Practice Living

I found an unusual article written by a reporter for Reuter’s Daily News. A few minutes before noon, a trio of Buddhist monks in their orange and red garb were headed to the Golden Arches. Not the gateway to heaven. They were on a break from the work they had been doing as they causally strolled through the swinging doors of a MacDonald’s fast food restaurant. No sacred chants or meditations. They simply paid for their food and sat down in a booth, laughing and munching their quarter-pounder extra-value meals. When they were finished eating, they walked down the street and got back to work.

They were performing an ancient Tibetan ritual called “sand painting,” a striking illustration of the transient and impermanent nature of life. For about a week, a number of monks sit cross legged on the floor in a meditative state and pour brilliantly colored crushed marble into one end of a copper funnel-like instrument. Then they tap the marble sand out the other end, forming intricate designs they call a mandala. (sacred essence) Throughout the process, they silently thank the local spirits and focus on world peace, healing and transformation. When it’s finished, they sweep their hands through the beautiful mandala in long circular strokes, destroying the design and demonstrating the concept of impermanence.

The idea that everything changes and nothing lasts forever is at the heart of Buddhist philosophy. In the East, young children are taught to accept the transient nature of the physical body as soon as they are old enough to understand. I was in the streets of Bali when a funeral procession walked by. The children were dashing in and out and ducking under the body that was being transported, laughing and chasing each other.

Here in the West, when a child asks about the meaning of death, the common answer is “You’re too young to be thinking about such things.” Or “it won’t happen for a long time.” I had a great aunt who was as close to me as a mother. I was six when she died and I pleaded with my parents to take me with them to her funeral. They said it was no place for a child, and they left. I watched the car drive up the street and I felt devastated. Not only because Ruth had died but also because I was being left out.

I’ve heard all kinds of theories and beliefs about leaving this earth. But whatever we believe or envision or hope, it falls under the category of something we can’t understand and we never will. All we know is that it is inevitable. No matter how much we work out, eat cleanly and exercise our brains, we can’t escape the inescapable. No matter how much we doctor our faces and bodies so we look younger, we can’t change the final outcome. On his deathbed, someone asked ancient Greek philosopher, Socrates, how to find wisdom. He said, “Practice dying.”

A spiritual teacher of mine said, “Dying is perfectly safe. Everyone is doing it. It isn’t tragic. It’s inevitable.” As part of a dynamic system, not a stagnant one, impermanence is nothing unusual. Every tree, blade of grass, insect and human being is changing, moment to moment. We don’t have to like it but we need to find a way to accept it. Mark Twain said, “I’m all for progress. It’s change that I object to.”

Living life to the fullest and having gratitude is only relevant because we have an expiration date. If we didn’t, we might put things off indefinitely. An expiration date encourages us to do things now. To appreciate. To see the good instead of complaining. To forgive sooner rather than later. To offer help. To treat each other with respect and appreciation. Most importantly, it encourages us to be mindful, to work at being completely present in each moment.

Change can show up in the most mundane ways. I was living with a boyfriend, William, and our duvet cover was worn out. I went to the store, bought a new one and brought it home. We were fitting the duvet into the new cover when Will stopped. “This isn’t gonna work,” he said.

“What do you mean? It fits perfectly,” I said. “It’s the same size as the other one.”

Will shook his head. “It isn’t going to work,” he repeated. He disliked change so much, he couldn’t tolerate a new duvet cover. I had to talk him through it.

I wonder, why isn’t being old considered as valid and important as being young? You never see a child embarrassed to be young. So why should anyone be embarrassed to be old? When I was in my early twenties, my friends and I lived by the credo, “Never trust anyone over thirty.” So what do we do now? Does that mean we shouldn’t trust ourselves?

One of my fondest memories is going to see Timothy Leary, a psychologist and strong advocate of psychedelic drugs. It was 1996, a few months before he died and he was shirtless, wearing a tie and speeding around his house in a wheelchair. He told me that he had ordered a sensory deprivation tank so he could practice dying. I don’t embrace it the way he did, but I try to be present when the topic comes up and hope I can find the courage to face it head on when it arrives in my court.