The Best Buddhist Writing 2010 - Melvin McLeod [98]
NEW ENGLAND FALL COLORS
Sunlight shines on brilliant orange trees along a country road.
Julia’s goddaughter decided to move her up to Connecticut to be near her. I felt sad and relieved. This was what I wanted, and yet I wished I could have helped Julia the way I’d set out to do. The goddaughter said she couldn’t bear to think of Julia fading away alone in North Carolina. It tortured both of us. You were damned if you helped her and damned if you didn’t.
As the plans for the move progressed and it slowly became a reality, there was a seismic shift in my own psyche. From this new vantage point, the person who had taken responsibility for Julia’s sorrows was a stranger, and clearly someone with boundary issues. I saw my place in our dynamic—how my stepping in, taking responsibility, trying to control a disaster—had given Julia someone to rebel against. The energy left my anger, like air escaping from a balloon.
On a fall day, we were driving past oaks and maples, gum trees and sycamores in shades of red and yellow. “That’s what should happen to old people,” Julia said. “We should turn different colors as we age. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”
We saw Corneille’s The Illusion at the local repertory theater. Julia didn’t understand the plot but enjoyed the lighting and the staging. She still loved the look of the world, even though she couldn’t understand what it was saying.
On our last day together, I took her to the airport. She fussed a bit about some object she’d lost. I started to reply and she said, “You don’t have to take care of it.”
At the waiting area next to the gate, it was nice to spend time with her, to chat about this and that. She remarked on the shapes of women’s hairstyles as passengers walked past us. I watched her go through the gate, her silver hair a fading beacon.
THE HOUSE OF CLEOPATRA AT DELOS
A black-and-white photograph of white columns, the ruins of stone walls, and headless statues of women.
Only recently have I allowed myself to miss Julia and what I loved about her, all the qualities that were obscured by our difficulties.
What is loyalty? What is compassion? What is forgiveness? It’s our suffering that unites us and divides us.
Now I have a vision: I am walking across a barren, windy landscape. In the far distance I can hear the crash of surf, but I can’t see the ocean. At the top of a hill, I see the silhouettes of enormous old women, as still as stone. As I draw closer, I find that the silhouettes are really ruins, weather-worn and broken. The ruins cannot speak. The wind whistles through them as though it were saying something, but I can’t make out what the wind wants to tell me. Maybe the wind will bring the old women’s memories to me. Maybe it will blow them away.
Wonderland: The Zen of Alice
Daniel Doen Silberberg
Buddhist practice turns everything upside down. Existence becomes nonexistence. Certainty becomes doubt. Mind becomes quiet. And life becomes joy. The Zen teacher Daniel Doen Silberberg calls this place Wonderland.
“Have you guessed the riddle yet?” the Hatter said, turning to Alice again.
“No, I give it up,” Alice replied. “What’s the answer?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said the Hatter.
“Nor I,” said the March Hare.
When my son Alex was about ten years old, he was very interested in the concept of “being right.” It was spring and we were taking a walk. I started to tell him the names of the flowers. “This is a Red-Bearded Snake, and that is a Blue Mongoose.” Eventually, he looked up at me and said, “You’re making this up.” I said, “No, I’m not.” And he said, “Yes, you are.” From that point onward, our conversations have been like playing very competitive Ping-Pong. Today we might have a discussion about which type of computer is best. For a couple of minutes Alex will say, “I think Macs are better,” and I