MountainZendoAndHealingCenter.com Blog

A few days ago I was looking out the slider door to our back deck and caught sight of a bug on the outside of the glass.  That’s not so unusual – there are often flies or little moths that land on the glass, and our cats try in vain to catch them from the inside.  But this was some kind of beetle or stink bug.  Not sure what.  It had a light stomach and kind of a peaked head.  I watched it for a minute and then called my daughter Emily over.  ”Look,” I told her, “it’s a Zen beetle.”  ”What makes it a Zen beetle?” she asked.  ”Just watch it,” I replied.  And so she did.  What she saw, and what I’d noticed, was that it was moving so, so slowly.  It would move one leg, slowly, then place it very carefully. Then pause.  Then move another leg.  And pause.  Then a third leg.  And pause.  Hmm, I thought, this little guy’s doing beetle walking meditation.  Very cool.  Very Zen.  I swear he looked unbelievably serene.  Even so, watching a beetle do walking meditation eventually loses its appeal, and Emily and I went on about our business.  

And evidently he went on about his, because two days later, Emily looked out our living room window and said, “Look!  There he is!”  Mr. Zen Beetle was back!  Apparently, he’d spent the previous 48 hours walking the 7 feet from the slider door, across the outside wall of the house and onto the window.  Placing a foot and pausing.  Placing the next foot and pausing again.  His dedication was inspiring.  I certainly don’t have that kind of stick-to-it-iveness.  Again, we watched for a short while, and then returned to our own, non-Zen activities.

Cut to two days later.  I was standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, when I glanced out the front window.  The front window, on the opposite side of the house from where we’d seen Zen Beetle.  And suddenly my gaze lit upon a decrepit spiderweb that still clung to the ceiling and post of our porch.  I noticed that some bug was caught in the web.  …  A beetle, maybe.  A beetle? My jaw dropped.  I squinted at the form in the web.  It looked just the same size as Zen Beetle.  Oh, no.  Could it be?   I felt my heart constrict.  Not Zen Beetle!!!!!  I walked slowly to the front door and stepped out onto the porch to check – if it was, indeed, he, perhaps he was still alive….

Afterwards, examining my distress, I wondered: Why exactly was I so devastated by the thought that Zen Beetle had perished in the spiderweb?  Perhaps my thinking went like this: plucky little ZB.  He took such great care with every move he made.  Every step was precisely executed.  Just the right speed, just the right length of stride to take him where he wanted to go.  How, then, did he end up in a mass of spider’s silk?  Didn’t he noticed when his first tiny foot touched that web, that it didn’t feel like the wood beneath his other feet?  Didn’t he sense that this difference might presage danger?  And if not at the first step, then perhaps as he set his 2nd foot there, or 3rd, 4th, 5th or 6th?  Did he realize his mis-step only when the spider rushed out and began mummifying him?

I found that thought very disturbing – that for all his mindful walking, he had evidently been totally oblivious about where he was going to end up.  And of course, the thought was disturbing in relation not just to Zen Beetle, but to myself.  I mean, it was my recognition of our shared dedication to Zen practice which had connected me to ZB in the first place.  The oneness of our path.  But to assert a shared path meant recognizing the possibility that I, too, might one day end up trapped in a spiderweb.  And who would like to accept that?  

I always like to think that the more mindful I am in all I do, the less likely I am to end up in a metaphorical spiderweb.  But, considering ZB, I had to admit that mindfulness is by no means a guarantee of safety or a good outcome.  We can be as slow as possible as we take one step after another and still be moving inexorably – because of some initial miscalculation in our plan – toward disaster.  Step by mindful step, and all without realizing our mistake, until it’s too late and we’re bound tight by the consequences of our actions. A pretty disheartening thought.

Considering where Zen Beetle might have gone wrong – and also wondering how the hell he’d made it all the way around to the front of the house – I reminded myself that, luckily, I was not born an insect this life.  No offense, ZB, but I’m grateful for my ability to think and reason, and do actual meditation and not just something that looks like meditation in form while lacking the necessary intent and consciousness. 

 And so, as I peered up at the spiderweb, I reminded myself that although simply taking my time in every situation doesn’t necessarily guarantee success, if I do really pay attention, and also take care to consider the possible repercussions of my actions, I’ll have at least a fighting chance of seeing the sticky situations from far enough away that I can avoid them before I’ve landed in them with both feet.

So, there I was, standing on my front porch, peering up into the spiderweb at a silk-wrapped bug that had clearly already given up the ghost.  A bug that was … not Zen Beetle.  Some other hapless, and perhaps less mindful, insect, but not Zen Beetle.

I’m a little ashamed to admit that a wave of relief washed over me when I realized that Zen Beetle might still be making his way safely along the back wall of our house.  I didn’t feel as sad about Anonymous Beetle as I might have.  I wasn’t happy to realize that about myself.  But I think my relief was partly about the fact that maybe, at least this once, mindfulness had helped a tiny being avoid a sticky, suffocating death.   Think about it: if even mindless insect mindfulness  can sometimes lead to a good outcome, just think what we humans can do with a little conscious mindfulness.  Step.  Pause.  Step.  And keep an eye out for the spiderwebs on the path.