The most useful insights often seem so
simple afterward it is embarrassing to relate them. My day job is in
the Finishing Department at a company that builds wind turbine blades
– very large wind turbine blades. We sand, prep and paint a blade
45 meters long, weighing 10 tons. Moreover, because this is a new
contract, and we are a relatively new company, a 150 foot long paint
booth has not yet been built. Therefore, the blades are painted by
roller to keep the operation within environmental regulations. It is
quite a task to paint a 150 foot long wind turbine blade with a 9”
paint roller.
I'm one of the lucky few who often have
a paint roller handle in hand. Not long ago, I was painting a blade
with a partner who is a little quiet, reflective even. We do just
fine in conversation, but we will occasionally go for long stretches
without much talking; which is just fine, it turns out, with both of
us. Painting starts at the blade's tip with a team of two on each
side. After the first several meters, the blade gets tall enough that
the other team might as well be in another building.
We were painting along in silence. The
paint we use is a heavy paint for ship decks imported from Germany.
In our routine, the first painter slops a lot of paint on the blade
with a roller just sopped and dripping. The second painter re-rolls
the surface with a slightly dry roller, smoothing it out and catching
any defects. As the second painter, I was doing this clean up and had
nothing on my mind but watching the effects of my partner's painting,
and re-rolling the blade's surface. At a certain point, I was
completely lost in the gentle, undulating rhythm. I'd pick a spot,
about a half roller width off of the previous strokes and reach way
down under the bottom of the blade to start a long stroke toward the
other edge, sometimes as much as 15 feet high. Up, and then reaching
down again, I simply watched the texture and coverage of the soft
grey paint as I rolled.
As we neared the other end, what we
call the root, I realized that I had been humming along for half an
hour or more without really thinking about anything. I had
practically become the paint roller itself, not existing in any
essential way outside of the function of the painting. Before we
began cleaning up, I stopped and stared at the long blade. It is more
like a bird's wing than that of an airplane. From the muscular root,
it curves upward and crests to flow down again toward a graceful
curve, like the wing of a Swallow. The other guys, had they noticed,
would have presumed that I was admiring our work. Actually, I was
reflecting on the ease at which I had blissed out. My concentration
had been such that all else had disappeared. Sure, thoughts came and
went like usual, but I had not grabbed hold of them. The thoughts
became fleeting gossamer wisps rather than the first scatter of
pebbles before an avalanche.
This Paint Roller Nirvana taught me a
much easier way into my meditation. Even the most basic instructions
will tell you that 'thinking about not-thinking' will get you
nowhere. Concentration is prescribed as the solution. I've spent the
last several years trying to develop this “single pointed
concentration;” so called Samadhi. For the most part, this vague
goal had escaped me. I'm not saying that I've always got it now, but
it is definitely easier to enter after the paint roller.
Using my breath while meditating was
not concrete enough for me. I kept seeking concentration separately.
Counting my breath was something that I did while I searched the
caverns of my psyche for some concentration. Just as the Buddha
taught, however, we are already complete. We already have everything
we need. The paint roller taught me that I already had the
concentration I sought. If I just did the breathing as a task, like
painting, I would find it right there waiting for me.
