Maui Mindfulness

MAUI MINDFULNESS

This is a story of mindfulness, or the way of things. My introduction came painfully, after a poetry reading I did with a friend and poet Will Staple, at the now defunct Garbo's in Guernewood Park.

It was the last day of the Fall semester, December 18, 1981. I'd passed my exams, including the dreaded senior seminar—necessary for me to enter the Master's program in creative writing. In those days I had no concept of pacing—everything was done full-bore. I needed to slow down, and nothing seemed capable of stopping me. I had a whole vacation stretching out in front of me, vast as the horizon of the sea.

Still steeped in the melancholy liquor of a bitter break-up, I was uneasy about bringing Will home, and I remember a small moment that changed my life: I was scrambling around looking for the seatbelt, but it was underneath the cab seat of his truck, which meant getting out of the truck, lifting the seat, and retrieving the belts.

It was late and rainy along the river. I opted for au natural, no constraints. Tension, thick as clotted milk filled the cab as we wound our way along the river. A late-model '60s car in a hurry to the next watering hole, overtook us with impunity along the midway stretch, only to signal left into Dino's bar.

We wanted out of his way, and passed on the right, only to have them plow into us—they'd changed their minds—but not their blinkers. Bracing myself, I flew up against the window, and thought nothing of it.

By the telephone, where Will was about to make the call to the police, the driver motions him aside. Will, trying to be a nice guy, is agreeing with the driver—it would look bad on both insurance policies. Besides, he was a prominent realtor in the community, with an Irish name—his strange redheaded son lived two cabins down from me.

The next morning, when it was obvious something was seriously wrong, Will contacted the police, but the driver, Bruce Collins was sober as a judge, so to speak. Of course, I had no idea of what was to follow, the months of lying flat out on my back, unable to even hold up a book, let alone read.

I remember the victory of when I could carry in a small bag of groceries, or sweep the floor without experiencing nauseating pain.

It was just as well I didn't know I would never be able to do calligraphy or graphic arts again because, ten years later, I still can't tilt my chin down for any length of time. (I use my computer on the bed, with pillows propped behind my head.) Every time my neck bothers me, or the blinding headaches come, I am reminded of the lesson of mindfulness.

Will went off to Maui to join a zendo. His lesson on mindfulness continued in the dailiness of running the zendo as head resident. "No more Mr. Nice Guy," he wrote. "I've learned about appropriate behavior." Two years later, I got a small settlement from the accident, and, in order to go on to the next level of healing, I knew I had to go and see Will.

The daily chores, the cooking, the gardening, cleaning the dojo, stacking wood—were all part of the lesson of mindfulness. I suffered after stacking the wood, but it was a small victory over the body.

That night, on the slopes of Haleakala, in a hamlet appropriately called Haiku, we fired up the wine barrel hot tub, and had a poetry reading under the stars of the Southern Cross, drinking rum and eating May apple pie.

It was there, under the bodhi tree I met Robert Aitken Roshi. I admired his translations of the 16th century Japanese haiku poet Basho. We were preparing for a deep ecology conference, and poet Gary Snyder needed to be picked up at the Maui airport—such as it was.

I don't know who made me more nervous—Snyder or Aitken. My banana-persimmon bread, a smash success the week before, came out of the oven looking more like a brick than food—they were polite and ate it anyway.

The lanai was redolent with gardenia scent; the gekkos chupped, the famous Maui cockroaches spun on their backs like draedls when we entered the kitchen. Will taught me the Maui cockroach shuffle—namely, don't pick up your feet, because it's not a good idea to kill other living things.

They instructed me in the manner of mindful thinking by not instructing me at all.