The ultimate outcome of living the life of an aspiring buddha is to recognize that everything is illusory, that what we view as permanent and lasting is actually ephemeral. In fact, even we ourselves are never fixed entities that can reliably be pointed to as "me" or "mine" (this, by the way, is essentially what is meant by the Buddhist concept of "no-self" in case you run across it. I will no doubt post on that subject another time, but don't let the somewhat mysterious sound of that concern you; it's not really all that complicated or weird. In any case...). I bring that up mainly to tell the story of a Zen master whose son died. When he was found weeping, his students asked if he had not told them that all life is illusory, therefore its passing is merely a part of the flow of the universe and not to be mourned. To which the teacher replied, "Yes, yes, that is true. But my son was such a very real illusion."
So, I recognize that there is nothing more normal then my 83 year old parents being fragile, forgetful, weak, and subject to being knocked off-kilter by just about any illness or other crisis, no matter how minor. Ah, but how real is the illusion I have of them as strong, capable, and invincible. They are, after all, my parents. Just so, it is perfectly reasonable that my 87-year-old mother-in-law should be seriously ill for the first time in her life. Why wouldn't she be? She's lucky to have escaped it this long, I suppose. But how real the illusion that she's still the woman I met 32 years ago (not long ago I realized with a shock that she was the age I am now when Kathy and I first started dating). All three have been pillars of my life, people who were simply always there and always to be relied on. Now, Kathy and I must be the reliable ones (along with our siblings and their mates, of course, and to an even larger extent than us because they live where our parents live).
I think what I'm getting at is that it is not such a difficult proposition to understand intellectually that people become ill, age, and die, but when it comes to my Mommy, well, I mean, she's my MOMMY, for God's sake! That's different. My father was an athlete when he was young and even into middle age maintained an active life. But today he got out of the car and looked as if he was going to collapse. He just plain looked old and feeble. Oh, there were logical explanations and easy short-term solutions; it was nothing serious, really, nothing a little snack and some rest couldn't cure. But it brought home to me again with such vividness that both of them are growing old and will some day no longer be here. How do I reconcile this feeling of loss with the realization of impermanence as I have come to know it with my head if not yet my heart?
I am convinced the answer lies in meditation. Though I have spoken of meditation only as a mode of concentration leading to mindfulness, if used skillfully it can also help us to understand questions such as that I raise above. A warning, though: this is not intellectualizing, philosophizing or otherwise trying to find answers. The nature of paradox is that it has no answer, for one thing. But, even more importantly, as long as we are trying to use our minds to answer the mind's questions, we will end up going in circles. What I have in mind (pun fully intended, of course) is using some of our time in meditation to focus on the question, but to just lay it out as if on an examining table and step back. We must resist the temptation to dissect the specimen or examine it, focusing the power of our concentrated minds on the question itself. This is very helpful, though it will yield no specific answers, or at least none that can be put into words. That this provides an enormous amount of comfort goes without saying. But it also leads us to insight, one of the highest aspirations for any practitioner of the teachings of the Buddha.
So, I recognize that there is nothing more normal then my 83 year old parents being fragile, forgetful, weak, and subject to being knocked off-kilter by just about any illness or other crisis, no matter how minor. Ah, but how real is the illusion I have of them as strong, capable, and invincible. They are, after all, my parents. Just so, it is perfectly reasonable that my 87-year-old mother-in-law should be seriously ill for the first time in her life. Why wouldn't she be? She's lucky to have escaped it this long, I suppose. But how real the illusion that she's still the woman I met 32 years ago (not long ago I realized with a shock that she was the age I am now when Kathy and I first started dating). All three have been pillars of my life, people who were simply always there and always to be relied on. Now, Kathy and I must be the reliable ones (along with our siblings and their mates, of course, and to an even larger extent than us because they live where our parents live).
I think what I'm getting at is that it is not such a difficult proposition to understand intellectually that people become ill, age, and die, but when it comes to my Mommy, well, I mean, she's my MOMMY, for God's sake! That's different. My father was an athlete when he was young and even into middle age maintained an active life. But today he got out of the car and looked as if he was going to collapse. He just plain looked old and feeble. Oh, there were logical explanations and easy short-term solutions; it was nothing serious, really, nothing a little snack and some rest couldn't cure. But it brought home to me again with such vividness that both of them are growing old and will some day no longer be here. How do I reconcile this feeling of loss with the realization of impermanence as I have come to know it with my head if not yet my heart?
I am convinced the answer lies in meditation. Though I have spoken of meditation only as a mode of concentration leading to mindfulness, if used skillfully it can also help us to understand questions such as that I raise above. A warning, though: this is not intellectualizing, philosophizing or otherwise trying to find answers. The nature of paradox is that it has no answer, for one thing. But, even more importantly, as long as we are trying to use our minds to answer the mind's questions, we will end up going in circles. What I have in mind (pun fully intended, of course) is using some of our time in meditation to focus on the question, but to just lay it out as if on an examining table and step back. We must resist the temptation to dissect the specimen or examine it, focusing the power of our concentrated minds on the question itself. This is very helpful, though it will yield no specific answers, or at least none that can be put into words. That this provides an enormous amount of comfort goes without saying. But it also leads us to insight, one of the highest aspirations for any practitioner of the teachings of the Buddha.
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