Leaves of Change

This photo was taken by Sensei Susan Perry of Musubi Dojo and the Aiko Institute. The original was part of a wonderful exhibit of her work in 2007 at Some Crust bakery in Claremont. She is also the director of Budo Zen Art, which has a fantastic collection of brush stroke artwork. I am privileged to own one of her calligraphy works.

This photo contains a message about our times that I reflect on often. She took the photo at a temple in Japan, where the person was dutifully clearing the walkway of the brilliantly colored leaves of fall. About the time of sensei's exhibit, I heard a story on National Public Radio about a town in New England that was considering a ban on leaf blowers.

Many of the residents of the town shared their loathing of the noise of the machines, which shattered the peace and quiet of each morning as crews of gardeners used them to remove the trees' abundant fall offerings from the well-manicured properties they maintained. Others complained of the way the leaf-blowing devices' two-stroke engines filled the air with a pungent odor of scorched motor oil and unburned gasoline.

The owners of one of the gardening companies railed against a suggestion that his crews be prohibited from using the machines. He spoke of the prohibitive costs of moving so many leaves in any other manner. He laughed and said, incredulously, "What am I supposed to do, have my crews rake the leaves? Are we supposed to go back in time?"

His response spoke volumes about what the industrial revolution has done to us, and to our world. We have replaced any possible appreciation for the natural world with a need to overcome it with machines in the most expeditious and "cost-effective" way possible.

The person in this photo is obviously not in a hurry. At first glance, the project they have undertaken appears impossible: With every stroke of the broom, there will be more leaves. So, why bother? Why not fire up a leaf blower?

Could it be that the act of sweeping the leaves is reason enough? Could this person actually take pleasure -- or gain insight into themselves and the world around them -- by understanding how the rhythm of life around them is exemplified by the motion of the broom? Could the sound of the broom's bristles moving the leaves be soothing and peaceful? Could this person see in each leaf the perfection of nature through its symmetry and color, and feel a connection to the tree from which it came? Could it be that the amount of time it takes is less important than the experience one has during that time?

I would trade the peacefulness of this approach to that of a machine any day.