And When I Die
When Zhuangzi was about to die,
his disciples indicated their wish
to prepare a grand burial.
Zhuangzi remarked, “I shall have heaven
and earth for my coffin and its cover,
the sun and moon for my two round
symbols of jade,
the stars and the constellations
for my pearls and jewels
and all things in the universe as my mourners.
What would you add to them?”
The disciples said,
“We are afraid that the crows and kites
will eat our master.”
Zhuangzi replied,
“Above, the crows and kites will eat me;
Below, the mole-crickets and ants will eat me.
To take from one to give to the others
would only show your partiality.
Zhuangzi trans. by Hyun Höchsmann and Yang Guorong, Book 32 Lie Yukou
Its fitting that the final chapter of one’s life ought to be about one’s death. By taoist lights life does not terminate with death. A single fabric of life/death/life or of yin-yang is the bare truth of the matter. Zhuangzi reminds his followers that the hard and fast distinctions that come as a easy default to all of us, are emanations of the insecurity that haunts us. The disciples frankly said, We are afraid etc., etc.. Am I not a mammal always under the spell of vulnerability, the consequence of my limitation in time? Soon enough my lines will be finished, I will have wrapped up my role on the grand stage of life. Like a carrier wave, the anxious subtext permeates all language/thought.
A deeper truth however, is the relatedness of all things. We owe our lives to everything, and every ancestor that has come before us. We arrive here as a consequence of what has come before. And our contribution will have effect to every single being that is to come. There is no cause for partiality.
Relax! Relax! just relax!
Time enough for a tune. Which one would be an apt note for a Tuesday? This, by Laura Nyro, And When I Die performed by Blood, Sweat and Tears is a fitting refrain for this post.
One thought on “And When I Die”
The only bit of thought I might add is that our bodies are not us. Just as a glass is not the wine, our physical contents of arms, legs, torso, and brain only make up a container and a temporary one at that. The essence of who we are in life evaporates upon our death. The only things we leave behind are the memories we have instilled in those we have known and the words, such as these, that we leave to others. As I now and then do, I’m offering a poem as a portion of today’s response.
Limitations
These words are not the noble words.
They will not alter our course
or guide us through the bottleneck
of human ignorance,
nor remove the blinders
from my neighbor’s eyes
or change the views of
madmen who drive us
towards extinction.
If I knew those words
I’d splash them across walls
and shout them at strangers.
But these are not those words.
These words are for me,
helping to calm
what some would call a soul,
reminding me I am not dead.
They ease me through the days
that race across my life.
At one time, I hoped
they’d give me courage,
but they did not.
Instead, the words I write
allow me bits of comfort
when I have ceased to care.
These words I write
are old and used,
and though I want to claim
them as my own, I cannot.
They are not mine
for I’ve borrowed them
from those who wrote before.
Just as now, these words
will pass to others,
giving comfort when writing,
easing their inner demons,
to bring them safely home.