The Best Buddhist Writing 2010 - Melvin McLeod [33]
“I am thinking of my cousin Joan, who has macular degeneration.”
“I am thinking of my daughter-in-law Louise, who just had a miscarriage.”
“I am thinking of my brother Tom, whose son just lost his job and his house.”
“I am thinking of my friend Michael, who has lung cancer.”
“ . . . my Uncle John, who has emphysema.”
“ . . . my son Tim, just diagnosed bipolar.”
“ . . . my friend Bernie, who lost most of the retirement savings for him and his wife.”
“ . . . my neighbor Virginia, whose daughter died in a car accident last Sunday on her way back to college.”
I don’t call on people to speak. In random order, from different parts of the room, voices speak out names, and relationships, and special circumstances. Sometimes I recognize a voice, or a name. More often not. Sometimes the naming goes on for what seems a long time. There is always a space between the voices, as if people are reflecting on what they’ve just heard. I think we share the sense that there is no hurry to get finished, no activity more important to arrive at.
Not all of the special circumstances that people mention are dire, although it seems that sad situations are usually the ones that come up first. Then, in between difficulties, someone will say, “I’m thinking of my daughter Jessica, who has just been accepted into three colleges and needs to choose.” Or, “I’m thinking of my son and daughter-in-law, who are on their way to Peru to meet their newly adopted baby daughter.” Or, “I’m thinking about my college roommate from Michigan, who has remained my friend for fifty years and who is arriving tonight for a visit.”
I don’t think I am imagining the communal sigh of relief or appreciation that follows happy news. Those moments seem like opportunities in which my mind, perhaps everyone’s mind, can “catch its breath” and remember the pleasures that punctuate life and make it seem desirable to go on in the face of difficulty.
Sometimes the listing of names and circumstances goes on for some minutes:
“ . . . my grandson Jason in his second tour of duty in Iraq.”
“ . . . my sister Ruth with breast cancer.”
“ . . . my friend Claire, whose life savings were invested with Bernie Madoff.”
“ . . . my niece Renee, who is nine months pregnant and whose husband just lost his job and their insurance.”
“ . . . my husband’s mother, Ruby, who is dying of Alzheimer’s disease.”
At some point the room becomes quiet again, and we sit a while longer. I say a blessing for all the people we’ve mentioned, and for all people suffering everywhere, and I ring the bell. Usually, we all just sit there and look at each other for a while. Often, I find myself feeling speechless, stunned both by the array of pains that body and mind are heir to and humbled by our communal courage not only in carrying on in spite of challenges in our lives but in being willing to share them with each other.
What more compelling evidence could there be, apart from personal testimony, of the inevitable difficulties of life? Every week, as we listen to each other and hear about sicknesses of young people and old people, about disappointments and losses at all ages, we directly confirm that it is impossible to be a human being connected by affection to others and not be vulnerable to pains beyond our own. My sense is that hearing the implicit message that most of us carry on in spite of our difficulties builds strength and courage. I’m sure that’s true for me, and I think it is for others as well. At the end of each Wednesday I feel remarkably freed of any grievances or ill will I might have had before class. I feel kinder, more connected, through both sorrow and joy shared with the people in the room and, past them, with people everywhere.
Life is difficult, the Buddha taught, for everyone. Suffering, he said, is the demand that experience be different from what it is. Of