Welcome, everyone, to San Francisco Zen Center's Online Zendo. We'll begin in a moment with a brief chant, preceding the Dharma talk. An unsurpassed, penetrating and perfect Dharma. is rarely met with even in a hundred thousand million kalpas. Having it to see and listen to, to remember and accept, I vow to taste the truth of the Tathagata's words. So good evening. And thank you for coming to the talk or to listening. Thank you for listening to the talk tonight.

[01:03]

I also want to thank Mary Stairs for inviting me to speak, my teacher, Aja Katz, and Joshin Shevel for his tech support. And I hope that my words may offer some encouragement in these challenging times. My name is Tova Green. I'm a resident priest at San Francisco Zen Center. And I've had some experience in recent years as a hospice social worker. And in doing that work, I counseled many people who were grieving. And my sense is that many of us are grieving these days. So my talk is about being present with grief. And at the same time that many of us are grieving many losses, this week is for many people also a time of religious observations that are both embodying loss and also celebration.

[02:19]

Sometimes celebration and mourning go hand in hand. But today in particular, April 8th is both Buddha's birthday for Japanese Buddhists, and it's the first night of Passover for Jews. So I wanted to talk a little bit about the meaning of Passover because I think it's relevant to the theme tonight. So Passover commemorates the exodus of Jewish people from Egypt over 3,000 years ago. And they were in Egypt, they were in bondage to the Pharaoh. And through a number of amazing, you could call them miracles, they were able to cross the Red Sea and find freedom. And the Hebrew word for Egypt, I find very interesting.

[03:20]

The word is Mitzrayim and it comes from the root. Tsar, which means narrow or inhibited. That's because Egypt followed the Nile River, which was the country bordered the Nile, which was a narrow river. So when we celebrate Passover, leaving Egypt also has come to mean that we're leaving some of the narrow places, or we must try to free ourselves from some of the narrow places in ourselves. whether those are narrow views or, yeah, narrow views, I would say mostly, although, you know, it could also be a narrowness of experience trying to widen our experience and that includes our experience of being with many people who are different from ourselves.

[04:24]

So tonight, Jews all over the world are gathering to tell the story of Passover. And it's an evening where people share particular rituals and foods symbolic of the journey to liberation. And yet tonight, many families will not be gathering in the same room. My own family is doing a Seder by, a Seder is the name for the ceremony of Passover. And my family will be gathering by Zoom on Friday night, five different households in different states. And although there will be a lot of joy in coming together, I also feel some grief about not being able to share food with them and not being able to see my four-year-old cousins granddaughter named Luna.

[05:27]

So those are some of, you know, I think many people are experiencing that wish to actually be with people that we care deeply about. Even though we are able to talk with them by phone and even see them on FaceTime or Zoom, it doesn't feel the same. So We're now in the second month of sheltering in place at San Francisco Zen Center and in most parts of the U.S. and many other countries around the world as the number of deaths from COVID-19 is increasing rapidly. And many of us may feel that we are literally in narrow spaces, only going out for exercise or essentials, some elderly people not going out at all. And I've heard people talking about cabin fever.

[06:30]

I've heard expressions of boredom, frustration, anxiety. I felt many of those things myself. So I think that in finding ways of coping with physical isolation and the social distancing, we may not allow ourselves the space to feel our grief. with all of these losses, large and small, that we face every day. And we may also be feeling grief for those who were living on the edge before the pandemic and are suffering even more now, those who are unhoused, incarcerated, refugees in detention centers. So how do we turn toward our grief? And what are some ways we can stress grief, meet other people who are grieving, and what are some ways of healing.

[07:35]

Although grief may be a very long process, there are some things that can help us when we're grieving. So I wanted to share two stories about two of our women ancestors both of whom dealt with devastating loss, and see what they can teach us about meeting grief fully. One of them, Kiso Gotami, lived in India at the time of the Buddha. She's one of the women whose ancestors whose names we chant. Less well known is a Japanese woman named Satsujo who lived in the 18th century. And these stories are found in a book called The Hidden Lamp. It's an anthology of 100 stories about Buddhist women throughout the ages from the time of the Buddha to the present.

[08:42]

And each story has a commentary by a contemporary Buddhist woman teacher. So I really enjoy... reading these stories over and over again. They are really beautifully, say, presented. And then the commentaries just always help me go deeper in understanding the story. So Kiso Gotami, who, the story I'll tell first, some of you may be familiar with this story. She came from a poor, family in India. And she married the son of a wealthy family who loved her. And yet her in-laws treated her very unkindly until she gave birth to a son. And then the son died when he was two years old.

