I think it is sad that we reserve memorials only for our dead. Of course, we should remember our dearly departed. We should have memorials and services that celebrate their lives. We should work their names into the chatter that occupies us as we do our household chores, or create of them a mental beacon to guide us in our daily travels. We should remember to pray to them and thank them and every so often wish they were still here to enjoy this sunset, that meal, the beautiful face of a child we saw today. But what of all the living? Our spouses and partners, children and parents, family and friends. How do we share our memorials for the living? How do we recount to them all the lessons they routinely impart? How do we allow our experience of them, today, to speak? How do we let them know in life that something they said or did was a little like letting in heaven?
On December 8--before the crush and bustle of the holidays descended and I never could quite commit to a few hours at the keyboard--I attended a memorial celebration for a friend who died by his own hand in the early hours of September 1 at his office on a university campus. I should add that this was the second memorial I attended in his honor. This second memorial was organized by my friend's university colleagues. It took place the day my friend would have celebrated his 57th birthday. The memorial was well-attended. Many stories were told, and many, many tears shed; however, in the end, what I remember is how much laughter was shared. To be sure, losing John made us cry, but in his life, John made us laugh.
Years ago, I attended the memorial service for a woman who had taken care of my youngest for me when my youngest was a toddler. After Shirley had lost her husband, her adult children bought her a home right next door to one of her daughters. This daughter was married and had two children of her own. Most of Shirley's other adult children, who also had families, lived close by. This way, Shirley was never alone. She often shared morning coffee with her son-in-law before he left for work. Shirley's door was open when her grandchildren returned home from school. On more than one occasion, Shirley's home served as a sort of Switzerland when a grandchild or spouse temporarily needed more neutral ground. At Shirley's memorial, this is what I remember: Each child, or grandchild or in-law claimed, "I was Shirley's favorite." I remember this and everybody laughing.
Perhaps we can only do this for our dead. For the living, we still have time to consider our judgments, hold on to grudges, or be miserly with forgiveness. Or do we?
At the end of each yoga session, while lying is savasana (also known as corpse pose), I am honoring my death, figuratively, of course, but also physically and spiritually. At the close of every yoga practice, when I am encouraged to let go, I am given the opportunity to embrace gratitude, acceptance and compassion. For myself most of all. In savasana, I am momentarily dead to all of my grasping, to every trick my ego has yet to play. There, in savasana, I am in a place beyond fear where I can, if I really want to, enjoy an impromptu memorial and let heaven in.
In his book, A Path with Heart, Jack Kornfield recounts the story of the Buddha's enlightenment. Before his awakening, the Buddha practiced compassion and patience, simplicity, steadiness and equanimity for one hundred thousand kalpas. Kornfield helps his readers conceptualize the meaning of one kalpa in this way: "Imagine a mountain even higher and wider than Mount Everest and then imagine that every hundred years a raven flies over it with a silk scarf in its beak, dragging the scarf across the top of the mountain. When such a mountain is worn down by the scarf, this is one kalpa." I no longer need a better reason for being more forgiving of myself or more accepting of where I am in this moment. I like to think that the silk scarf in the beak of that raven is not only a measure of our time or our timelessness--which, I believe, is what we are really brought to memorials to honor--but that the scarf (which I cannot picture as anything but red) is also a means of polishing the line between heaven and earth, between all the ways we limit ourselves and the vast, infinite realm of our divinity.
On December 8--before the crush and bustle of the holidays descended and I never could quite commit to a few hours at the keyboard--I attended a memorial celebration for a friend who died by his own hand in the early hours of September 1 at his office on a university campus. I should add that this was the second memorial I attended in his honor. This second memorial was organized by my friend's university colleagues. It took place the day my friend would have celebrated his 57th birthday. The memorial was well-attended. Many stories were told, and many, many tears shed; however, in the end, what I remember is how much laughter was shared. To be sure, losing John made us cry, but in his life, John made us laugh.
Years ago, I attended the memorial service for a woman who had taken care of my youngest for me when my youngest was a toddler. After Shirley had lost her husband, her adult children bought her a home right next door to one of her daughters. This daughter was married and had two children of her own. Most of Shirley's other adult children, who also had families, lived close by. This way, Shirley was never alone. She often shared morning coffee with her son-in-law before he left for work. Shirley's door was open when her grandchildren returned home from school. On more than one occasion, Shirley's home served as a sort of Switzerland when a grandchild or spouse temporarily needed more neutral ground. At Shirley's memorial, this is what I remember: Each child, or grandchild or in-law claimed, "I was Shirley's favorite." I remember this and everybody laughing.
Perhaps we can only do this for our dead. For the living, we still have time to consider our judgments, hold on to grudges, or be miserly with forgiveness. Or do we?
At the end of each yoga session, while lying is savasana (also known as corpse pose), I am honoring my death, figuratively, of course, but also physically and spiritually. At the close of every yoga practice, when I am encouraged to let go, I am given the opportunity to embrace gratitude, acceptance and compassion. For myself most of all. In savasana, I am momentarily dead to all of my grasping, to every trick my ego has yet to play. There, in savasana, I am in a place beyond fear where I can, if I really want to, enjoy an impromptu memorial and let heaven in.
In his book, A Path with Heart, Jack Kornfield recounts the story of the Buddha's enlightenment. Before his awakening, the Buddha practiced compassion and patience, simplicity, steadiness and equanimity for one hundred thousand kalpas. Kornfield helps his readers conceptualize the meaning of one kalpa in this way: "Imagine a mountain even higher and wider than Mount Everest and then imagine that every hundred years a raven flies over it with a silk scarf in its beak, dragging the scarf across the top of the mountain. When such a mountain is worn down by the scarf, this is one kalpa." I no longer need a better reason for being more forgiving of myself or more accepting of where I am in this moment. I like to think that the silk scarf in the beak of that raven is not only a measure of our time or our timelessness--which, I believe, is what we are really brought to memorials to honor--but that the scarf (which I cannot picture as anything but red) is also a means of polishing the line between heaven and earth, between all the ways we limit ourselves and the vast, infinite realm of our divinity.
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