Zen and the Art of Writing Institutes

It is cold. I ride as fast as I dare, watching the road ahead and the speedometer, never looking behind. The road dips into hollows—cool, fog-filled, and forest-lined. I shiver against the cold, remind myself to wear a heavier jacket tomorrow, and then blast out into wide open, higher ground that has begun to feel the sun's effects. The warm air feels good, and I relax the clench of my teeth, no longer needing to prevent their chattering. Cold and warm, high/low, forest or field-lined alternate as the bike rolls over the smooth road an hour after dawn on a beautiful morning.

Suddenly, I am aware that I am enjoying myself so much with what is here, now, that I have scarcely ever raised my eyes to the mountains above. Pirsig. That's it. I have been trying to think where I have read something . . . can't remember the whole thing even now. How does it go? Zen . . . mountaintops . . . how can I have forgotten this? The right way of living? Getting close. Ah, "Zen is the spirit of the valley." Interesting that I haven't looked up very much this morning. But enough of that for now. It is sufficient that I have thus far enjoyed the day, and it is not even 9 a.m. Every day should start as this and end the same. With good beginnings and endings, how else can the rest of the day be?

I feel good. I have arrived in Boone, the first day of the summer writing institute. Normally, at the beginnings of such things, I am not very enthusiastic, but today is somehow different. Is it the motorcycle ride or me? It makes no difference, for I am ready, enthusiastic. I may be learning something more about myself, the motorcycle, the institute, writing.

At lunch one day I sit on the cold, hard, concrete bench just outside our classroom. Across the walk from me, nestled in the corner of the building, stands a vigorous dogwood in whose branches a family of robins has found a home. I sit trying to read, not Moffett this time, but Issa:

The clouds part, revealing the bright blue sky above; a raindrop falls from a dogwood leaf undulating in the breeze; and the young in the nest—all beak and neck—stretch and chirp, straining for life as the worm-beaked parent returns. When she leaves again, flapping her way just over my head, the young fall silent and drop from my sight into the secluded protection of their home. I look back to my book but find I cannot shake this drama from my mind. I look back to the nest, but all is silent and still. What is it?

My daughters.
I remember the poems I wrote for them years ago when they were small.

...fragile as a young bird in spring
in a cold world where everyone is hunter
Your large heart and trusting nature
will make of you a target
that cannot be missed.
What will we do then, my bird?

Yes, that's it, I realize. All the old feelings come fluttering back in no particular order, for no particular reason, with no particular result. My joy at witnessing their births, the happiness of infant playtime, the pride I felt as they grew and accomplished, and yes, I can't escape it, the memories of my failures as father, the sadness and loneliness I feel now that they are gone. My sight turns inward as my eyes burn with tears. I hear their cries as they first strain for breath. I feel them sob into my shoulder as I comfort them and remove their childhood fears. I see them shrink and look at me with hurt and frightened eyes.

Again, the mother's wings flap above my head; the commotion in the nest resumes; and I rise to return for a discussion of writing measurement as a jackhammer pounds in the distance.

As I head down the mountain for the last time this summer, leaning heavily into the curves to keep up my speed, I laugh a bit at my haste but do not slow down. My thoughts are as wild as the sun dancing off the chrome handlebars in front of me. Yes, I am anxious to be home where I have work to do and later beer to drink. Retrospective structuring, decontextualization, and tagmemic heuristic slide from side to side of my head with each curve of the winding road.

When I reach the level ground at the foot of the mountain, I exclaim at the heat, and my thoughts race ahead to the coming year as the wind carries my words away. Already I know my classes will be better. I think of the new faces, the lives I am privileged to touch and be touched by ... which only serves to remind me of the past three weeks in Boone. After working, eating, crying, and laughing (God, yes! laughing) together for sixteen days, we leave, each taking part of each with us. I'll not soon forget these people.

As I emerge from the heavy traffic once again into the open road, I feel the sun hot on my arms and relax, happily reliving each moment of the summer institute until the miles have disappeared behind me. I park the bike and run up the stairs, happy to see that Amy is home before me.

She hugs and kisses me. "Aren't you glad it's over?" she asks.

"Yes," I say, melting into her arms. "Yes," I smile a little sadly, knowing she can't understand.