[09:42]

And Kisa Gotami was overcome with grief. And The phrase in the story is she went mad with grief. She carried her dead child from house to house in her village, begging each neighbor for medicine. And no one could give her medicine, but finally someone said, why don't you go talk with the Buddha? So she went to see the Buddha who said, bring me a seed, bring me a mustard seed. from any home in which no one has died, and I will give you medicine. So she went out and knocked on doors and learned that every single household she visited had lost a member of their family, a dear friend. Everyone had experienced the loss of a loved one. And finally she returned to the Buddha,

[10:48]

child still in her arms and the Buddha asked if she had brought him a mustard seed and Kisogotami said I thought death happened only to my little son but now I understand it happens to everyone and then she was able to bury her child in the forest and she returned to the Buddha and was ordained she was one of the many nuns who followed Mahapajapati, the first Buddhist teacher, who was the Buddha's stepmother. So the medicine that the Buddha gave Kisogotami was the realization that all mothers could experience losses and pain similar to hers. That didn't necessarily diminish her grief, but she came to understand that she wasn't alone.

[11:52]

And the loss that she had felt so deeply became more acceptable, and she was able to move out of that narrow space she was in by seeing the universality of loss and grief. So the story I wanted to share is about a man named Satsujo, who was a great disciple of the teacher Hakuin, lived in 18th century Japan. And when Satsujo was older, she lost her granddaughter and was grieving deeply, crying loudly. And an old man from the neighborhood came and scolded her and said, why are you wailing? If people hear you, they'll all say, the old lady once studied with Hakawan and was enlightened.

[12:59]

So now, why is she now mourning her granddaughter so much? And Satsujo glared at him and scolded him. He said, you ought to lighten up a bit. So she... She glad at him and scolded him and said, you bald-headed fool, what do you know? My tears and weeping are better for my grandchild than incense, flowers, and lamps. The old man left without a word. So Susan Moon wrote a commentary to this story and she asked the question, when is it okay to weep? That's what grandmothers do. when they lose children, grandchildren. Her tears were not for herself, they were for her granddaughter and by extension for all grandchildren. She was expressing what Dogen calls grandmotherly mind.

[14:05]

And often when someone is grieving, someone will say, you ought to lighten up a bit, or isn't it time to stop grieving? And those comments are usually really unhelpful. Grief takes its own time. And what can be helpful is to listen well to somebody who's grieving. And this can help a person recover their presence of mind, recalibrate it, And sometimes in addition to listening, it may be helpful to go for a walk with a person or to help them somehow ground in their bodies. Sometimes when we're breathing can be really helpful to tune into our bodies, see where the pain is and find our center in a way that can help us.

[15:17]

with the storms of grief. So I felt my own grief a few times recently. And when I feel it, I find sometimes a good cry is very healing. It's like spring rain, rain that turns the hills green. Sometimes I find a friend to talk to. And sometimes I turn to music or art or poetry when I'm grieving. A friend I spoke to last week told me she had just lost her sister-in-law. Her sister-in-law lived in New Orleans and died of the COVID-19 virus after being in a hospital for several weeks. And my friend said, one of the gifts you can give anyone is music. And she had sung to her sister over the phone as her sister was getting weaker and weaker and felt that it was a good, well, it was partly it was healing her own grief, but it was also helping her sister-in-law.

[16:35]

So I'd like to share a poem that may surprise you, but it, has to do with music and the power of music to help us open to our feelings, including feelings of grief. When you hear a cello is the title. When you hear a cello for the first time, you will fall in love with its tenor voice, the curves of its body, smooth as a Bernini marble, You will want to come close. Run your hands over its sloping shoulders. Hold it between your legs. Caress its neck. Move your fingers up and down. Let the bow touch each hungry string until the cello sings and you feel the wood next to your chest breathing with you.

[17:41]

And don't be surprised if tears fill your eyes. for the cello will hold your grief. Let's say that has been my experience as a cellist. I played my cello at funerals and memorial services and playing provides a space at those times when people can turn inward and just feel allow themselves to cry, allow themselves to just feel the loss of their loved one. So I feel very grateful that I have that ability to play an instrument that can touch people in that way. I also want to say that this month of April is National Poetry Month.

[18:46]

It's designated that by the Academy of American Poets. And many poets are posting online now, wonderful new poems and old poems that help us deal with the experience of this pandemic that we're facing. One of my favorite poets, Ellen Bass, who lives in Santa Cruz, just had a new book come out. And she had planned many readings. Her initial reading was going to be last week. And then there were readings scheduled in many different bookstores all around the country. And that was all canceled. So instead, she did a reading online last week. And one of the things she said was, we turn to poetry in tough times. And I would like to share one of her poems. It's called Any Common Desolation.

