I vow to taste the truth of Athagata's words. Good morning. Good morning. I still see we still need a building with elastic walls. I wonder if in sitting in this seat as we say this verse on beginning a talk, a lecture, if I will ever find myself feeling anything other than struck by a sort of awe at chanting that verse and then being the one who's supposed to be speaking the Thathagata's words.

[01:11]

This is a killer of a challenge. But I hope that what I have to say this morning will be of some use to you. And if it isn't, don't worry about it. A group of us are spending this weekend looking into this business of dying and death, a focus which I think is always of great benefit and help, even though it's not much in vogue these days, at least not in these parts. Surprisingly, there have been times when death and dying has been more in vogue. These days it's more the less side. I suppose that's just the way it is with us human beings. We'd rather not think about it. Understandably, I suppose. Recently, someone that I know through our practicing together gave me a tape of stories which turn out to be about death and dying.

[02:29]

So one of the things I'd like to do this morning is to tell you one of those stories which I was quite struck by. But first I want to say a few words about the perspective or attitude that informs what I want to bring up for our consideration this morning. And I suppose the first thing I might say is that I feel completely convinced of the observation and teaching that comes from the Buddhist tradition, but actually from many great wisdom traditions around the world, that there is great benefit in thinking about our dying throughout the entirety of our lives. There is great benefit in considering and becoming familiar with death as a way of living fully.

[03:33]

And that the paradox that one may sense or feel there is worth looking into. That we have some idea or training or conditioning to think that it's birth or death If I'm focused on death, then I can't be attending to living. But in fact, my experience and the experience of many, many people over a long, long time is quite the opposite. That to the degree that we remember, that we actively in each moment remember that we will die, we do not know when or how. that that understanding, that seeing the fact of our dying allows us to live fully and wholeheartedly and to cultivate our capacity to live without regret with as little unfinished business as possible if we're really paying attention.

[04:42]

In some of the stories that I've been listening to and reading about death, Over and over again, there are stories about death as a kind of companion. And one of the symbols of death in some of the old European stories I've been listening to is the image of death as a tinker. You know, he travels around in a black suit, the black hat, tall and skinny. with very long arms, with a backpack of stuff which he sells to us or not. So the story I want to tell you is a story called Godfather Death. And it's a story about a man who lived a long, long time ago in another land who was very, very poor and who had 12 children

[05:50]

and had, in the process of having his 12 children, inveigled and coerced everybody he knew into being a godparent for one or another of his children. So when his 13th child arrived, he didn't know who to call upon because he sort of used up his options. And he was indeed very poor, so he knew that it was important for him to find a godparent for this child. Interestingly in the story, it goes that he was especially looking for a spiritual godfather, godparent for this child. And because he didn't have any more friends or neighbors or acquaintances to lean upon, he decided that he would go for a walk. and that he would ask the first person he came upon in his walk up into the high country near where he lived.

[06:56]

So he went out walking with this commitment to ask the first person he came to if that person would be the godparent for his 13th child. And the first person he met on the road was the devil. The devil was dressed in a beautiful bright red coat and he had shiny black shoes and a wicker cane. And because he was the devil, he knew at some distance exactly what this man was going to ask him. So he was ready. So the old man said to this guy dressed up in this spiffy attire about being the spiritual godfather of his 13th child. And the devil said, oh, yes, I would be glad to be the godfather of your child.

[08:08]

And I will make it possible for this child to be very, very rich. So the old man thought about it for a while, and he looked at this being in a red jacket and shiny black shoes and a wicker cane, and he said, I don't know. Because, of course, in a few moments he realized he was talking to the devil. He said, I don't know. Seems to me that you take more than you give. I think not. And he went on his way. So a little while later, the father of the 13 children met God himself on the road.

[09:16]

And God said, I will be happy to be the godfather of your child. And what I promise you is that your child will have a life in the life after this one that will be wonderful, will be more marvelous than the life he leads in this world. And the father said, no. I find this an amazing part of the story. I don't know. You're not fair. You give to the rich and you take from the poor. I don't think so. Chutzpah of the first water. So he went along. And, of course, then the third person he came upon on his walking trip was Death, tall and skinny, dressed all in black with these long, thin arms like matchsticks.

