Meditation on Impermanence

“I consider the positions of kings and rulers as that of dust motes. I observe treasures of gold and gems as so many bricks and pebbles. I look upon the finest silken robes as tattered rags. I see myriad worlds of the universe as small seeds of fruit, and the greatest lake in India as a drop of oil on my foot. I perceive the teachings of the world to be the illusion of magicians.” – Buddha (Source: ‘Zen Flesh, Zen Bones‘)

My neighbor died yesterday.

He was a British doctor in his early 70s who’d lived upstairs from us in our small apartment block. He had lived alone–never married, no children, no immediate family in Australia–and tended a small garden in the courtyard. When we had moved from New York to Sydney four years ago and knew him as “the doctor who lived upstairs.” In the intervening years I really didn’t get to know much more about him other than he had beat cancer a few years ago, loved classical music, preferred Clovelly Beach to Coogee and had no desire to go on the Internet. Sometimes, when we ran into him in the hall with the kids in tow he was visibly uncomfortable around the children but did offer advice when we had a medical-related concern.

In short: we had a congenial neighborly relationship.

O, Death

Earlier today I had asked my wife if she’d seen him around; I hadn’t seen the doctor at all in the past few weeks, but I’ve been working long hours so I don’t see much of anyone except my family when I get home. She said she hadn’t seen him, either. So when my wife went down to hang laundry today but was back at our door moments later with the news of his death via a note taped to the door at the entrance to our building my first reaction was disbelief and, frankly, complete surprise.

This reaction upon learning of his passing was quickly replaced with… surprise that I was surprised! See, for a while now I’d thought that I’d come to really accept the impermanence of–well, everything. The more I meditated on the origins of craving, and how the things we crave are fleeting and fragile distractions–the stuff of dreams–the more I felt a smug sense of satisfaction that I could do without so many of the worldly pleasures I’d been conditioned to attain. If anything, the steady, bitter diet of bleak news of a crippled global economic system, disease, war and natural disaster coupled with my own extended period of depression, culture shock and unemployment had humbled me–and a few million other folks (minus the whole culture shock thing, I’m sure).

Are You Experienced?

We play an illusory game that concepts and phenomena are real, and that we can sustain any given moment like a note played on a sunburst Gibson guitar until our bodies wear out.

A city made of bones

Death comes moment to moment: we lose this time, this thing, this person. We grow a little older, we change, we make mistakes, we learn. We experience.

plastered with flesh and blood,

After experience, a part of you has died–the inexperienced part.

within are stored decay and death,

The death of the body is part of it’s cycle: dying is what it does. Sure, it goes to work, competes in Olympic games, stars in movies, sends email, has sex and dances; but after it does all those things, it dies.

This city’s made of bones
plastered with flesh and blood,
within are stored decay and death,
besmearing and conceit.
(Dhammapada, Chapter 11, verse 150)

Flowers in the Rain

Standing in the kitchen after I heard the news I was thinking about the last time I’d seen the doctor; it was a few weeks ago and I had remarked to my wife that I had thought he didn’t look well. Sometimes when I got home at dusk I would look up and see that lights were on – but not in his apartment.

It’s been pretty hot these past few weeks, broken by an occasional scattered storm or an evening southerly. I had to go downstairs and I went over to look at his small garden; one plant had died and the others looked thirsty. I went back upstairs, took a small potted plant off my balcony and returned to the garden, watering can in hand.

I suppose the garden is my responsibility now.