Being Zen: Bringing Meditation to Life (18 page)

Over the next few weeks, I got to know Thomas well and gradually became very fond of him. He had a lot of pride, particularly around his independence. For example, one of his daughters had crossed him at some point to go her own way, and he couldn’t forgive her in spite of the obvious pain that their separation caused him. Also, he could not allow himself to need others or to be taken care of; he had to see himself as not having needs. One day, after he had been in the bathroom for fifteen minutes, I knocked on the door to see whether he was OK. He said he was fine, but after a few more minutes, I knocked again and opened the door. He was standing in front of the mirror trying to button the snap on his pajama bottoms to
the buttonhole on his pajama top. Although he was totally confused and helpless, he couldn’t ask for help. He couldn’t move beyond his deeply embedded pride of independence.

As his body deteriorated and he became more dependent, I watched Thomas struggle with the fear of helplessness. With sadness I also watched how even in his last days, he couldn’t let his daughter back into his heart. I knew from my own life that suffering in itself is not the key to transformation. Only when we are willing to learn from our suffering can transformation occur. Unwilling to surrender, Thomas died as he had lived.

I have never talked directly to a hospice patient about my own views on “death and dying.” In fact, I have tried to resist adopting a firm position about what death is, because in truth, I don’t know. What has become increasingly clear to me from my own struggles, both physical and emotional, is that we are much more than our bodies, our thoughts, our identities. Who we really are is life’s energy flowing through us. To open our heart means experiencing this river of love that we are and allowing it to manifest as and through our conditioned package. This is our true healing. Rather than concerning ourselves with what happens after the death of the body, we can attend to and heal the “deaths within life.” These are the deaths we feel each time the heart is closed—in anger, in fear, in protective stances and strategies, in avoiding pain, in resisting the unpleasant. Thomas was a vivid and sad reminder to me that by maintaining our protections, we encase ourselves in a substitute life. As long as we maintain our pride of independence or our fear of the unknown or our need to control, we can never become awake to our genuine life—which is Life itself, unfettered with the notion of “self.”

Like a White Bird in the Snow

Larry was a forty-eight-year-old artist and teacher who was diagnosed with lung cancer. He’d been told that he had about
six months to live. A quiet and thoughtful man, his basic outlook when I met him was “What’s the use?” He had not completely given up, however, and was willing to engage with me in genuine conversation. Perhaps his strongest emotion was the sadness and grief he felt over the prospect of not being able to see his teenage sons grow up.

As weeks passed and my rapport with Larry grew stronger, I felt an increasing sense of agitation whenever I was with him. His believed thoughts of hopelessness were contributing to his suffering, and it was difficult for me to watch him sink further into a self-imposed isolation. I wanted to reach out to him, to grab him and shake him, to shout to him to wake up to the fact that he wasn’t dead yet! He could still enjoy his children, his beautiful garden, the preciousness of being alive. But he wasn’t asking for my help.

Although drawn by a longing to ease his suffering, I was also aware that my continued reactivity to Larry’s situation was strong enough to warrant inspection. As I sat with my agitation and longing to help, it became increasingly clear why I felt such a strong need to “fix” him. Since I still needed him to be a particular way, it was obvious that I wasn’t coming from a place of real compassion but more from my own unhealed pain. His basic stance of hopelessness and withdrawal resembled one of my own historical responses to difficulty, and his particular brand of self-imposed suffering was one that I also had often experienced.

As I sat with the anxiety and sadness that Larry triggered in me and invited it into the spaciousness of the heart, it became clear to me how presumptuous it was to want to take away his pain. His pain contained the ripe possibility of surrendering to what is, just as did mine. Within our pain rests the grace that will often arise if we allow ourselves to surrender. Realizing our shared pain deepened my bond with Larry. I no longer needed him to experience a “meaningful death.” I no longer needed to take away his suffering. Instead, as I would breathe my own
pain into the heart, I would include his pain as well. At certain points our individual pain began to merge until it was no longer “my” pain or “his” pain, but the pain that we all share. This was not morbid or depressing; in fact, what I experienced was a depth of understanding and a profound sense of connection.

I realized that genuine compassion can never come from fear or from the longing to fix or change. Compassion results naturally from the realization of our shared pain. It manifests as we grow out of our own sense of separateness, isolation, and alienation. In my subsequent visits with Larry, my agitation changed into the wish to just be present with him.

One evening Larry had a massive hemorrhage and was taken to intensive care. At this same time, there were some difficult family dynamics that none of the participants seemed able to pull back from. Driving to the hospital, I knew that I might get involved in this very messy situation. I was also aware of my strong aversion to the hospital environment. But I was equally aware that Larry might be very close to death, and as I rode the elevator up to his room, I kept repeating to myself, almost as a mantra, “This may be the last time you see him alive. Don’t hold back your heart.”

The visit was difficult. Larry spoke frankly about dying as well as about his bitter feelings around the family dysfunction. I struggled to stay open, to avoid falling back into familiar patterns of self-protection. I also chose to speak to two family members after Larry made it clear to me that he wasn’t capable of dealing with the family scene. Afterward, as I sat in my car in the hospital parking lot, I couldn’t stop the tears. In part I was seeing how much pain we inflict on one another out of self-protection. In part I was feeling how intact the shell of protection around my own heart was. But mostly the tears came from feeling that shell cracking open, with love flowing out, ready to be offered. This was a taste of my true aspiration: to learn to live from the open heart, to give—not from “should,” not from “in order to,” not “for” anything—simply because it is the natural
order of the unobstructed heart to give, like a white bird in the snow.