[10:34]

And death said, I will be glad to be the spiritual godfather for your child. And I will be with your child throughout his life. And I will help him become a physician. And I will help him have the clear sense when he goes into a room to see someone who is sick to know whether the person will live or die. And with this ability to see clearly and reliably when the person will either live, recover from their sickness, or they will die, he will become a famous and well-considered physician. So the father decided that this was a pretty good arrangement and he accepted death's offer. And so the 13th child grew up and indeed became a physician.

[11:45]

And his guardian, Death, who was with him all the time, when the right time came for this young man to begin his practice as a doctor, said, when you go to see someone who is sick, if I'm standing by the head of the bed, you will know that it is not yet time for them to die, that they will recover. And you can tell the person and their family and friends that that's what will happen. But know that when I'm standing at the foot of the bed, it means that it's time for them to come with me, that their time has come. And he made a very big point with the young man that he should honor this information and not try to argue with death. So the young man began his practice as a physician.

[12:49]

And of course, whenever he saw death standing at the head of the bed, he would say with great certainty and in a very loud voice, this person will become well again. And of course they did. And then at other times he would walk into the sick room and he would see that death was standing at the foot of the bed and he would say, there is nothing more I can do and this person will pass over. And they did. So he became very, very famous, very wealthy, much sought after because he was so reliable. So after some years of working as a physician and leading a very full and happy life, some messengers came from the king and said, oh, great doctor, please come. The king is very, very sick. And he wants you to come and help him be well again.

[13:54]

So the physician went to see the king, and as he walked into the room, he saw that death was standing at the foot of the bed. The king said in a very weak voice, oh, great doctor, please cure me. Help me be well again. If you bring me back to health, I will give you half of the wealth of my kingdom. Well, the physician stopped to think about that. Half of the wealth of the kingdom. Wow. So he looked at the king and he looked at death and he looked at the situation and he quickly spun the king's bed around. And very quickly, before anything else could happen, he shouted at the top of his lungs, the king will be well again. Well, death gave him a certain look.

[14:58]

And a little while later, when they had left the king's room, death said, physician, don't ever do that again. And of course, the king did get well. So some while later, the king's messengers came to the physician again and said, oh, physician, please come quickly. The king needs you. His beloved and only daughter is very, very sick, is close to dying, and she needs your help. So he hurried quickly to the king's palace and went into the room where this beautiful, beautiful young woman was, pale and wan and very sick. And of course, guess who was standing where? Death was standing at the foot of her bed.

[16:04]

The physician walked up to the side of the bed and looked into the face of this young woman, the king standing nearby pleading with him to do something, anything, anything, please, to save my only and beloved daughter. If you can save her, if she can be well again, she is yours in marriage. And the physician looked into this beautiful face and looked into her eyes and he immediately fell in love with her. So he spun the bed again. And death didn't say anything at all until they were both out of the room. And death said, physician, you made a big mistake. So some time passed. And

[17:08]

The physician found himself standing alone next to his godfather. And his godfather said, come with me. And they went through a stone wall, a big arched doorway and a stone wall that led to some stairs that went down, down, down deep into an underground room. And when they walked into this room, it was filled with candles. Many, many, many, many candles. Some of them were tall and slender. Some of them were short. Some of them were big and fat. All different sizes and shapes, but all white candles. Some of them burning with a strong, clear flame. Some of them flickering and sputtering. And the physician said to Death, what is this?

[18:09]

Where are we? And Death said, these are the candles, each candle for a human life. And the physician said, oh, I understand. These slender, small candles are the candles for children, for children's lives. And the big fat candles are for people who have a long life ahead of them. And the candles that are burnt way down and flickering must be for old people. And death said, no, no. Some of these slender candles are for old people and some are for babies. Some of these big fat candles are for people of many different ages, some for babies. Each candle and the light that is flickering with each lighted candle is the life, energy, and force for one person.

