I mentioned earlier this week how I returned from holiday on Monday to find myself invited into the heart sorrow of a family grieving a suicide this past Sunday evening.
Yesterday I met with the family for the second time working out details for a memorial service this evening. Such confusion and longing for this not to be happening.
Now, my holiday had concluded with a seven day sesshin, intensive meditation retreat, so, the whipsaw wasn’t all that hard for me. Well… The hardest was the sadness, the sorrow, the regrets and second guessing, the wishing among the family that this not be…
And, for me, being open to it, not turning away.
Knowing somewhere in my bones we’re all family in this…
Sometimes this can be harder than other times. My own issues rise at times like this. Depression, addiction and suicide are the stuff of my family history.
Still, the task I volunteered for, and which brought me into that living room, means to be present and where possible to be of assistance.
Staying open.
In an hour or so I’ll be turning my hand to writing a eulogy for someone who got a bad hand dealt him in this life. Fortunately no one wants me to pretend otherwise. Although the process of our mourning needs to take its own rhythms and right now there is no need to focus on the litany of unfairness, only on the fact he had lived, loved and was loved, and, yes, the conspiracy of too many things led to his thinking there was only one way out of the hurting, which he took…
The call is to not pretend there is no suffering.
And to some degree the specifics of that hurt.
And at the same time to notice the larger.
This morning I went out onto our back porch and filled the bird feeder, surrounded by a great host of feathered creatures. Some scolding me for being late at my task. Most waiting for me to do my job and get out of the way.
And I noticed.
The light playing through the leaves of the trees and onto the many surfaces singing joy and hope and possibility.
And I noticed.
The smells of an already warm Summer morning wafting…
Life.
Death.
One thing.
A continuing mystery.
For me the task is to not get too carried away with my stories.
However compelling: I fret about the republic and what seems to be the tide of the right libertarian movement and how it is blindly unraveling the social contract and giving ever more power over to the already most powerful. Who will, I’m confident, use it. I’ve spent the last couple of days talking with people about how we here in Rhode Island can respond most effectively to the rising hunger among us, addressing that simple longing for enough food. An issue that is pressing harder all the time. And while there are things to do, many things, how it seems a part of that relentless tide of suffering. And it opened my various obsessions. I worry about the divide among the races, and particularly the part those in the majority play in this continue social and personal wound. I notice the easy scapegoating of the immigrant both legal and undocumented for the many ills of our times, and our place. I resent the work that went into trying to put together marriage equality this past year only to fall short, and the consolation prize leaving such a bitter taste. Just the presenting issues I’m focused on right now.
A cascade of stories.
And, of course, turning sixty-three this past month. And feeling the pressures of time, the constraints of a life time.
And how I can never do enough.
And I notice.
The solace of zazen, and wishing for more time on the pillow.
And that taste of the peace which passes all understanding that follows zazen like the morning follows the night, like one foot following the other in walking…
Life.
Death.
Hurt.
Joy.
Paying attention.
Noticing the stories.
And, knowing my not knowing, acting with as much heart and care as I can.
Letting go of all results.
So hard.
So easy.
The great way, itself…
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