect or want anything. He didn’t seem to want to be doing anything but
exactly what he was doing, and he didn’t seem to be awaiting—or craving—any particular
result. He didn’t seem the slightest bit self-conscious. I guess this guy
struck me because I see so many people out getting their exercise with the vibe
of “I can’t wait for this to be over,” or “I hope you’re noticing how good I look
in my shorts and abs, cuz I work hard to be fit and I’m pretty damn proud of
it.” I sometimes find myself being impatient in the pool, counting my laps and wishing
for my workout to be over. I have to keep catching myself and re-focusing my
attention on what matters: the feel of the water, the feel of my body slipping through
it, the inner attentiveness to this moment as a moment unto itself rather than
a means to an end. Paradoxically, this allows me to make minute calculations as
to how I might be more efficient in the water.
There is, of course, a lesson in here for writers. In order
to get the best possible fulfillment out of our path, we should not want and
expect, but simply be and do. This is the Zen way, I guess; Zen in motion.
Here’s another situation I’ve given a lot of thought to,
which is the question of what is worthwhile? (This next part has a church in
it, but religion is not the point.) On holidays and special Sundays, I play the
timpani in a big church in a retirement community in Florida; the church is
well supported, and they put together musical ensembles for these special days
and pay us well. I love the music director and I love playing the timps, so this
is good. But I don’t do religion much, personally, and all of us musicians must
stay put through three services, which of course means listening to three
deliveries of the pastor’s sermon. Because we’re seated up front we cannot get out
our phones and watch cat videos or argue politics on Facebook or reread Agatha
Christie.
Which gives us a choice: either be bored shitless or find something meaningful
to focus on. It’s not easy. Sometimes the pastor’s sermons are corny to me. Some
of the congregation have dull faces. Lots of the congregation wear outfits I find
incredibly tacky. But they feel good in them. They come to church, they listen,
they pray, they sing. I listen too, because I might learn something unexpected,
because the pastor in fact sometimes says brilliant things. I might make eye
contact with a congregant and learn something there, something very subtle,
perhaps. The pastor is sincere, and, like my running guy, does this thing over
and over, week in and week out, for the sake of doing it, for the sake of
serving his God and his congregation. All of us, even the preacher, might get
bored sometimes, but everybody’s there, exposing themselves to spiritual
opportunity. When it comes time to play the drums, I give it everything I’ve
got, because otherwise why bother? Sometimes people come up to us and tell us
they enjoyed our playing. We made a little difference for somebody that day. There’s
no point wishing we were touring the world with some marquee orchestra, playing
concerts on the banks of the Rhine or the Thames or Sydney Harbor. We are where
we are.
If I were to nutshell this whole thing, my message for us as
writers would be: Don’t waste time wishing we were sitting in a café in
Greenwich Village or Paris, having intellectual conversations, after which we
return to our fascinating work as high-minded writers. Let us be, really be,
where we are. Let’s not skim over hours, days, years just because much of the
shit we have to do isn’t giving us something we want. Because it isn’t ideal.
I’m not saying don’t strive. Yes, strive! Strive like hell.
But what we have now is as ideal as anything. It’s as ideal as we make it. Worthwhile,
all of it, if we want it to be. Write for the sake of writing. Live for the
sake of living. Give it everything you’ve got. Let’s be together.
What do you think of this metaphysical stuff? What’s your
take on working, writing, striving, serving? To post, click below where it
says, 'No Comments,' or '2 Comments,' or whatever.
If you'd like to receive this blog automatically as an
email, look to the right, above my bio, and subscribe there. Thanks for looking
in.
