living dharma

My uncle Daniel died last night, in a hospital in New York City. Unlike Phap Kinh’s suicide, Daniel’s death was not unexpected. He had cancer. Was down to one lung. Had been in the Intensive Care Unit for almost a month and finally took the step from life to death.

He was an amazing man. That rare thing, a true genius of the old renaissance school. A physicist who could (and would) quote you thirty pages of Dante’s Inferno in Latin, without missing a word. Then on to sing revolutionary songs from Mexico (with flawless accent). Then to a disquisition on quantum mechanics. Then to a peal of raunchy jokes; he knew thousands of jokes, had perfect comic timing and never forgot a single funny thing in his life.

He was one of the most significant political and intellectual influences in my life, I realized a while ago. I was ten years old at the height of Watergate and Daniel lived on Capitol Hill in Washington D.C. I remember being there serendipitously when Richard Nixon resigned the presidency, his helicopter flying overhead and the street breaking into a spontaneous celebration upon his corrupt departure. Daniel had been a radical organizer/participant in the Students for a Democratic Society and had been at the infamous convention in Chicago where police violence shocked many in the ‘world’s greatest democracy.’

My uncle’s radical opposition to the Vietnam War and to the now seemingly modest evils of the then Republican Party inspired my early political and intellectual development.

In recent years we did not find one another – lost touch. A regret.

Two deaths in two weeks.

One utterly unexpected, violent and shocking. And one long, slow hospital death drawing life to a close.

I have a friend (who had cancer and lived to tell the tale) who likes to say, ‘none of us gets out of this alive.’ She is, of course, paraphrasing the Buddha who said that, ‘death is certain, only the timing of death is uncertain.’ And while we all know this to be true – it is always somehow a surprise. Disorienting even for those who have been meditating on death for some time.

I’m writing from Mazunte, a very lovely little village on the Pacific coast of Mexico, about as far south as you can get in the state of Oaxaca. The salt sea is crashing below the thatched hut where A and I are staying. We are deeply alive and grateful for the abundance of this moment. The ripe mango. The warm, soft air that envelops and heals all day and all night long. The magnificent frigates and elegant huge vultures and pelicans and hummingbirds all soaring and darting and pausing mid air, hugging the surface of the sea or riding the hot thermals – living their lives.

It is confusing. Life and death together in every minute. It is one thing to receive sublime teachings on the interbeing of life and death (as I did over the last several years, in and out of the monastery). It is a bit different to go from the teachings to lived experience with people who have been tremendously important.

Today A and I went to los banos in San Angel, a really lovely nighbourhood in Mexico City. We dug out some pesos and entered our own private, simple, unadorned steam emporium. And steamed. Sweating out all that needed to be sweated out. I’ve been sick and then a bit broken by the suicide of a much loved friend ten days ago. I got the news about Phap Kinh’s death at home, in utterly rural New Hampshire. I sort of hung on and got through and shared with amazing friends for several days. But I was so looking forward to being with A. To taking refuge in love and light, a conscious choice not to sail too far along with the dark ship death and despair.

I’ve seen more people in the last few days than I have seen in the last few years I think. There are purportedly 24,000,000 people in Mexico City (though no one seems to have an exact count), roughly the same number of people as in my home country of Canada. I was a bit anxious about coming here, just the vastness and the hard things that the gringo media tells us about life (and death) in Mexico. But I am here to see A. And she has lived most of her life in Mexico City. She knows how it works. And being a person of tremendous magic, she knows where the magic is likely to be found in this enormous, complex place.

So we’ve been wandering neighbourhoods and appreciating the beauty of the built environment. The birds singing in the bouganvillea, even as the sirens wail in the distance and as the city hums along under a cloud of smog and pulsing life. My first impressions are so different than my ignorant fears about this place. I’m sure it is entirely possible to get into some very serious mortal trouble in Mexico City. But I have been well stewarded and my sense is one of a youthful city. Not in terms of history and architecture, for these are old (with the new exploding all over the place). But in terms of the people. So many young people. And a great feeling of joy. And aliveness. Both of which are so very welcome in the wake of sad news and also so welcome as respite from a northern winter; the cold days and early dark nights.

I’ve been totally disoriented twice in a very short period of time. Once by Phap Kinh’s suicide and once by being here in this mega-city, with all its charm and craziness.

In addition to the formal expressions of practice that I still find so useful (sitting and walking meditation etc.). I’ve come to see experiences like this (of disorientation and such) as wonderful moments, finding out where I am in my practice. Practice indicators is what I have come to call them. Today we were on our way from one place in the city to another. And we got stuck in unbelievable traffic (some of the time in about 16 lanes of not really moving cars, with horns blaring and foul air and no end in sight) for about an hour-and-a-quarter. I mostly followed my breathing and enjoyed being with A. Yes I was hungry and we had been on our way somewhere nice to eat. But I quickly saw how getting caught in the desire to be at table in a pleasant room could turn the traffic experience into one of modest hell. So I didn’t. Was actually able to convert awareness into lived reality and enjoy being with A, since that is the only and entire reason I am here. We were together. Two feet from one another. In a car going nowhere fast. For two people who had been missing one another a lot this could be seen as a great gift. And so I did. See the gift and let go of the hell of wanting it to be any different than it was in that moment.

It is not always so easy. For me anyway. Some things I wish were different than they are. And, with scientific precision, whenever I head (mostly unconsciously) down that rabbit hole I suffer. Yes. I wish Phap Kinh was still here. That he had not felt whatever it was that he felt, that compelled him to kill himself. And I wish lots of other things were different too, whether at the level of my own picayune life and livelihood or big, unwieldy global disasters. From what I can tell it is fine to want things to be different. To aspire to make then different. The trick is not to hold on too tightly so that it all becomes a joyless ride where the desired outcome is always receding out of reach. I’m sure you know that, as I am mostly restating very basic Buddhist wisdom. But I am finally starting to live it from time to time, which is different from knowing a lot about it. If you know what I mean.

I see that I’ve wandered a bit from los banos! It was great soaking and steaming and sweating and leaving some sorrow to wash down the drains of this wild city. To walk out into the light of the mid-day sun, into the stream of humanity in this surprising place.

(The picture is from Upper Hamlet in Plum Village. Where I lived for two years and where I often walked with beloved friends, like Phap Kinh.)