There is a story of a great Samurai who comes to visit the Zen master, Hakuin.  The samurai approaches the Zen master and bows dutifully, asking, “Sir, I wish to understand the difference between heaven and hell.”  The Zen master looks at the Samurai and, eying him from head to toe, says, “I would tell you, but I doubt that you have the keenness of wit to understand.”  The Samurai pulls back in astonishment. “Do you know who you are speaking to?” he huffs.  “Not much,” says the Zen master, “I really think you are probably too dull to understand.”  “What?” says the Samurai.  “How can you talk to me like this?”  “Oh, don’t be silly,” says the Zen master.  “Who do you think you are?  And that thing hanging by your waist.  You call that a sword?  It’s more like a butter knife.”  The Samurai, becoming enraged, draws his sword and raises it over his head to strike the Zen master.  “Ah,” says the Zen master.  “That is hell.”  The Samurai’s eyes shine with recognition as he bows and sheathes his sword.  “And that,” says the Zen master, “is heaven.” –from Stephen Levine’s Who Dies?  An Investigation of Conscious Living and Conscious Dying.              

    My father passed away one year ago this month.  He had been sick a long time, and my mother courageously took him home with hospice care.  I’ve reflected over the past year to better understand what I learned through his dying, from a spiritual context, and these are some of my thoughts.

How to be Fully Present

    I think when a loved one is dying, we are called, by whatever greater power we believe in, to bear witness to that person’s experience.  In my dad’s case, that meant being present to his suffering, his occasional moments of laughter that later on dissolved into resignation, sadness and anger.  I wanted to be there for him, regardless of how he felt about his condition and impending death, and not judge his desire to often be silent, as well as not impose my desire to better understand what he was going through.  To simply bear witness to whatever came up was my hope, from one moment to the next.  That also meant not berating myself for suddenly bursting into raucous laughter with the chaplain, as we walked a few blocks from my home; it meant not fearing my dad’s hallucinations arising from his medication; it meant honoring my tears when my dad was unable to coordinate moving his hamburger to his mouth (when he was still eating food) during a brief period when he was over-medicated.  It meant allowing everything to arise and unfold, and honoring each circumstance, just as it was.

Opening to Divine Comfort and Wisdom

    When my dad was first moved back home with hospice care, I wondered how often I would go to see him.  Would I pull away from the specter of death?  Would it be too upsetting for me?  Would my presence really help my dad and my mom?  Rather than try to make some kind of plan (which always makes things seem more stable and less difficult for me), I quickly realized that I needed to take one day at a time.  My work schedule at that time was flexible, and I decided to let the universal or divine wisdom guide me each day.  My father was home for six weeks before his death, and during that time I saw him nearly every day.  Each morning I would ask myself, “Should I go today?” And nearly every day,  I made the 35 minute drive to Irvine and spent a few hours there, talking with him, touching him, watching t.v. with him, visiting with my mom, and leaving each day knowing that it might be his last day.  I felt so blessed to be able to share this difficult time with him, and to just show up without expectations or wishes.

Accepting Impermanence

    Once my father was moved home, he continued to drink with relish his morning orange juice.  At first, how much juice he drank represented to m y mother how well (or not well) he was doing.  If he drank 4 ounces, that meant he was getting better (even though she knew death was imminent).  The next day, if he drank less, it was a bad day, and death couldn’t be ignored.  But the next day, dad would drink three or four ounces again.  When my mother gave me the “orange juice report,” I found myself saying each day, “Well, mom, it seems every day is different,” and she would quietly acknowledge the truth of my words.  Eventually she seemed to move into the chaotic rhythm of impermanence and recognized its close cousin, uncertainty, and saw the value, with no lecture from me, of opening to dad’s experience with a certain level of “not knowing”; she would still tell me how much orange juice he drank, as long as he was able to swallow it, but would also add with sadness, “But every day is different, isn’t it?”  It seemed to steady her a bit, as death drew closer.

    Since I had not lost a person in my immediate family, my dad’s dying was a completely new experience for me.  Dad had been suffering with many ailments over a long time.  In one sense, I would be fatherless, left to work out my remaining internal conflicts with my dad in my own way.  In another sense, his dying would allow him to relinquish his pain and discomfort and their limitations, and allow his soul to explore whatever would come afterward.  It made no difference to me whether he and I shared the same beliefs of an afterlife, only that I believed in my heart that we all have a soul, and his soul would be free to flourish without its physical encumbrances.       

Honoring the Nature of My Own Grieving

    After one year, I continue to reflect on how I have dealt (or not dealt) with my father’s death.  Each day I perform a prayer service, and add my father’s name and the names of the fathers of two other friends who passed away.  I find comfort in praying for a safe and serene journey for them, whatever that might mean.

    There is a part of me that knows that we all grieve in our own way, on our own (or maybe the Divine’s) schedule, and there is no right or wrong way to grieve.  I’ve done my share of grieving, in my own way, in my own time.  On the other hand, I have this sense that I am not done.  That over time, I will find that an unexpected, submerged bud of grief emerges, and if I can only observe, experience, and embrace how it unfolds, in its own time, in its own way, I will honor my father’s life and death, throughout my life, in new and loving ways.

If you’re out there dad, I love you.          

To hear Susan discuss her book, The Deepest Spiritual Life, call BookTalk toll free at 888-355-0600, code #2677.

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