[19:52]

Any common desolation can be enough to make you look up at the yellow leaves of the apple tree. The few that survived the rains and frost shot with late afternoon sun. They glow a deep orange gold against a blue so sheer A single bird would rip it like silk. You may have to break your heart, but it isn't nothing to know even one moment alive. The sound of an oar in an oarlock or a ruminant animal tearing grass. The smell of grated ginger. The ruby neon of the liquor store sign. Warm socks. You remember your mother, her precious ceremony as she gathered the white cotton, slipped it over your toes, drew up the heel, turned the cuff.

[21:01]

A breath can uncoil you as you walk across your own muddy yard, the big dipper pouring night down over you. And everything you dread, all you can't bear, dissolves. that sudden rush of the world. So what I love about the poem is the vividness of all of the images, the smell of grated ginger. You can almost smell the grated ginger, feel the warm socks and the care of that loving mother putting on her child's white socks. And And the idea that any desolation, any sorrow can be enough to cause us to, if we are able to look up, look at the sky, take a walk.

[22:10]

And one of the things that's helped me recently has been... of walking outside. So I was in quarantine for two weeks and my first walk, just a few blocks, wasn't very far, but I breathed in some jasmine that was growing on the wall and I saw some flowering trees. I don't know if they were, I think they may have been cherry, I'm not sure. There was a house with wisteria vines all around the front door. and green of grass, and even the colors of the cars were so shiny and bright. There were very few cars moving, but there were plenty parked on the street. So that, again, ability to leave a narrow space can be a physical space or sometimes desolation, sorrow can feel like a narrow space. And there's a...

[23:13]

I like the phrase both and that you can be grieving and still appreciate the smile on a friend's face or the sunshine on your arms. They don't cancel each other out. In fact, there's a phrase of grief and gratitude that often when you're grieving, you may feel even more grateful for the small things people do to help you the notes or gifts of food for, um, you know, someone who calls you and asks you how you are. And I think one of the important messages of this time is that nobody is spared from grieving. Um, uh, I, you know, I, I don't myself yet know somebody who is ill with the virus, but I know people who know people. So it's coming closer. And, uh,

[24:15]

So we're all in this together. And not only, you know, those of us at San Francisco Zen Center, but all of us in all of our communities, and then all of us throughout the country and throughout the world, we're all in this together. And it's a time, it's important both to take really good care of ourselves, stay healthy, this benefits everyone else, And also a time when it's so important to reach out and think about people in our communities who may be alone, who might need help with something. Be able to ask them, how are you doing? And really ask, I really want to know how you're doing. Because sometimes it's so common for us to just say, oh, fine. And often we're not so fine.

[25:18]

So I thought I would end with the words of Shanti Deva, who's an eighth century Indian monk who wrote a book. It was originally in Sanskrit and the title is The Way of the Bodhisattva. Bodhisattvas are awakening beings. Bodhi is Sanskrit for awake, awakening beings who live for the benefit of others, not only for their own well-being. And we'll be chanting Bodhisattva vow a little bit later. But Bodhisattvas... are often ordinary people. You don't have to be a Kuan Yin Bodhisattva of compassion, whose energy I greatly appreciate, or Jizo Bodhisattva, who's a protector of travelers and children who've died.

[26:32]

Samantabhadra Bodhisattva of great activity, who is connected with caring about the earth, These are beings that can inspire us, but all of us can develop those qualities in ourselves. So this is a verse of Shanti Devas from the way of the Bodhisattva. May I be a guard for those who are protectorless, a guide for those who journey on the road. For those who wish to go across the water, may I be a boat, a raft, a bridge. David Zimmerman recently has been using that image of a raft, that we can all be rafts, helping each other get across this river of, is it a river of life, river of suffering?

[27:40]

together to come out of this narrow place that we may feel that we are in right now. So we're going to end with a chant, and then we will have time for question and answer. Beings are numberless. I vow to save them. Delusions are inexhaustible. I vow to end them. Dharma gates are boundless. I vow to enter them. Buddha's way is unsurpassable. I vow to become it. If you'd like to offer comment or question, please click on your participant button in your control bar at the bottom of your Zoom window.

[28:47]

If you don't see it, simply point your mouse to your Zoom window and the control bar will appear and then click the raise hand button in your participants window until we'll call on you. Thank you. Excuse me, I'm going to take a moment to turn the volume up on my device so that I can hear the questions better. No questions at the moment, Tova.

