American Buddhist Center Retreat

Hi Folks,

  The Spring Sangha Retreat will be April 15-18, 2010 at Sanctuary of Hope. We will focus on "Practicing Presence."

   ben Worth will lead this retreat.  He is the leader of the American Buddhist Center and has years of practice in teaching and counseling.  This retreat will be a combination of structured silence, group sharing, instruction, and one-on-one sessions.

   To register or questions, contact ben at 816-210-3378 or bmwabc1@yahoo.com.

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“Nothing is more creative than death, since it is the whole secret of life .

Alan Watts, from The Wisdom of Insecurity

The graveyard beckoned. I pulled in to the one-lane drive and parked. No more than three dozen headstones, crumbling and skewed, clinging to a hillside that sloped into a wooded area. Oaks bowed over those in repose. Branches rustled in the breeze, whispering an invitation for the motionless to rise.

The solitude nourished me. I was grateful for the chilly March air and darkening clouds, reassured that no other visitors would interrupt my meditation.

I picked my way through overgrown grass toward a polished granite marker. Its waist-high sleekness looked out of place, too new for its surroundings. The inscription described the interred as a loving husband and devoted football fan. I startled at the informality imposed on this dignified location. I snickered. More exalted prose than that would encapsulate my years on earth. And then a moment of uninvited honesty popped the illusion of superiority. I claimed to be a Seeker of Truth, but I was also an admirer of television shows that erudite friends labeled tasteless. The cemetery seemed an appropriate place to lay sarcasm to rest .

One row over, two seventeen-year-old boys were buried next to each other. They had died the same year. Matching dates on twin monuments led my heart to sorrow and my soul to doubt. Only babies, returning from the game or heading to a party. Sons who’d no doubt left behind stunned mothers asking why.

I am those boys, as convinced of immortality as any teenager. As full of potential. Sure, I’ll die some day, but certainly not today, not right now.

A weathered gray headstone, the shape and size of an open magazine, caught my attention. It stood off by itself. The elements had rounded its corners, smoothed its surface and caused it to list at a precarious angle. A pot of flowers in front of it had fallen over, so I bent down to set them upright.

“Margie Downing. Born 1926. Died 1961.” My family name. No other graves nearby carried it. The little stone bore no evidence of husband, children, or siblings. Margie Downing—dead at thirty-five, without a history, apparently alone.

If I had died that instant, it would have been at the most vibrant time of my life,  fulfilled in my work and play, a late bloomer’s version of thirty-five. No children. And although a loving partner waited at home, I kneeled on this grave alone.

I clutched the plastic flowers.

Margie Downing made me cry. Born 1926, died 1961. Whatever might have happened between those dates was buried among the bones. Pretty words that might have been inscribed—loving sister, devoted wife, faithful daughter—arbitrary  scratches on stone.

I sobbed for her anonymous life and mine. Each of us a spark, flashing for an instant, meaning nothing. The body in the grave identical to the one standing over it crying. One force had animated both forms and through teary eyes, watched itself .

I staggered to the car, sat behind the wheel and waited for the mundane to restore my equilibrium. A women approached, shouting “Sorry,” and then re-parked one of the two cars that I failed to notice had blocked me in. I waved a thank you. Death and life as enmeshed as lovers.

Without the dark, I cannot see the spark.

Margie Downing haunted me. She whispered reminders of unexpected endings and miraculous beginnings. She forced me to bear uncensuring witness to the ordinary between the two. 

The days ticked away as her hoary figure skulked in the shadows.    

Saturday. I visited the farmers’ market, to buy produce for the next week. But the sensation of having died could not be reconciled with “next week.” So I just went to the farmers’ market. Sounds, colors and aromas burst around me like the Fourth of July. I inched from vendor to vendor, bumping into a red wagon labeled Tomato Taxi. I smelled lettuce for the first time. Clipped Asian accents danced above Missouri drawls. Hand crafted jewelry sparkled on tables. Sun and shade alternately warmed and cooled my skin. In death, I was alive .

Tuesday. My lover failed to live up to my arbitrary standards of perfection. It seemed he would never learn to set the plates on the appropriate rack of the dishwasher. I planned to confront him. I rehearsed my arguments. But Margie mumured no. Pointless to try to change anyone. Pointless to mire myself in agitation. Pointless to worry about dish racks. The story fell away, replaced by the image of his face. I love him. It engulfed me, arose as unbidden as my death had been.

Another day brought another desire. That shirt in Macy’s window would sure look cute on me.  It grew into obsession. I’d better run over there and get it today. But I was dead. What was I going to do with a new shirt?

Wednesday. I grew impatient as the grocery store clerk continued chatting. She  did not take a breath, in which I could dash off. She left no space for me to slip in a polite have a good day. No pause where I could insert the final Thanks, bye. My legs were tensed like a runner’s at the starting block. But hold on. I was dead—I had nowhere to go. I turned to face her. She recited a joke. We giggled. We commiserated about the economy and the weather, until the next customer approached. We parted, old friends. An entire relationship, complete in sixty imaginary seconds.

Thursday. The incision from an oral surgery dripped blood onto my shirt. The dentist had warned me of that possibility and had provided instructions. But within the space of five minutes, there was panic and self-criticism. Obviously I had been careless with those stitches. My blouse was ruined. But wait—not fair. I was dead. How could there still be fear and judgment and all that bloody hassle? The answer came fast, unrelenting, uncompromising. The body will bleed, criticize and panic. It has nothing to do with me.

Sunday. I visited a Baptist church. The preacher wore a white robe with gold trim and billowing sleeves. He spun his message with moans and poetry. The choir rocked as we parishioners sang along. A squirming spotless kindergarten boy nestled between two elegant senior citizens. They did not move, but he, chomping on a piece of gum, inspected the ceiling, his shoes and the underside of the gentleman’s necktie. He removed the gum and inspected it. The lady withdrew a tissue from her purse and held it in front of him. Without a word between them, he immediately deposited the glob. Her attention veered from the pastor only long enough to lean over in slow motion and kiss her wiggly boy on the top of his head.

There had been diamond sharp clarity in death, but with that kiss, I wanted to live. Hold   this sweetness. Allow this taste to linger on my tongue. Life seduced me with the sensuality of choirs, preachers and grandmothers. And I wanted to be seduced.

Human form is that lover I was warned about. The one whose every sliver of attention sent shivers along my spine. At the end of the affair, I suffered, but the desire had felt so good.

I lay down for an afternoon nap. Sleepy, even though dead. Life in the body. Fatigue, hunger, music. Mop the floor, make love, mourn the lost—you don’t get to pick and choose .

Death untied me. It loosened the constraints of must do this, must be something, must get somewhere. I was very much there, wherever circumstances took me, not stressed about a future obligation. Aware that life is seductive, I was not mesmerized by the temptress. Aware of its inconveniences, I was not enticed to do battle against them. Aware that life was meaningless, I had seen equal meaning in all its facets. When I was dead, life snapped into focus. I’d felt heavy as a corpse only when I had coveted life .

The hoax is in believing that death could happen right now. Death is happening right now. Resurrection follows .

by Dawn Downey