[19:14]

And no new candle can be lit until an older candle goes out. So the physician got a little worried and he said, oh, I guess I want you to show me my candle. So Jeff said, okay. And he showed him this candle that was burned way, way down, hardly anything left, sputtering and flickering. And the physician began to wail and carry on. Oh, death, please light me another candle. I have so much to live for. I'm such a good doctor. I help so many people. I have this great wealth from the king, and I'm married to this beautiful, beautiful woman whom I love dearly. I have so much to live for. Please, please light me another candle.

[20:21]

And death said, it doesn't work that way. And the physician kept arguing and arguing and arguing. And finally, death said, oh, all right. So he picked up a great big fat candle that was not yet lighted, and he put it on top of the physician's candle. And the physician fell over dead. No bargaining here. No favoritism. The physician's father had decided not to accept the offer from the devil or from God. He accepted the offer to be the spiritual godparent from death who doesn't show favoritism, treats all of us exactly the same.

[21:26]

I think it's a marvelous story. Because, of course, we all have some kind of bargaining going on here, don't we? It's either the bargaining called, not me, I'm not going to die, I'm going to live to be about 172, or at least 94. Or if possible, we distract ourselves so we don't think about it at all. Or we think, well, if I do some fast maneuver here, I can stay in control of how long I live, which is, of course, just some figment of the imagination. And I've been wondering, what is it that's underneath all that bargaining, all that distracting ourselves, all of that aversion, turning away from the fact of dying?

[22:38]

What is it that leads us to ignore or turn away from the fact that we all will die and we do not know when or how? I think it's a very important question, particularly for us who live in this country, in this culture. Devoted as we are to youth, devoted as we are to doing, we are perhaps particularly ill-prepared for our dying. There's a great book by a French historian, social historian, whose name is Philip Arias, called The Hour of Our Death, in which he talks about the history of attitudes towards death and dying in the West. And his point is that since the coming into existence of hospitals, places where people go to be born and to die, we've lost touch with the fact of dying as part of living.

[23:48]

Because we don't grow up with babies and children and youth and middle-aged people and old people dying in our house or next door or in the village or in our neighborhood. It all happens somewhere else, out of sight, out of mind. And I think for many of us, what informs our turning away from the fact of our dying is mostly fear. And of course, what is unfamiliar, what we know little about, what we keep at arm's distance looms. There's that curious way in which what we are afraid of, the more we keep it at a distance from us, the bigger it is. So the antidote is to hang out with all of the minor dyings, to do as many dress rehearsals as we can.

[24:58]

Because what is familiar is not so frightening as what is unfamiliar. Isn't that so? So, for example, when we breathe in and we breathe out, if we pay attention to the breath, at the end of the exhalation is sometimes, depending on what the breath is like, a little space, a kind of minor dying. When I go to sleep at night, it's a kind of dying, as waking up is a kind of being born. Whenever I finish something, there is a kind of dying in the finishing of some project. When my husband leaves the house in the morning to go to his office in the city, I have no idea whether I'll ever see him again. And to the degree that I remind myself of that as I say goodbye to him in the morning, I am less likely to leave unsaid all of the things I want to say to him about my gratitude for his being in my life.

[26:19]

I'm a little less likely to leave unattended some disagreement. I'm a little less likely to have some tattered aspect of our life together left alone. It actually helps me to be present in my relationship with this person whom I love and care for so deeply. So that if one or the other of us dies today, we will not have left something unsaid. In one of my favorite verses, impermanence verses, there's a line that goes, meetings will end in separation. It's a fact. If we meet there will be a separating. So in our meeting, do we include the separating?

[27:25]

Do we let it inform our meeting so that we are present for the fullness of the possibilities in our meeting? It isn't so scary to think about that space at the end of the breath as a kind of minor dying as it is to think about our actual dying, passing over. So maybe we can creep up on our dying in these small ways, hang out around the edges. I don't mean to imply that we should sneak up on ourselves when we're not looking exactly, but something like that. Last week I flew to Taos for the week. I was doing a workshop with Natalie Goldberg on writing in Zen. I was looking forward to the workshop and to being in Taos because I knew there would be sun.

