using the arrow buttons.
by clicking on the page.
the page around when zoomed in by dragging it.
the zoom using the slider when zoomed-in.
by clicking on the zoomed-in page.
by entering text in the search field, and select "This Issue" or "All Issues"
by clicking on thumbnails to select pages, and then press the print button.
displays sections with thumbnails and descriptions.
displays a slider of thumbnails. Click on a page to jump.
allows you to browse the full archive.
about your subscription?
Buddhadharma : Fall 2015
54 buDDhaDharma: the practitioner’s quarterly fall 2 0 1 5 Now and then a fog settles over me, a kind of confusion. Then another friend comes through the doors, and we start over. Once he said to me, Put down your sword. Once he called me a terrier with a bone. If it isn’t broke, he told me when I asked him for guidance, I won’t try to fix it. Whenever I gave a dharma talk, he would wait until the questions and then hold up a finger and say, If I can just add one thing? He ate his morn- ing oatmeal quickly every day, then fiddled a bit while everyone else finished, swiping a finger around the edge of his bowl. Once I watched him drop his oryoki set in a spectacular crash in front of several visiting dignitaries. Oops, he said, in the silent zendo. With shocking clarity, like a bell, I can hear him laughing: his demented titter and his great guffaw. Five hours, ten hours go by. A senior student who works at a hospice brings a pile of little book- lets on grief. Out in the hallway, we read them out loud: “You will forget they are gone and then remember again,” I recite, “and your heart will break one more time.” “You may experience anger and rage, and you may want to blame someone,” reads a friend. The long-distance member arrives at last, road- weary, strung out. Fourteen hours. I am stretched to transparency. “At times you may be surprised by what you feel.” Finally I tell the nurses to call the tissue-donation service. But when they arrive, it suddenly seems impossible to say good-bye. Impossible to let them slide the body into the heavy black bag. The empty body. Friday morning, a few of us sit down to figure out the immediate, immense details of death. I take notes for the obituary, the writing of which seems a privilege and a heavy burden at once. Kaku- myo, Gyokuko, and I go to the funeral home. Sign papers. Buy an urn. Gyokuko is unswerving: that one, the big, beautiful maple box, made in Oregon. We tour the building. Is it big enough? Led by Kyogen’s optimism and vision, the sangha bought fourteen acres last year for an integrated temple complex—a project so enormous and expensive and long that we can hardly imagine it. The zendo is a shell; the last time I saw him, we walked on the new subflooring, and he took photographs of our future. We’ve sold the last of our three scattered buildings and moved into two little rented bungalows next to the land. Weekday zazen is in one of the living SaLLIE JIkO TISDaLE received lay transmission from kyogen Carlson in 1997 and teaching empowerment in 2009. She is the senior lay dharma teacher at Dharma rain Zen Center in Portland, Oregon. Details emerge in stuttering conversation. The chest pain he finally admitted to his doctor, the tread- mill test a day before, the new prescriptions. The col- lapse on the sidewalk. The ambulance, the desperate effort to get a stent in to open the occluded vessels, the long minutes of compressions and breaths and shocks and finally, giving up. Giving in. Kakumyo—Gyokuko’s student and the senior monk—and I divide up a list of other seniors and start making calls. Many people are at work; I send urgent texts and leave voice messages telegraphing an unexplained disaster. I suddenly remember that tonight is the death and dying group, and I send an email to everyone to cancel the meeting. His body is in the last room on the cardiovascu- lar unit, which is half empty today. The nurses are patient as we take over the hallway outside his door and dig in for a long day. One person after the other peeks in the unit’s double doors: Is this the place? Some are crying, others look numb and barren. A few march straight into the room while others slow down or veer away, steps dragging. A few walk as though injured, leaning, or led. There are people who cannot get away from work or must find a babysitter; one person is 150 miles away and begs us to wait, to keep the body there until he can reach us. Meanwhile, people come out of business meetings or the gym and return my calls. Bad news, I say, and begin to explain. They only hear “Kyogen” and “heart attack” before they yelp, What? No! and then, Okay, I’m coming, which hospital? And I say, Wait. And I say, He died. Tasks of the grieving. I take on the funeral home. I pick one I know from past experience and explain our unusual requirements: no embalming, a group going into the crematorium, bones to be left alone. I am put on hold, transferred, to explain again. In the room, people cry quietly or whisper, and then lapse into silence; in the hallway, laughter and stories and hugs. Hours go by. We have forgotten to eat. A bereavement cart arrives with coffee and tea; some- one brings in cottage cheese and celery sticks and yogurt. We poke at everything. I go for a walk. DaviDrobinson