Taoism, Zen, and the Maine Woods

In 1989, when I first began teaching at the Maine College of Art & Design, then simply called the Portland School of Art, I became friends with Polly Bennell who ran the continuing studies program.  While standing around a copy machine one day, she asked if I’d like to teach something for continuing studies.  I responded that I had my hands full with work and family, so I didn’t think so.  “Well, why not just do something short and easy,” Polly countered, “something that really interests you.  What do you like to do?”  I replied, off the top of my head, “Well, I like to climb mountains.  I like to play the guitar.  I like to talk about Asian religions,…”.  Polly’s face lit up.  “That’s sound great!”   I laughed, “I didn’t mean all at once.  Those were just things I like to do.”  “Too bad,” Polly said, “that sounded like a terrific course.”

Later that day, while walking home, I turned some ideas over in my mind.  What if I put together a weekend backpacking trip that involved ideas and practices borrowed from Taoism and Zen Buddhism?  What if I got a group of ten or twelve people to try and walk the Asian sages' talk?  It seemed like a fun idea—at least to me.

Polly put a blurb about the course in her fall catalog and I fully expected that nobody would sign up.  Then, when I learned that people had signed up, I wondered if—after our first few hours together in the woods—they might not declare me crazy and leave, having first duct-taped me to a tree.  But as it turned out, “Taoism, Zen, and the Maine Woods” was an instant hit.  Over the next eight years I must have taken twenty-five or thirty groups into the nearby White Mountains.

We would have an initial meeting about a week before leaving, just to set some ground rules, make an equipment check, and assess the group’s physical fitness.  Actually, the course began at that very first meeting, in that I made them promise only to share their first names and not reveal what line of work they were in, given that so much of our identity is wrapped up in what we “do for a living.”  I wanted them to be a set of living presences in the forest and nothing else.  If I could have removed their age and gender also, I would have.

The actual course always started in a parking lot on Friday afternoon.  From there we piled into cars and drove for ninety minutes to the mountains, after making sure to separate any family and friends who were along, given that people we know best have the nasty habit of reinforcing illusions about who they think-and we think—we are.  Then, at the trail head, we began what was usually a three-hour hike to one or other remote campsite, heading out with the instructions to hike alone, keep silent, stay present, and enjoy the woods.  At the trail head I also collected up their watches (no cell phones in those days), explaining that the time was always going to be “now” for the entire weekend.  “But how will we know when it’s time to eat?”, someone once asked, finding it hard to give up his watch.  “You’ll be hungry, I suppose,” another guy offered.  Everyone laughed, but the comment showed how attached we can be to “time” as usually conceived.  Whereas in the woods, it was always now—and ‘now’ needed to be danced with.  If it was cold, we needed to warm up; if it was raining, we needed to find shelter; if it was dark, we needed a flashlight; if it was beautiful, we needed to stop, etc. etc.

I usually staying out in front of the group while hiking to make sure nobody got ahead of the group and off the trail, plus I could scout out the best location to pitch our tents.  Usually my wife, but sometimes a buddy, would “bat cleanup,” staying at the back to make sure everyone made it to the campsite.  Once re-assembled, we would—while still in silence—set up our camp for the weekend and only then sit down for a talk.  Finally we were able to talk!  But what I found so interesting was that they almost always enjoyed the silence, and they felt like it was a gift  they were giving each other.  No need to establish ideas of who they were or set reference points of mutual interest.  They could create rapport without any need of words, and even without the need to create a rapport.

And when we did talk, what did we talk about?  That first evening, and the next morning also, I would lay out some basic ideas borrowed from Taoism and Zen, like “It’s better to travel well than arrive,” “We don’t come into the world, we come out of it,” and “Silence is the language of the sacred.”  Then I would ask if any of their experiences on the trail had resonance with such ideas.  That generally broke lose a dam of comments, all of the sort,  “I’ve been too busy at my job to pay attention to my life,” “I didn’t realize how liberating it would be to hike without being goal oriented,” “I saw so many more animals than when I’m with my friends on the trail,” and “It feels so good to be present in my body.”

On Saturday, after breakfast and our morning meeting, I reminded them that we had agreed not only to keep our personal lives to ourselves, but to avoid any talk about life at home or time away from the ‘now’ we were all marinating in.  I encouraged them to think of themselves as simply a conscious mind with no reference points of gender, age, occupation, memories, or the usual robotic habits of daily life.  There were also no intimations of what would happen next; they simply had to stay present and follow directives of nature as they came up.  Then I would send them off for four hours by themselves.  Each person had to find a spot away from camp where they felt comfortable just being.  They could meditate if they wished (I had taught them a simple form of mindfulness meditation) or they could walk around, but the guiding directive was just to “Be here now.”  I did the same.

Once everyone was back in camp late that afternoon, we would come together by playing a simple game that involved throwing a ball made of wadded up socks (sometimes clean, sometimes dirty!), which would get people laughing at mistakes and create a community-feeling.  Then we would sit and do a simple chant.  I liked to have them chant because people are often embarrassed by having to chant, which on our trip gave them the chance to surrender their usual thoughts of embarrassment or incompetence.  Setting aside such thoughts proves liberating.  Then we would reflect on our afternoon for only a short time, sharing ideas, but only if they were in the interest of giving everyone clues of how to be more present, more surrendered, and less robotic.  It was always therapeutic for all of us, collectively raised in a culture that directs us away from presence and into avarice.

Anyway, Sunday was our last day in the woods, and we had to be out at the trail head by mid-afternoon for the drive home.  Later, we would pile up at the bottom of the trail to have one last meeting together, and by that point, the group had settled into a new mindset.  Once, while on the way out, a hiker for outside our group had asked a woman in our group what time it was.  The woman laughed and said, “Why it’s right now.”  The other hiker was probably nonplussed (I sometimes wondered if hikers who encountered one of our groups didn’t think they might have stumbled onto the Charles Manson Family Picnic), but I was a delighted by how responsive people in our groups generally were to the directives I shared.  No duct tape needed!  It convinced me that everyone in our rat race world already knows, somewhere deep inside, that it’s better to travel well than arrive.