[30:04]

Oh, we have a question from Tim Wicks. Hi, Tim. Hi, Tova. It's actually from Patsy. Okay. I'm happy to hear from either one of you. Hi, Tova. Hi, Patsy. I just wanted to, not so much a question, but just to thank you for your offering tonight and to hear your voice and sharing those stories and the wisdom of the stories and the poetry. And you and I are poets and poetry lovers and it's, it's soothing and beautiful and grief. I've, you know, I've been very familiar with grief in the last couple of years and yeah, it it's, it has its own time frame and logic and will have nothing to do with it, you know?

[31:06]

And I liked what you said, something that the, that our capacity for joy or enjoyment and our broken heart, our grief can coexist, you know? And, uh, yeah, these are very, very trying times and, um, yeah, it was just soothing and comforting to hear you and just, uh, that we are reaching out and sharing in this way tonight makes me feel less isolated and more like a human being. And what can I give instead of what can I get? So thank you so much. Welcome, Patsy. Do you mind if I ask you a question? No, not at all. Can you say some of the things that have helped you with your grief? Whether you have expressed some of that grief in your own poetry? Well, Tova, this is unorthodox, but Sam McWilliams is my Dharma sister and I got a beautiful tattoo of Kisa Katami and only love.

[32:19]

Because when you lose someone, I lost my son, you do feel alone and that your grief is crushing and that only you you know that your life will never be the same, which is true. Also realizing that it's going to pass the dark moments when it really, it's very, it's like the tide and it's a little violent sometimes, but it will pass. And Tim would have to remind me of that. And that when there are those moments of rest that when it's kind of calm to, to enjoy it and to just be rather than I think there's a myth of, feeling that we cannot go on or enjoy life because then we're not honoring our lost ones. And that's, that's, that's a fallacy, you know, and writing, writing, writing, writing. Thank you for sharing your wisdom, Patsy. Thank you. So I'd love to ask you, did you write that poem about the cello? Yes, I did.

[33:22]

Oh, beautiful, beautiful. Oh my gosh. Thank you. You're welcome. We have a question from Delfina. Yes. Hi, Delfina. Hi. Can you hear me? Yes, I can hear you very well. Yeah. Hi, Tova. It's so nice to hear your voice and see you. And I, too, really resonated with the poem about the cello and just how music is so holding. I think for grief for my, for myself. Um, and I really appreciated you talking about crying too, because I've noticed in my practice when I, when I sit that it seems like at some point I just have a little bit of a, have a cry and then I feel some more space around that. Um,

[34:24]

Yeah, and just more connection to my heart because I notice I can get a little frozen in the aloneness. I can start to shut down. Yeah, crying can really help when you're frozen. It helps you melt, literally. Did I interrupt you? No, that was it. Thank you. Thank you for your comments. I can see that Miles has his hand raised. Actually, it's me. It's Nancy. Oh, it's Nancy. Hi. I don't know if I can unmute my video. No. Okay. It's strange to talk to you from behind this dark block.

[35:29]

Let's see. Start my video. Here we go. Okay. Oh, hi. Hi, Nancy. Maybe there's a question here. But mostly what I wanted to say was how much I was struck by both in grief and I think especially how life has slowed down so much for each of us during these days. And how beautifully that was captured is captured in Ellen Bass's poem, as you were commenting on, you know, the smell of the grated ginger, the red hue, what was it, of the apple.

[36:37]

And I guess, you know, after long days of practice, such as like in Sashin, when our senses are so heightened and how we notice the beauty in the most simple things, you know, breeze or, you know. So I was just really appreciating that. And I've been to seders before and I think there's something, the food that's served is very simple, isn't it? It's very symbolic. Symbolic. Yeah. So, for example, there's a plate. It's called the Seder plate that has some parsley for spring greenery, symbol of spring. It has unleavened bread because the Jews fled so quickly that there was no time for the bread to rise.

[37:42]

There's horseradish to symbolize the bitterness of the time. everything on that plate has a meaning. And then usually there's chicken soup with matzo balls and the rest of the meal. It's not so simple actually. I've been in homes putting together the meal and it's very delicious and all the more so because The ceremony is so long, telling the story by the time you actually get to eat. You're very hungry. Well, thank you. In a way, this felt like you gathering all of us for some stories and wisdom and camaraderie during these times. And as Patsy was saying, very comforting. Thank you. But I'll say it too.

[38:44]

Thank you. You're welcome. It's nice to be in this space with you. So if there are no more questions or comments, I'll just say good night. Be well. Take good care of yourselves and one another. And it's been a real joy to spend this time with you tonight. Thank you very much.

[39:35]

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