I’ve been taking regular walks in the woods. There’s nothing better than light cardio exercise to help with grief, except perhaps heavy cardio, but that sure makes it harder to relax afterwards. I discovered there’s a beautiful trail that goes from Mount Misery in Lincoln near the Nine Acre part of Concord, all the way up to Walden Pond, skirting the border between Lincoln and Concord with barely any sign of habitation along the way. I’ll often do a five-mile loop around the pond, taking a break in the middle for a dip at my favorite secluded spot along the bank under a big shade tree. I’ll swim around for a bit, then relax, sitting and meditating in the warm shallows with the water up to my neck. It’s therapeutic.
One time over the summer, a heron walked by me in the shallows, very slowly with its long thin legs, completely tame and not caring about my presence one bit. Then a couple of yards away, it came to a halt. It waited, completely still. Then almost as quick as a blink, it lunged its head into the water and grabbed a small fish in its beak. It shook its head side to side, then walked slowly off as a bulge traveled down the length of its neck.
Those small fish seem to be everywhere soon after you stop swimming, and they can be a bit of a nuisance. They swarm around you, inspecting your body, searching for anything that’s edible. They put their noses into my leg hairs, as if they’re aquatic weeds. Not to overshare, but I have a small birthmark on the left side of my chest, a protruding bulge of black flesh roughly a centimeter in diameter. The fish, thinking it’s food, will nibble on it. I’ll be sitting in the water in a dreamlike trance, my eyes half closed, then suddenly flinch and rear up out of the water while cursing.
I often thought of putting a band-aid over the birthmark to keep it from being an inviting target, but I always forgot. I want to relax in the water, but the fish simply won’t leave me alone. So instead I decided I would incorporate the fish into my meditation. My goal was to be able to let them bite me, without flinching, without caring. It took a few times before I started to be able to apply any control over my reflexive reaction. I had to concentrate closely on that spot on the side of my body. I said to myself, Now it will happen. I am… relaxed. I am focused. I am going to be bitten right… now. Then eventually the fish would bite, a quick lunge at first, giving me a sudden pain like a sharp pinch. I couldn’t help but flinch a bit, but quickly got myself under control again as the fish swam off, unsuccessful. Then, a few seconds later, another bite, this one slower. I could feel the fish’s toothless mouth closing around my birthmark in slow motion, both its upper and lower jaws, rigid but smooth, biting, first a little, then with more pressure. Too much. Again, I flinched.
I kept thinking of those stories in Zen Buddhism. They were all basically the same. The student would ask the master how to attain enlightenment. The master would tell the student to go off and perform some deep meditative exercise. The student would come back the next day and say it didn’t work. The master then sends the student off to repeat the exercise, or else perform some even more stringent challenge, perhaps to meditate in spite of some major distraction. At least twice more, to satisfy the comedy rule of three, the student fails. Finally the student comes back to the master and asks, what gives? Annoyed, the master takes out a large rod of bamboo and hits the student over the head with it. At that moment, the student attains enlightenment.
My most recent walk was mid-September, well after Labor Day. Acorns were falling from the trees, and some of the maple leaves were starting to turn red the earliest. I figured it would be my last swim of the season, so I wanted to know if I could finally master the fish bite challenge this one last time. I sat in the water with eyes half closed, as acorns were falling around me, some from trees hanging high over the pond, forcing narrow splash plumes to jump above the surface. Every minute or two, another acorn would fall, one here, then another there. But no fishes came this time. I concentrated closely on that spot on my left side, and waited for a bite. But it didn’t happen. I grew impatient, and oddly disappointed. Perhaps the acorns are scaring off the fish. Perhaps they seem as threatening as the herons. Perhaps if I move to another place along the shore with no tree cover, I’ll have better success. Perhaps…
And just then, an acorn falls on top of my head. It bounces off a couple of feet, then arcs and drops into the water in front of me. POP, followed by splash. My eyes open wide, but I don’t move. I am no longer focusing on that tiny spot on the side of my chest. I am focused solely on the tiny spot on top of my head. There is a sharp pain on that spot. Suddenly, I feel enlightened.
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