a few days back, my endurance session of early morning pain was interrupted by a phone call informing me my father had died, suddenly.
there were certain practical matters to attend to in the moments immediately following (offering help with contacting relatives and similar tasks) and of course I was concerned for the welfare of my stepmother, who’d called with the news.
this death came hard on the news about ten days previous that my father-in-law has advanced prostrate cancer and there was an oddity to watching tears spring to my wife’s eyes—who wasn’t close to my father—my own remaining dry. A hard reminder of parental mortality seemed, on the surface, to affect her more—and in some ways, my own father’s death, though sudden, being peaceful in his sleep seemed preferable to a long and painful ride through the ravages of cancer and it’s treatment: if that was the outcome, a cure being possible, if unlikely.
after a brief conversation, mainly relaying the circumstances of his death, I was walking away and my wife stopped me, asking:
“are you sure you’re alright?”
“well, I wouldn’t be much of a Buddhist if I wasn’t…” was what I replied.
This wasn’t merely an offhand comment but indicated my true perspective at that moment. As we talked a little further I clarified what I meant, not meaning to imply I felt nothing but being aware through all of my adult life of the fragility of our human existence, it hardly came as a devastating shock, especially since my father had undergone heart surgery some ten years back.
over the ensuing days all manner of memories, feelings, and reflections would occur—my meditation practice was even more essential, and useful. I did dabble here and there with some maraṇasati and found that if I let my mind wander into recollection of my father a strong rush of emotion would follow. It was instructive to observe this with a quietened mind.
and there is an impetus towards practice, though we are surrounded with pale reflections of the four great signs, the media being saturated with death, yet we take little heed, the floods that wash away the possessions, the lives of others seeming not even to dampen our own security. It takes the immediacy of our own suffering or one close to us to really wake us up to the exigencies of existence.
so this post, no pictures—not even any links: any reader (including myself) will have to make their own connections, emphasize their own words.
I recall some Zen master telling his students: I will die soon. If you grieve for me you have not understood a word of my teachings.
this seems inhuman, even harsh, repressive… But although we are bound to feel some grief upon these events, if we pursue that grief, indulge in it, enlarge it bury ourselves in recollection and regret—are we following the Majjhimā Paṭipadā?
