Zen

Today's lesson.

The  city was still sleeping as the overnight hotel clerk took back the key, said thank you for the stay,  before we ventured out.   It was sunny and cold and still. The perfect winter day of cloudless sky, with the kind of crisp that keeps your hands in your pockets, but your face turned up,  basking for a moment before the wind of the next storm blows in.

It had to be that early, or the quiet of the tea garden could be missed.



I have been to the tea garden dozens of times. School trips as early as ten years old. Later, sneaking away across the park, leaving my high school classmates lounging on the steps of the academy of science, bored, waiting for the bus. Play dates here and there with tourist-designed friends. Even more recently leaving my ex's bed, him still asleep on holiday Mondays or random Fridays. While I eventually would try to share it with him, the magic needs both willingness and surrender. (I usually returned with Starbucks, snuggled back in before he knew I was gone.) Alone in this adventure more often than not.

It was a purposeful trek, because the gift of the garden, if I listened carefully, was always there, and I knew it. Always patient, as if it was waiting to reveal just one more piece of its secret for me in exchange for my early morning sacrifice. I never knew what it would be, but it always happened.  Today was no different.

My daughter and son were with me, also with their faces to the sky and hands in their pockets. Our conversations were quiet, and respectful, (even when the squirrel stole the cookie), deep, about things related to wishes and desires if all things were perfect. We talked about homes, and gardens, and the work that went into them. We talked about the types of gardens we were attracted to, and why.  We agreed that the tea garden was special in its deliberateness,  and how attempting to create one would have to be selfless, because only long after countless hours were spent would its real beauty be seen. The garden would have to be a person's purpose, the intimate reward being the effort of the job. The results could maybe be discovered by others, but maybe not. You could not force it. The garden demanded patience.  The garden demanded work.

True to the way things happen when I put in the effort, the garden revealed itself to me through their words.

Here's what I learned: If there are things I want to create, it would have to be the work I do to reveal myself. I would have to be like the garden. Patient with myself to see results, to share results. I would have to get up and listen in the quiet moments for what was being taught. I would would need to be willing and eager, but surrender to the process. 

And even more like the garden I would have to be deliberate, and public, but without me knowing if anyone would ever feel the magic or not.

So I present today's blog. Not because I need it to speak to anyone,  but because I need to practice both willing deliberate actions and constant surrendered patience if I ever hope to share results.

I hope tomorrow is just as quiet, just as crisp, with my face wanting to turn to feel the sun. I am not gonna wish for squirrels, but I might make some tea. I hope remember today. I hope the garden's lessons are portable. I hope I listen.