There’s something unexpectedly meditative about building a shed—especially when you’re doing it on a quiet hilltop in Topanga, with birdsong in the air and tools in your hands.
Over the past two weeks, I’ve been working side by side with a couple of the grounds crew to build two new sheds for our retreat center.
The process reminded me of one of my favorite books: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, a philosophical classic that explores the harmony (and tension) between analytical precision and aesthetic flow.
Form Meets Function
The reason for the sheds was simple: we needed order. We needed to clean up a mess of scattered maintenance items and create a better inventory for our tools. We also wanted to tidy up the garden and orchard area surrounding the coup in preparation for the chickens we’re planning to welcome to the retreat center this spring. But the execution, of course, came with its share of complications.
The first shed
For the first shed, the complication came in the form of a row of PVC irrigation pipes, running directly beneath the site of a key posthole. It wasn’t obvious at first. We started digging and then hit plastic. Instead of shifting the shed layout (and ruining the clean rectangle we had planned), we decided to reroute the pipes entirely—cutting, adjusting with elbow joints, and tucking the system neatly out of the way. What looked like a problem turned into an opportunity to realign things in a better way.
The second shed
Shed two had its own surprise. As we went to dig the final corner, we hit a solid concrete slab hidden just beneath the surface. At first, we tried to dig it out. Then we tried to roll it. Nothing worked. Eventually, we pulled out the jackhammer and drilled a posthole right through the slab. Loud, messy—but effective.
In the end, both sheds went up clean and strong. But neither came together without a few detours.
Classical and Romantic Modes
The whole experience brought me back to Pirsig’s framework of classical vs. romantic thinking. The classical mindset wants to know how things work—how pieces fit together, what tools are needed, why something won’t align. It’s logical, methodical, and often precise. The romantic mindset, on the other hand, is more intuitive. It wants to enjoy the ride, feel the moment, and appreciate the beauty of the unfolding.
Pirsig breaks it down like this:
Romantic Understanding:
Focuses on immediate appearance and aesthetic experience
Appreciates beauty, emotion, and the feeling of things
Sees the surface, the whole, and the mood
Example: A person who enjoys the freedom of riding a motorcycle, the wind on their face, the poetry of the road
Romantic thinkers often prefer not to look "under the hood"—they don’t want the magic spoiled by mechanisms.
Classical Understanding:
Concerned with underlying form, structure, and function
Breaks things down into parts, analyzes how things work
Logical, detailed, technical
Example: A person who enjoys tuning the engine, adjusting the valves, and maintaining the bike’s mechanics.
Classical thinkers tend to value rationality, order, and understanding how things are put together—even if they don’t look pretty on the surface.
Pirsig’s Insight:
Neither perspective is better—both are limited on their own. The real magic happens when you integrate them.
He uses motorcycle maintenance as a metaphor:
The Romantic might resent having to fix a bike when it breaks.
The Classical might over-fixate on technical details and miss the joy of the ride.
But someone who understands both—who sees beauty in the structure, and structure in the beauty—is closer to what Pirsig calls Quality.
Practicing Quality
Quality is what this shed project became for me: a way to live in both modes.
There were days I was fully in classical mode—sketching plans, triple-measuring boards, running to the hardware store. But there were also moments of pure presence—feeling the afternoon light hit the newly installed walls, laughing with the guys while holding up a roof panel, noticing how satisfying it was to turn scattered tools into a clean and purposeful space.
When I look at the sheds now, I don’t just see storage structures—I see lessons. I see reminders of how form and feeling work together. I see the importance of small adjustments. I see how patience, collaboration, and presence can turn a simple task into a meaningful experience.
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance isn’t really about motorcycles. It’s about how we live. It’s about the choices we make—whether we engage with our world fully, or just skim across the surface. For me, building these sheds was a chance to practice that engagement. To tune in. To notice the quality in the craft.
And honestly, when you do that, it doesn’t matter whether you’re meditating, riding a motorcycle, or building a shed—it all starts to feel like the same path.