Guitar Lessons Chapter 5: Beginner's Mind
The next excerpt from a novel in progress
After meeting Teacher in person, I immediately knew that I wanted to study with him. Despite the rumors and our awkward encounter, I was drawn to him for reasons I could not explain. With just a few words Teacher awakened something in me — a magnetic center, an aching desire to learn than I’d never experienced before. I sensed that he knew something important, and I wanted to move closer to it.
I told this to Stephen Wexler, a friend I often visited after gigs. We shared a fondness for beer and life-changing conversation. One night, during our second or third round, he started raving about a book called Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind, a collection of talks by Shunryu Suzuki, the Zen master.
“You gotta read this,” Wexler said, tossing the paperback into my lap. “The answers to everything you’re looking for are in here.”
“Right,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m on it.”
We talked for a while longer until Wexler sank into a stony silence and fell asleep in his chair. I set down my beer, picked up Zen Mind, and opened it to the first chapter.
From the first sentence I was hooked. Suzuki Roshi was right there in the room with me. I heard his voice in my head, felt his words in my chest:
The mind of the beginner is empty, free of the habits of the expert, ready to accept, to doubt, and open to all the possibilities. It is the kind of mind which can see things as they are, which step by step and in a flash can realize the original nature of everything.
When I looked up from the book, I noticed that Wexler had left the room and gone to bed. For a minute I listened to him snoring. The sound was oddly musical. Eventually I shut off the lights and let myself out.
At home I undressed, crawled straight into bed, and read Zen Mind until dawn poked rosy fingers through the sky. The book was intoxicating, better than any drug I’d ever taken. The words were wonderful enough, but behind them was a feeling, palpable and inexpressible. I wanted that feeling to last forever, fearing that it would disappear if I closed the book. Eventually it dropped from my hands and I fell into the deepest sleep I’d had in ages.
The next morning I woke with a bolt of insight — a diagnosis for my musical malaise and a way to treat it.
Diagnosis: My whole experience of music was marked by sharp divides — commercial versus artistic, mediocrity versus virtuosity, disillusionment versus adolescent passion.
Treatment: Shed all those distinctions and open once again to the screaming, primal sounds of the guitar gods. Realize the original nature of music before it gets divided into genres and turned into grist for greed, ego, and self-judgment.
In short, return to beginner’s mind. Start over again. Discover the hidden connection between playing the guitar well and living well. Learn how to breathe, how to pay attention, and how to make music in the service of something bigger than myself.
But how, exactly? I had a direction but no concrete next step.
I thought about Teacher and wondered if he could help.
I needed this today! Remember what’s inside, as instinctive as breathing.