Many years ago, visiting the gift shop at the Japanese Garden in Portland, my son wanted a miniature Zen garden. It was a box of sand with a few pebbles and a tiny, but remarkably elegant, wooden rake. It was pricey, and I resisted, thinking of the sand spilling all over our hotel room, our car, and – if any survived long enough to make it home – disappearing into the carpet in his bedroom. He pouted. I caved. I know it was the rake that got him. He was ecstatic for about an hour.
Years later, when he was in the army, overseas, I would sometimes find myself in his room. I would drift in like a sleepwalker and stand there, looking at the posters on the wall of John Cleese representing the Ministry of Silly Walks, of the ways to say “shit happens” according to one’s religious or political beliefs, of various airplanes flying, of The Matrix. I would think about my son as my eyes wandered among his possessions, trying to decode what could have led him to a military path, trying to imagine what he might be doing at that moment, 10 hours ahead of me, wondering when, and even if, I would see him again.
On one of these pilgrimages to his room, I happened on the Zen sandbox, sitting on a bright yellow table he had been given as a small child, now piled with cufflinks, change, scraps of paper, and all kinds of detritus he had dumped there. Remarkably, it appeared that most of the sand had survived. I picked up the box and lifted the weightless rake. I sat on his bed and began combing its tiny tines through the powdery sand. I learned how empowering it was to tidy up such a small space. What control! I raked slowly, and when the sand was perfectly lined with tiny rows of rake trails, I arranged the pebbles. Then I took them out and started over, aiming for a more perfect perfection. More raking, rearranging. Then again. Again. I was in his room, with the sand and the rake and the pebbles, for a long time.
I wondered if my son was sleeping at that moment, if some sand underneath his sleeping bag was making him a soft bed. As I thought about him sleeping, half a world away, temporarily escaping whatever lurked nearby, the small rectangle of sand in my lap was dented by dark impressions as warm, out-of-scale drops sprinkled the tiny garden. How unusual to experience rainfall in the desert this time of year!
Years later, when he was in the army, overseas, I would sometimes find myself in his room. I would drift in like a sleepwalker and stand there, looking at the posters on the wall of John Cleese representing the Ministry of Silly Walks, of the ways to say “shit happens” according to one’s religious or political beliefs, of various airplanes flying, of The Matrix. I would think about my son as my eyes wandered among his possessions, trying to decode what could have led him to a military path, trying to imagine what he might be doing at that moment, 10 hours ahead of me, wondering when, and even if, I would see him again.
On one of these pilgrimages to his room, I happened on the Zen sandbox, sitting on a bright yellow table he had been given as a small child, now piled with cufflinks, change, scraps of paper, and all kinds of detritus he had dumped there. Remarkably, it appeared that most of the sand had survived. I picked up the box and lifted the weightless rake. I sat on his bed and began combing its tiny tines through the powdery sand. I learned how empowering it was to tidy up such a small space. What control! I raked slowly, and when the sand was perfectly lined with tiny rows of rake trails, I arranged the pebbles. Then I took them out and started over, aiming for a more perfect perfection. More raking, rearranging. Then again. Again. I was in his room, with the sand and the rake and the pebbles, for a long time.
I wondered if my son was sleeping at that moment, if some sand underneath his sleeping bag was making him a soft bed. As I thought about him sleeping, half a world away, temporarily escaping whatever lurked nearby, the small rectangle of sand in my lap was dented by dark impressions as warm, out-of-scale drops sprinkled the tiny garden. How unusual to experience rainfall in the desert this time of year!
