Many years ago I went to hear a talk by Stephen Levine, who has written many books on death and dying, including “Meetings at the Edge” and “Who Dies?” When I went to hear him speak, he told a story about a Zen Master, and this is how I remember it. The teacher was confronted by a fierce young student who demanded to know, “What is the point in living, since sooner or later we all die? Isn’t this life just a cruel trick, since no matter what we do, no matter how good we try to be, no matter how much we learn or how wise we become, still, we will die. So what is the point, what is the purpose of life?”
The teacher picked up a glass and held it out to the student. “Look at this glass. Right now it is whole and useful, you can drink water from it, it is lovely to see. If I tap it with a spoon, it makes a wonderful sound. But at some point it will no longer exist, it cannot last forever; at some point someone will drop it and it will break, and that will be the end of it. We don’t know when, but we know for certain that this will happen. So you could say, it is broken already. It is smashed and gone already.”
The teacher went on. “What will I do? I can admire this glass and drink from it, make use of it while I have it, or I could just get it over with, throw it to the ground, since I know its ultimate fate.
“And here you are, young and vibrant and full of questions, but someday you will die and decompose and return to the earth. In that sense you are dead already. Already dead, what will you do with your life?”
I think of this story as I ponder the coming months; I could focus mainly on that I'm already gone, or about to be. As I look around my beautiful rooms, I could dwell on what I'll be leaving behind, and the fear, sorrow and heartache. I think of this story as I look at everyone I love; we are gone from each other already? Already gone from each other, what will we do with our time together?
When we were packing to leave California and move to Houston, I realized I had already left our house. So I decided to plant flowers. On the deck and front porch were all sorts of hanging baskets and wine barrels and large pots and planter boxes which I filled every spring with fuchsia and bougainvillea, jasmine and gardenias, Sweet Williams and cosmos. They were all empty except for the dirt and a few broken twigs and lots of spider webs. When I mentioned to Marty that I was going to fill them all with plantings, he clearly thought I was a bit crazy. “Why do that when we’re moving in a few months?” It could be seen as a waste of time and money, if you go on the assumption that we were gone already. On the other hand, we’d have months of being surrounded by all that beauty and the scent of those white flowers. While we were living in our house, we were living in our house.
And so it is with my people, my animals, the marsh. and all the ways my friends bring me the world in their writing and visits. While we are together, we are together. I want to savor every moment, before it really is over. And who knows what that means, anyway? The longer I live and dream and contemplate, the more curious I get about what's on the other side. I can't believe I will lose all the powerful chances I have now to touch and love and be touched by beings and the world. William James, Huston Smith, Carolyn Bourgeault, Kaya Mclaren and colleagues are reminding and reassuring me that love never dies.