[28:30]

And I've had a terrible bug for weeks and weeks. And I knew, or at least expected, hoped, that the sun and the dry, high mountain air would help me get over this bug. So as the plane took off, I was startled at a kind of clutching in my stomach. Oh, goody, here we go again. Fear of flying. But it's not really fear of flying. It's fear of dying. And then I say, no, it's fear of taking off and landing. No, it's fear of dying, Yvonne. Now exactly what do you mean? So there I am, white-knuckling the arms of the seat, surrounded by companions in various stages of repose and tension.

[29:35]

And I thought, well, what better opportunity to do a little inquiry into this state of mind arising here as we're taking off. Noticing some tension in my stomach, some tension in my hands on the arms of the seat I was sitting in. Okay, breathe in and breathe out. Relax the hands. Pay attention to the sensations in the body. And what I realized very quickly was I wasn't even so afraid of dying as I am afraid of fire, afraid of a certain kind of pain, afraid of dying painfully and having it last a while. And then I remembered many different people who've said to me, I'm not so afraid of the death part.

[30:40]

It's the dying part that freaks me out. Well, that helps. At least I've narrowed down the focus of my fear. I know a little bit more about what that's about. Well, what's underneath that? a certain kind of identification with this body. Exhale. Relax, distracted by trying to read the title of the book of the person in the hands of the person next to me, completely forgot about my fear of taking off because we'd taken off, reached our altitude, passed. Uh-oh, we're about to land. Here it comes again. So within a week, I had four opportunities to do a very detailed inquiry into my fear of taking off and landing, fear of dying, having some brief glimpse into a certain kind of clinging to this body.

[32:02]

to wanting to stick around a little bit longer. There are a few things I'd still like to do. But at least I'm bringing the whole terrain in a little bit closer. And what that series of inquiries provided for me this past week was a kind of kick in the butt, if you will, in my meditation practice to really look into more deeply again what are the implications of this notion of the wisdom understanding emptiness that there is no independent self-existence. That means no Ivan that exists in some independent way. What are the implications of that description of the reality of things on this clinging and this fear?

[33:13]

And I could feel some slight loosening of the response of fear, some slight cultivation, if you will, of equanimity even when I'm frightened. Because, of course, I think many of us have some idea of I'm either afraid or I'm not afraid. I'm either afraid or I'm courageous. If I'm courageous, I won't be afraid. I don't think so. Maybe I can be courageous and be frightened at the same time. Maybe I can be present with a complex of feelings, thoughts, states of mind and have slowly some cultivation of calmness because I'm a little bit more familiar with the fact that I will die and it's absolutely out of my control as to when or how.

[34:22]

that it's quite useful to know where the exits are on this particular airplane. Because who knows, we might go down and I may die or I may not. If I know where the exit is and I have some familiarity with my fear, I may also be able to be calm in that moment of the plane going down in a way that helps me stay present with myself and my neighbor. I have no way of knowing what will happen. All I can do is stay present in the moment and keep rehearsing a calm mind, keep noticing what disturbs calmness. If fear is what comes up around thoughts of dying, looking into becoming friends with, being interested in what this fear is about, not in general but in particular this morning,

[35:33]

Not yesterday or tomorrow, but right now. And to encourage myself to stay physically grounded in the moment and not get carried away by my thoughts, my memories, my feelings. Because that's like getting on the bullet train, the fast train between Tokyo and Kyoto. go so fast you don't know where you've been. Thoughts and feelings are a little like that. But this physical body and breath, locating myself in the sensation of my butt on the cushion, my knees in contact with the mat that I'm sitting on, the sensation of contact between the ends of my thumbs, my left hand in contact with my right hand in a very particular way.

