Very Zen

“Excuse me, sir, but you can’t stop here. Please keep walking.”

She’s pleasant enough, but I sense a sinister undertone, as if I didn’t get a move on, I’d be in big trouble. Who needs a docent guiding you around a garden? I should have just gone with my instinct and walked by myself. I didn’t notice any signs saying you couldn’t go around alone.

I sense she’s giving me a “move your ass” stink eye.

There were a couple of huge compost heaps on the way in. Maybe that’s where they toss the bodies of anyone who lingers on this little tour. Or who steps on the grass. This path is about two-and-a-half inches wide. Freakin restrictive. I have to practically mince like a runway model, foot ahead of foot, just to avoid the virgin edges. It’s like I’m part of some woodsy wedding march up this gravel aisle.

You know, I think I don’t like it here, not with this crowd, anyway.

The two guys in front of me are arguing about a song called “Tiny Dancer.” One of them is saying it’s by Elton John. It is. The other one says it’s a piano instrumental that came out around the late ‘70s. That it was a big hit. Yes, it was hugely popular. For some God-awful reason. I know exactly what song he’s talking about. It’s called “Music Box Dancer.”

I was managing a record store right here in Madison when that song hit. I have dreams about how stupid that song is. I feel like settling their argument, but, I feel too Asian to interrupt. They might get pissed. Bothered by the “other.” Brother.

Well, I can’t stay behind, and I can’t pass ahead of these morons without stepping over the one-foot-high or so little chain-link cordons, to get around them. I don’t want to step out of line here, first because the docent looks none too friendly, and second because I am the only Asian guy around, sticking out like a potential racial-hatred target if I ever saw one. Stranger danger. Me.

So much for just a moment to enjoy the tranquility alone. I want very much for this wave of people to disappear, wash away so I can stand for one moment, by myself, take in the sea of grass just emerging from winter hibernation, breeze brushed and swaying, the patches of color, coming on now the snow is melting away.

So what? I wonder. Does no one ever touch anything here, no kids running and playing in the grass? To never access anything on these grounds, it’s a tragedy, the foliage, the flowers, the lawns, their beauty, solitary, never to be fully enjoyed, experienced completely, except by an invisible crew of gardeners.

It so reminds me of China. All the “public” gardens there, amazing to look at, are not to be touched or walked through. They’re fenced off all the way around. All is forbidden in China.

“If you’ll walk this way,” she points with at me with some withering intensity.

I go miffed Asian. I can’t help myself. “Yes, sure, I’m coming. Say, it’s not very Zen around here, is it.”

She just looks at me, puzzled. Who knows? Maybe she’s amazed that I speak English.

“Very Zen?” she asks, sounding confused.

Ah crap, I shouldn’t be so hard on her. I mean, she’s just doing her job. Which I’m not sure if she might hate.

But how can you be in a paradise like this and not love it? Not be happy, not be pleasant? Not be in love with life, with nature?

“Sorry,” I say. “Nothing. Never mind.”

We come to the end. Thank you so much for the tour.”

“You’re most welcome,” she says, giving me a genuine smile, I think. “I hope you enjoyed it.” That Midwestern charm I miss.

“I did indeed. This place is amazing. And you do such a good job as a guide. Aloha.”

“Have a nice rest of your day,” she calls after me.I walk on, wondering about myself. Why do I act that way?