A Call to Arms, R and R, Death's Afterglow

the world is small within an airplane.

death is vast, even within a small mind.

getting here is a surprisingly long journey.


I am sitting in the airport on my way to Halifax, heading back from my first official bout of R and R. I haven’t posted in a while, as I the impetus for my return was the death of a dear close friend. I wrote two posts before I left, which are posted below; the first I wrote the night before I found out about Dan’s death, the second the day after. Having disposed with these apologetic formalities, I will commence with today’s observations.

When I heard about Dan’s death, one of the things that saddened me the most was that I would most likely be unable to attend the services. The thought of not seeing his family, and having the opportunity to grieve with the people who knew and loved him pained me deeply. Having the stars align for my return was a tremendous blessing. It gave me a vivid experience of the importance of the sangha, or community, in the grieving process. I didn’t have to explain to anyone how much Dan meant to me. I didn’t have to try to tell anyone why this crazy and self-destructive man was so brilliantly lovable. We just cried and sang and talked together, and it was beautiful, healing, and deeply nourishing. Although the initial shock and tremendous, gut-wrenching sadness has subsided, I still get teary when I think about him, and miss him terribly already. There is nothing I would like to do more than sit with him, having cooked a meal together (he having demolished my kitchen), smoke cigarettes, and drift into the cool breeze of a summer night’s effortless conversation.

From the clear sea of mind

ripples of sadness and waves of longing

dance on the surface

and in the depths.

The warmth of the heart

is occasionally unbearable,

but I hold within it my comrades:

when a hole opens

and one of us slips through,

we all stand together at the brink

looking down, all the way down–

our tears cascading down like a hole in the ocean,

giving us all a glimpse of

death’s beautiful intimacy.

Retroactive Post #2: 6/2/2010– Packing and Learning of Danny's Death

6/2/2010

Today the retreat closed. The closing of this monumental three months, however, has brought with it an event of incredible sadness.

The news of the passing of one of my dearest friends reached me today among the piles of clothes and maelstrom of dishes. I heard of his sudden and accidental death first thing this morning, and needless to say, I have carried him in my heart all day.

Rinpoche was very helpful. He did a prayer for Daniel and gave me advice on how to practice, in particular, tonglen. I am doing a fierce, almost violent tonglen, trying with all my might to send out brilliant white light and inhale with the ferocity of a lion taking its final breath all the negativity that may afflict my friend in this crucial time. Since it was sudden and in his sleep, Rinpoche told me to tell Daniel that he’s dead. I circumambulated the great stupa at Boudha and offered butter lamps. I am praying for him in every breath and with every thought.

I am so exhausted.

My dear friend, you have passed.

Before I embarked on my long, strange journey,

and you on yours,

you asked me to remember the angles and

the slants of light.

Now unable to tell you,

we will see them together.

You have dissolved into my heart

so that you can see all that I love

and hear all the things

I hoped to share with you.

You have passed:

and there will be great uncertainty.

But as you were my most loyal friend

so will you remain steadfast

in the sadness of my mind.

I offer whatever joy I have to you,

whatever cool breeze

may drift through the Dublin botanical gardens;

whatever warmth and safety we enjoyed

listening to your father’s LPs on the living room floor,

like the security I so often felt

wrapped up in your big arms.

Consumed as I was,

I disappeared into your embrace:

Big Dan, small James.

So now are you completely enveloped

by my heart, and if you would like,

we can just stay right here.

You have passed, my friend.

Go now to the Great Sun

with the same reckless abandon

with which you blessed your world.

Splatter the cosmic kitchen

with your culinary creations–

fill every pot in the universe

with the magical blood of your heart.

May the kindness you have shown,

and the joy that you have radiated

be your muse and guide

at this crucial time.

May your unflinching generosity

feed the hungry, those who

are starving for the nourishment

of your overwhelming love.

You have passed, my dear sweet friend.

Your journey has just begun

and there will be no turning back.

There is only your big, beautiful mind,

and your big beautiful heart,

and the love of all of who shared your joy,

your laughter, your food, drink, song, dance, words, thoughts

and your insatiable hunger for the enigma

of limitless and undying love.

Retroactive Post #1 5/31/2010– Leaving the Monastery

5/31/2010

It is our second to last night at the monastery. Things are definitely getting busy.

Where last week there was a feeling of heartbreak and tenderness, unnamable but ubiquitous, there is now a feeling of excitement– at least an approximation of it. These last days are beautiful in their finality, and I find myself saying goodbye to the places I’ve come to love; in particular the mountain up which I run most mornings, and the rooftop on which I sing and do laundry after I get back from the run.

I celebrated my 28th birthday a few days ago, and thanks to my far away girlfriend and my brothers in arms it was a truly delightful day. As I served breakfast to Rinpoche, he turned and looked directly in my eyes with a half-puzzled, half-curious look and said, “You look old today.” I’m not sure if he knew it was my birthday when he said that. If so, he didn’t let on. The remark left me cheerfully puzzled.

We are about to enter the maelstrom of intercontinental transport of a vajra master. Last week I was quite worried that the spaciousness I’ve been cultivating in my mind would be traumatized quickly from its complacency, but after a day of type-a ass busting, I’m feeling pretty confident about the transition and the tremendous amount of work it will no doubt entail.

I’ve read five books, had two bouts of food poisoning (one minor, one major), done close to 80 sessions of the Werma Sadhana, heard close to 3 million plays of Justin Bieber’s Baby blasting from every monk’s cell phone, bought 2 new suits, one white, one black, served countless cups of tea, received exactly 127 bites from small insects (mostly mosquitos), eaten more tukpa (Tibetan stew) than I even care to think about, sent at least five postcards that never reached their destination, taken no more than 10 hot showers, and enjoyed (nearly) every minute of our whole stay in this beautiful, completely foreign, and utterly fascinating place.