“Do not believe that he who seeks to comfort you lives untroubled among the simple and quiet words that sometimes do you good. His life has much difficulty and sadness and remains far behind yours. Were it otherwise he would never have been able to find those words.””
It came at 6:03am Friday morning. My eyes were sleepy when I opened up my email and read the news. It’s difficult to describe the feeling of shock, numbness, grief, and anger at the unfairness of it all- is there one word that encapsulates those feelings?
“This is not a death sentence and I am not dying,” he wrote. Bullshit, I thought. We are all dying. Our bodies are mortal. They break down. We heal and break down and heal and break down until one day we breathe our last breath.
I cringed at the thought that he was physically and mentally suffering from his recent diagnosis, yet hid it so well each week to sit with me for an hour as my teacher, my mentor- catering to my needs and my concerns. Rilke’s words rang true when the truth of his diagnosis emerged in that email.
And yet. The gifts he often spoke to me about- the gifts layered in the pain, the grief, the upheaval - how else could he speak so poignantly about acceptance and suffering without knowing it firsthand himself?
The meditation cushion was our common ground. Our sanctuary. A rejuvenating, clarifying torture that cracked me open and slowed me down enough to come back into my body. Feel my breath. Observe all the manic thoughts that danced around- my to-do list, who I needed to call back, that illustration I wanted to finish, remembering I needed to schedule my eye appointment. To watch those thoughts jostle inside my monkey mind, and lovingly come back to the breath. Without self-judgement. Without drama.
He asked for us to not reply to the email. To respect his need for solitude and rest.
Today I went to the trail to immerse myself in the healing sanctuary of nature. To send him loving intentions with each step, with each breath. To honor what he’s taught me.
And it was there on the trail that I met him.
I sighed a long exhale when I reached this signpost. Yes. This is what he has taught me. How to access that sacred, quiet place where thoughts cease to exist- the Void body.
This practice will guide us through the grief of losing him, and others we love, when that time comes. This practice has nurtured my own growth and self-awareness, guided me through working with difficult patients, introduced me to new friendships, and continues to rescue me from falling into old unhealthy patterns.
And it will guide me through to my own last breath.
“I am not dying.”
Yes.
You are teaching us how to live.