And Yet

 

The Japanese poet Kobayashi Issa (1763-1827) wrote the following poem after his two year old daughter died:

tsuyu no yo wa 

tsuyu no yo nagara 

sari nagara

This world of dew

is a world of dew.

And yet ... and yet ....

Later, commenting on this poem, he wrote, "I knew that it was no use to cry, that water once flown past the bridge does not return and scattered blossoms are gone beyond recall. Yet try as I would, I could not, simply cut the binding cord of human love."  

Last week I lost a dear friend, who died after a full life at the age of 98.  I was lucky enough to be able to be with her the day before she died, holding her hand, breathing with her and quietly singing old jazz standards that both she and my mother and I had loved.  She and my mother had been best friends, and when my mother died 35 years ago, she became a second mother to me.  The two women had been pregnant at the same time, and both gave birth to daughters:  me and my oldest friend.  We four were all together when my mother died, and here we were again, only the three of us,  as one of us again passed from this world to whatever lies beyond.   As she lay dying, she kept saying, "I've been here a long time!" 

So many parts of this experience reflect the teachings of Zen.  We were facing impermanence and death and loss, and at the same time crying together and feeling our love for each other.  This world of dew, where everything vanishes like dew on a leaf in the morning sun, is indeed a world of dew.  There's no arguing with impermanence.  As much as we'd like it to be different, everything comes and goes.  So my friend was once alive, and now she is no longer on the planet in bodily form.  

Issa's "and yet...and yet" is the other side of this logical understanding.  We cannot "cut the binding cord of human love."  Our hearts break regularly.  As the recently deceased songwriter Stephen Sondheim sings "Sometimes people leave you, halfway through the wood."  It's just the way it is.  And yet...and yet.  

I miss my friend, and will continue to heal from her passing as time goes on, and her death recedes further and further into the past.  But she lives on in my heart, as do all my other loved ones who have left me in various ways.  Impermanence goes hand in hand with love and connection.  It's a mystery -- the great paradox of living a life in Zen -- facing into whatever arises and being as present as possible.