[36:41]

My ability to stay attending to the detail of the physical body right in this moment with the breath helps me stay present with what is, not with what isn't. How much of my fear about death is about what isn't? or what I'm afraid won't be? How much does it distract me from what's in the moment? Beautiful sunny day here at Green Gulch. A nice day to go for a walk, to hang out down in the garden. and to nudge up slowly, gently, without too much forcing or insistence, noticing that it's fall, that there are some plants that are beginning to lose their leaves, getting ready to be dormant.

[37:44]

that on some of the rose bushes there are beautiful buds and some blooms, but there are also some flowers that are fading, petals on the ground, to remind ourselves over and over again about how death and life are companions and that we can't separate the one from the other. to at least consider the possibility that if I am present with the dying that occurs moment by moment, it may inform my ability to be alive in a very full and complete way. I have a cup which someone gave me. some years ago. Actually, it was one of two cups that someone gave to me at the time that I was married to my current husband.

[38:48]

Sounds like I've had a lot of them, doesn't it? Two. So one of the cups broke. And happily for me, my husband didn't care about the cup so much, so the one that didn't break is the one that I'm using. And I've been drinking from it every morning for many years, and I enjoy it. Whenever I drink from it, I think of the person that gave it to me and to us. Interestingly, if I think about that cup and I think about the nature of this cup, is that it will break. One of these days, this cup will break. And there's a way in which noticing that the nature of this porcelain cup is that it will break, I really enjoy the cup of coffee I had in it this morning. So there's a way in which my willingness to consider the death of the cup, if you will, does not lead to me being dreary and a drag to be around and joyless.

[40:07]

Quite the opposite. I really enjoy that cup, especially this morning. And if you come to visit, I will offer you a cup of tea in that cup and hope that you'll enjoy it too. And if one of our visitors, we currently have 11 monks and a translator, soon to have 17 monks and a translator sleeping over, the cups get broken. Things aren't the way they should be. They're the way they are. Lots of opportunity for little minor dimes and meditations on dimes. Lots of possibilities to pay attention to what is, not what isn't. Lots of opportunities to attend to the joy and happiness in the house this morning.

[41:14]

and an opportunity to let go of the order that isn't. So what I'm suggesting to you about this inquiry into dying, and in particular into our particular individual version of fear of dying, is also true of all of our negative states of mind. the more we pull the detail of our experience, our state of mind, in close so that we can look into now exactly what's going on, exactly what am I afraid of, not in general but in particular. If I keep asking myself that question, I can boil down the focus of my inquiry to what I would call a bite-size piece. If I keep it too big, I can't look into what I'm worried about.

[42:19]

Take it in little bits. After a while, I notice that maybe I still feel some fear, but that isn't all that I am experiencing and that what becomes familiar is not so frightening. I, of course, don't really know what my state of mind will be when I die But I'm hoping that having spent time with many good teachers, many people while they have been dying, that they have all taught me something about what happens when I relax, when I allow, when I remember to exhale, that if I don't worry, if I stay present moment by moment, things are just fine. So on this beautiful sunny day, I would invite you to go for a little walk and see if you can find some object of contemplation of the impermanent nature of things.

[43:34]

Some one example. You don't have to look very far. You actually don't even have to get off your chair or cushion. Everything in the world as we know it is constantly changing. The one constancy is change itself. So my suffering arises when I fight the truth of things as they are. If I can hang out with, become more familiar with the impermanent nature of things, joy will arise. It says so in all the ancient texts in many different traditions. But we don't even have to believe those old teachings. In fact, it's probably better more to the point if we ask ourselves, what is the truth of my experience?

[44:43]

When do I suffer? I suffer when I try to control that which I can't control. I suffer when I try to hold on to that which I cannot hold on to. I suffer when I try to keep my child from having any harm come to her beyond my control. All I can do is keep my heart open and understand that the nature of our meeting is that there will be separation. So can I, every time we see each other, include that rather than build a kind of wall, a kind of prison in which I pretend that things are different? So have a nice takeoff and a nice landing.

[45:47]

May our intention...

[45:55]

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