Larry died at home a few days later. During his last few hours, I faced him as he lay in bed. Although he appeared to be in a coma, he had one eye wide open. For one incredible half hour, I sat gazing into his eye, which seemed to be looking intently right back at me. Looking at his emaciated body and catching glimpses of the word LOVE hanging from a mobile above his head reminded me again and again to stay out of protection and just offer my own being. Who is to say what actually transpired? I sensed that our connection served to anchor him as he approached his death. He died half an hour after I left.

The Open Heart Knows Only Connection

James was seventy-six years old when we met, dying from lung cancer and heart failure and confined mostly to lying in bed. Although he was very weak, he would always try to be friendly and pleasant. He would even force himself to stay awake so that he would not appear to be rude. Although I was fond of him, our contact wasn’t deep, nor did I feel I was serving him in any significant way.

After my first few visits, he started to decline rapidly, particularly with the onset of intermittent dementia. He often didn’t know who or where he was. Frequently he would look at me and just smile, laughing almost silently to himself like a baby. I felt joy in his sweetness and in his appreciation of the moment. He would also lie for long periods without speaking. Then I would sit by him and do the loving-kindness meditation, relating to him from the heart but not with spoken words. Relating to him silently from the heart, I was no longer relating to him as a psychological persona or as an emaciating physical package. The relationship was more being-to-being. Experiencing him in this way, I felt less and less uncomfortable about his declining physical condition. In fact, as the
sense of connection and intimacy grew, I found my time with James to be more and more fulfilling.

Gradually James fell into a coma, and I tried to visit him for a little while each day. I would sit by his bed holding his hand, breathing his presence into the heartspace, silently repeating the words of loving-kindness. Often I would feel the impulse to hold back. Out of self-consciousness or self-doubt or protectedness, I would want to retreat into the false comfort of familiar patterns. But part of the loving-kindness practice is to attend to whatever clouds the open heart, whatever solidifies the sense of separateness. When fear would arise, or the pain of holding back, I would experience their sensations within the spaciousness of the heart. As fear would subside, the sense of warmth and loving-kindness would again naturally flow. When the self-imposed prison walls come down, all that remains is the connectedness that we are.

As it became apparent that James was nearing death, I visited him to say good-bye. After sitting with him for a while, even though he was apparently in a deep coma, I spoke to him out loud from what was in my heart. Then, as I held his hand, I leaned over and whispered to him that this might be “good-bye.” As I kissed his forehead, he squeezed my hand with unmistakable strength. In that moment I experienced the profound sense of connection that is the nature of our being. The sense of boundlessness and love was unfettered, and although it did not take long for me to erect the walls again, it became clear that this little mind cannot even begin to imagine the magnitude of the spaciousness of the heart.

EPILOGUE

What Is Our Life About?

O
UR ASPIRATION, OUR CALLING,
our desire for a genuine life,

is to see the truth of who we really are—

that the nature of our Being is connectedness and love,

not the illusion of a separate self to which our suffering clings.

It is from this awareness that Life can flow through us;

the Unconditioned manifesting freely as our conditioned body.

And what is the path?

To learn to reside in whatever life presents.

To learn to attend to all those things

that block the flow of a more open life;

and to see them as the very path to awakening—

all the constructs, the identities,

the holding back, the protections,

all the fears, the self-judgments, the blame—

all that separates us from letting life be.

And what is the path?

To turn away from constantly seeking comfort

and from trying to avoid pain.

To open to the willingness to just be,

in this very moment,

exactly as it is.

No longer so ready to be caught

in the relentlessly spinning mind.

Practice is about awakening to the true Self:

no one special to be,

nowhere to go,

just Being.

We are so much more than just this body,

just this personal drama.

As we cling to our fear,

and our shame, and our suffering,

we forsake the gratitude of living from our natural being.

So where,
in this very moment
, do we cling to our views?

Softening around the mind’s incessant judgment,

we can awaken the heart that seeks to be awakened.

And when the veil of separation rises,

Life simply unfolds as it will.

No longer caught in the self-centered dream,

we can give ourselves to others,

like a white bird in the snow.

Time is fleeting.

Don’t hold back.

Appreciate this precious life.

I wrote “What Is Our Life About?” the day before my fiftieth birthday. My intention was to read it daily in order to help rekindle my aspiration and to remind me of what is important. Since then I have revised it slightly to reflect subtle changes in my understanding of practice. It is now read as part of service at Zen centers, and many have found it helpful in clarifying the practice path.

Books by Ezra Bayda

Published by Shambhala Publications

Being Zen: Bringing Meditation to Life
(2002)

We can use whatever life presents, Ezra Bayda teaches, to strengthen our spiritual practice—including the turmoil of daily life. What we need is the willingness to just be with our experiences—whether they are painful or pleasing—opening ourselves to the reality of our lives without trying to fix or change anything. But doing this requires that we confront our most deeply rooted fears and assumptions in order to gradually become free of the constrictions and suffering they create. Then we can awaken to the loving-kindness that is at the heart of our being.