Meditate Mowing 

To be present today, I spent several hours mowing half of a four-acre field. I realize that’s how I’ve meditated since I was a boy; although, not on the same John Deere I used as a child. That burned down along with the barn and the rental car, which is another story entirely (the moral of which is don’t try to jumpstart a tractor with a rental car, unless you know what you’re doing and have multiple insurance policies; another: it’s easy to entertain people without trying, as long as you don’t mind being the butt of the joke.)

The mower I used today looks like it’s designed for golf courses, yellow with zero radius. But don’t be fooled: mowing a field is violent work. Thousands of species killed within seconds. Ragweed and Queen Anne’s Lace (the lace is long gone this time of year), Buttercups and Black-Eyed Susans, brier patches trying to establish a foothold (I hit them twice), and plants that look like dead men’s lollipops, which I especially love.

My parents would have known names for dozens of them, and to think that when their parents were kids, more than 90% of Americans lived in the rural countryside. I don’t know the names for most of what I slaughtered, and can barely get city and suburban friends even to come out here anymore, for fear of ticks and poison ivy, leaches and bears, cobwebs, peepers, bugs and bats, dirt and pollen. For good measure, Duke the dog tried to catch and kill anything that jumped from the weeds just for the fun of it: rabbits and moles, praying mantises and butterflies. I think the wasps knew how guilty I felt, they didn’t even bother chasing me after the mower trampled their nest. 

The twirling blades are my mantra, keeping me in tune with everything as I slice and grind. It’s amazing all of the emotions the mower feels. Trepidation as the thick grasses rise above my head; any second now, I could hit a rock or crash in a ground hog hole; the nostalgia of my baby girl, her sleeping warmth in my lap on a cold autumn day. She can drive it herself now, but barely appreciates the utility of following a straight line—the Zamboni mandala is a magical thing, it bestows wisdom and requires it too. I left the other half for her. 

I cleared the field early this year, so there was much more life to destroy. Usually I wait till October when the green has mostly gone, but I saw the farmer next door had already finished his, and now that my wife left and I only have half of a family half of the time, I filled the day by myself, preventing nature from taking control. Bouncing and bumping along while the monkey mind thinks of this and that, until the field is cleared and all that is left is empty spaciousness, so peaceful now, until everything grows back next year. 

After hours of rumble, when the engine is cut, it’s like the bell rings. I open my eyes, and today’s meditation is done.