Wonder, Attention, and Daily Practice

“Director’s Notes” are excerpts from our monthly email newsletter, “Stories from the Garden.” Subscribe and see past issues here.

Dear Friends,

I have a practice of pausing at the garden entrance. Each time I arrive, I open the lock and unlatch the old farm gate, and before pushing it open to the palms, I find stillness. There is much to sit with—the dance of light, whispers of wind, my own gratitude to be among those caring for a place made of astonishment as a daily practice. Though I long to, I have not fully cultivated anything else worthy of the word practice, beyond this simple one. It is at the garden gate where I practice pausing, until all aspects of myself arrive here. In these few moments at the threshold, there is spaciousness, room for other ways of seeing. Once I’m inside, the whole garden unfurls as a place of attention. 

Wind sounds, light, and bird song may draw attention into keen focus here, but more often, attention finds its height through utter disorientation, pleasant though it is. Vistas are few in a garden that’s become a forest. Down on the valley floor, there are no fence lines to serve as points of reference, or to claim land as property. Human-made structures—William and Paula’s house, the cottage where William lived when he came to Peʻahi, the garden dojo with its potting shed and meditation space tucked together under a tiny tiled roof—show themselves only in glimpses. They appear, as W.S. Merwin had hoped, “to have grown out of their surroundings without intruding upon them.” Of all the delights to which one can attend here, whether by way of lost bearings or found focus, it is the garden dojo that beckons me. It’s a simple, small space made for and of daily practices, of mind, hand, and spirit. The screened meditation space sits right within the canopy, the garden’s sounds and sights. 

In February, we spent time here with a dear friend of William and Paula’s, who has become a cherished friend and teacher of my own. While we sifted ash to clean the incense burner, we reflected on the intimacy and privacy of William’s meditation and gardening practices, and the resonance they rendered in poetry and place. We wondered, what might this small space— and the larger place in which it sits—now offer to those who visit, to those who will never come, to the world well beyond? These are the essential questions that animate The Merwin Conservancy. The questions are perhaps more important than the answers, which will change and evolve over time. Whatever the expression of the convictions and practices that have long flourished here, wonder and attention will remain the root system of poetry, place, and indeed practice.

With aloha, 
Sonnet