I’m reading the novel called John of John, by Douglas Stuart, whose first novel, Shuggie Bain, won the Booker Prize several years ago. I read it slowly because the characters, Scottish weavers, are so well drawn that, like all great literary characters, I see myself in them, or them in me, and their family encounters remind me of my own even as we’re nowhere near those Scots living on an island west of the Isle of Skye.

In one of their celebrations, accompanied by plenty of booze, a character nicknamed Hoggy (he works with a butcher), after being teased about a stupid risk he took which ended up burning his butt, all for the sake of one more drink, says: “What is the point of being alive if you don’t try to kill yourself now and again?”

I hooted out loud when I read those words. But a moment later, I recalled a conversation I recently had with a friend, Zen teacher and psychotherapist Flint Sparks. Flint told me that he gives the same guideline at the beginning of every Zen retreat that he leads: “How simple are you willing to let this be?”

Hoggy wasn’t ready to let life be that simple, he was going to add all kinds of things to it, including things that hurt, and I reflected that this guideline can also serve my life: How simple am I willing to let this be?

Zen retreats are known for their simplicity anyway. There’s a bell or auditory cue for everything: Get up, sit in meditation, do walking meditation, back to sitting … service, breakfast, clean-up, back to sitting, walking, sitting, you get the picture. No phones, no computer, no books, and you do this for one day or thirty. I will do it for one day this coming Saturday. Nevertheless, Flint has felt it necessary to challenge his students: How simple are you willing to let this be?

Because, as anyone who has sat these sesshins knows, the mind doesn’t leave you alone. It comes up with hundreds of What ifs and What abouts. It insists on reviewing every detail of your marriage or old relationships with parents. You suddenly can think of a dozen people you don’t like (including a few in your sangha), you wonder what the cook added to the salad that made it so yummy, when are you going to renovate the kitchen, and it’s suddenly time to make plans for the summer though it’s only December.

A Zen sesshin is the perfect place to discover how you’re not in control of your mind, it’s in control of you. But if you’re lucky, you’ll hear the echo of that first guideline: How simple are you willing to let this be? The big question for me is how simple am I willing to let this life be. Another way of looking at it is: What am I unnecessarily adding all the time?

I bear witness to a life full of additions, or as I think of them, ands. There’s waking up, sitting, feeding Aussie, and maybe it’s time to get new sheets, and the New York Times reports this about Iran but maybe I should check Politico, and tune in to a local radio program someone recommended, and call this person or that because I haven’t checked in with them in a while, and check what Claude has to say about Keto, and is the laundry detergent I’m using really free of odors and unnecessary chemicals?

Our ands are highly subjective. For me, daily meditation has been part of my life for many years, for others it might be an and. Walking the dogs is a regular habit, and that may be an and for others. But if you really pay attention, you notice that for each of us, there’s an unmistakable natural rhythm to life. In my case, waking up leads to meditation to feeding dog to opening up newspapers online as well as emails, getting dressed, making the bed, getting to work. Simple, basic, and familiar.

Maybe too familiar, so I start adding things to it: Is the farm on Turners Falls Road selling corn, and if so, is it better than J&J Farms? I should read up on the reviews of the Mary Oliver documentary and then look up when it’s playing in Amherst. There’s too much dog hair in the car!  I must go to the YMCA for weight training. I have to ring up this student and ask how he’s doing with his health. And did I check what Dave Hayes said about our local weather? I checked temperatures on weather.com, but it’s not like our local meteorologist who gives crucial tidbits of information concerning surface pressure coming from the Great Lakes and upper and lower troughs tracking east from Canada.

My ands become really visible in the dead of summer and the dead of winter, seasons with fewer external demands. People are up in Maine or at the Cape in summer, and in Florida in winter. I proclaim to all that I can hardly wait for those quieter weeks, and when they finally arrive, I search avidly for distractions. Should I start worrying about trees coming down on the house during storms? Why am I gaining weight? Wouldn’t it be nice to get real Chinese food—I know just where to go. And by the way, I need a couple of pajama bottoms.

Again, my ands may be your imperatives, but if I really pay attention, if I strip away the fuss and tangle (my hairdresser told me to get an Aveda post-shampoo wash that would be perfect for my hair!), I can discern a path, even a routine, that’s innate to my life. It progresses without too much thinking or planning on my part, as if my feet know just where to go and my legs know just where to walk. A voice whispers: Stop trying to live it. Let it live you.

And since I must have my distractions, here’s a pet peeve that somehow connects with what I’ve written: I went to the local library which I usually use to pick up books through our fantastic inter-library system. This time I decided to work quietly on my computer there because I would have to return to that street in two hours.

It’s a lovely small library with a nice space for children’s activities, so I go to the other end to sit in one of their comfortable chairs and work. Five minutes later a tall woman sits at a table 3 feet away, is soon joined by a young man, and they’re having a meeting. The gallant librarian at the desk shows me to a separate room for Tweens that at first seems quiet, but it’s right behind the reception desk with people coming in and out all the time, asking about books and videos, and socializing. The children’s area at the other end gets louder, then quieter, then louder again.

The town has recently approved the building of an expanded library in Turners Falls, with big meeting, play, and video spaces, not to mention conference rooms. In all the hoopla around it (it was controversial due to its high cost), I couldn’t help but notice that there was no mention of quiet spaces where folks could read, study, or work quietly. As if, if you want quiet, stay home.

But I think of my time working in the old Greenfield library (since replaced by a newer, bigger facility), where I worked quietly at a corner. Others read, hovering over a newspaper or magazine. I remember Latino men settling down over Spanish-language newspapers, or else using the WIFI to WhatsApp messages to their families back home.

Am I a grumpy old woman who doesn’t like modern libraries? I definitely get the sense that libraries are seen here as places to connect, talk, and learn about certain topics from professionals. The latter used to take place in the evenings, but now it can be smack in the middle of the day. I certainly have no issues with children’s spaces for storytelling and play acting. Perhaps I’m one of the older generation who liked it when libraries weren’t places in which to create community, but rather were places to encourage study, reflection, and a solitude with others.

That’s how I feel in the zendo. I don’t have to go there for meditation, I can do that at home, but I love the solitude with others, or as one book’s title called it: Alone with Others.

It’s not easy to hear your own heartbeat, much less other people’s. It’s not easy to hear the heartbeat of the world, but I think it’s possible. When you’re in congruence with that heartbeat, you feel most alive. If you feel dead, it may be because you’re not listening. And then, like Hoggy in the book, you sit on a hot stove and burn up your butt just to feel alive.