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Mahayana in Vermont
My objectives this morning were vague. As always I'd hike these hills— a way to keep going against the odds age deals, a way to keep body and soul together, and not so much thinking as letting things steal into mind— but I started counting from the very first step I took. I wore rank old boots, ill-laced, and patchwork pants. Around my neck hung the frayed lanyard of a whistle I use to summon our trio of dogs, who capered and yelped their pleasure at one of our walks, and more miraculous still, at having me for a master. It's true in a sense that I always count as I wander, though it's usually the beats of a tune (Thelonious's "Blue Monk" a favorite) that mark my time. These counts felt odder, better. We scattered a brood of grouse at step 91. The deerflies strafed us. At 500 a late trillium glowed by a ledge like a lotus. Right along the rain kept pounding. I was mindful of all these things but I never stopped counting. Life was good, and more. It was worthy of better response. At 1000 I thought, Enough—and counted on. Nothing was coming to mind. Nothing is coming again from my hike half the day ago with three dogs through rain but a mystic sense of well-being in quietly chanted numbers. Whatever this trance, I treasured it as a wonder not to be wrenched into meaning, as in Every second counts, as in You should count your blessings, though of those there seems no doubt.