The Healing Dance
This is not about being sorry about death. Though thoughts are appreciated, it is not meant to elicit sympathies. It is about life.
How do we want to live?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It had been a really long time since I last picked up 'Tuesdays with Morrie.' I read it my senior year in college, and I think it took me about two days, which, in senior year years, is the equivalent of about 30 seconds (32 tops). It isn't really a book that should sit on your shelf, but rather it's a story, a philosophy, that should be shared and experienced. A couple of months after I finished the book, it was in the cargo hold of a 747 (or a UPS truck) and headed out to the East Coast. It was headed to someone who needed it at that moment. And so I slowly forgot about the book, and the void in my bookshelf was no doubt filled with something on environmental policy or a Cosmopolitain magazine.
Three years down the road, I found myself in the middle of a turbulent holiday. Cancer took my grandfather, and it took him quickly. You never know what the end will be like, what you want to say, until the end. When I arrived 9 hours later in Hilo at my grandfather's bedside, I realized that I had already said everything I wanted to say. I had been saying them through my whole life.
My grandfather had a fighting spirit. He stayed at work until pulmonary fibrosis forced him to quit. The doctors gave him 6 weeks to live, but he stuck around another three years. He was on oxygen 24 hours a day, but sometimes I would receive an email saying, 'Well, I was out moving the lawn and doing yardwork all day, and then I realized I forgot to turn on my oxygen this morning!' which would leave me shaking my head, smiling. Then it was cancer. They gave him until June. Then Mom called me a week before I was supposed to head to Oregon for Christmas, because Hospice didn't think he was going to see the new year. I flew out Sunday, December 17 to find him in bed, hardly talking, breathing heavily, and in pain. We whispered for him to wait, just a little longer, for my brother. All day Monday we watched the clock. My brother finally flew in at 7pm. He sat with grandpa for a while. Then I came to sit with them both. I turned on a CD of my senior recital. The song was Bach's Sonata in e minor. And somewhere between the 2nd and 4th movement, he finally gave in. But he never gave up. I know, we all know, that he was waiting for my brother. Like I said, he was a fighter all his life.
It's funny, because I have never been a very spiritual person, but I found myself talking to him, especially in my grandma's house until I left for Japan again, and even in my apartment in Saitama, I feel like he's still around. Maybe I am just talking to the memory. I light the incense, I leave a beer by his picture and a mikan. Maybe I am spiritual after all. Spiritual, but not religious. Although everything can change, besides being born and finally laying to rest. That fate we cannot elude.
The same friend that recommended Morrie to me in the first place recommended that I read it again. I had a lot of anger at that point. It wasn't associated with grandpa's dying, or maybe it was. Death prompts people to think about things, evaluate life, rediscover what is important. I thought a lot about anger though.
One day after winter break, I was drinking coffee with one of the teachers.
Every so often I go back to my hometown in Kyushuu, he says. There is a beach there, and I have a certain spot where I go to sit and think. There are many people on the beach, but only I know this particular spot.
And no one goes there? I ask. To your spot?
Oh, people walk over it all the time. They even sit there sometimes. But only I know that it is my spot. And I sit there and stare out at the sea and the sun. I think about all the things that are bothering me, that are troubling me, but when I look across the water, everything seems so small. My worries seem so small. There are so many things we cannot control, the crashing of the waves, the air, the sun. We can only control the little things. And in comparison, our little things are microscopic. And then I feel better.
One of the wisest souls I know.
It has stuck with me ever since he said it. I try to remember that compared to the orbit of the planets, compared to the revolving of our galazy, the crashing waves, volcanic fury, and life and death, my anger is small. It helps me forgive. I was almost back to Morrie at that point, even though I didn't know it.
Then last week, I heard that the oldest member of my conversation class passed away while I was gone. She had spirit. She had passion. She had life. She didn't like the doctor, but sometimes she would come to class looking revived with a child's excitement for life.
Kumachan, what did you do this week?
I went to a healing dance, she said.
A healing dance?
Yes, it was so wonderful! They just put on the music and you dance around. Everyone is just dancing and moving. For four hours! Straight dancing. They say it heals. It makes you feel good. I can breathe better now. (She laughs.)
Well, you are looking excellent today Kumachan.
It really is wonderful, she said.
Even at 78, Kumachan was studying English. She had studied it for a long time, in order to keep in touch with her friends who had moved to the United States. She used to cook eggplant and miso for me, and she'd bring it to class in a tupperwear. If the weather was hot, she'd put it by the window to cool it down so it wouldn't spoil before I got home. Another class member went to visit her shortly before she passed away, and even then, she said she wanted to get back to class to see everyone and to 'cook for Hanachan.' She worried even then. Instead of class last week, we had a memorial service, which isn't as formal as it sounds. We just talked about Kumachan. We talked about the wonderful things she did and her furvor for life. We read words, such heartfelt words, about her, messages that flew across the Pacific. Everyone was touched.
It was finally that weekend that I found myself back at Morrie's corner. It is a book that has gained so much popularity that even most small Japanese bookstores carry it in stock. I sat at home reading that night. His life's thesis.
Love.
Forgive.
Once you learn how to die, you learn how to live.
He held a living funeral for himself, before he died. People said all the things they would have said at a funeral. The only difference was that Morrie was around to hear them.
Don't put off until tomorrow what you can do today.
The whole time I have been in Japan, I've been looking for answers. Perhaps this temple, perhaps this person, perhaps this stone or tree will reveal the meaning of life. Where am I headed, and what is my path? It is like wandering through our neighbor's wheat maze. There is a path, but all around is high grass. Sometimes you get thrown off the path, into that tall grass, and it's hard to tell which way is which and where you are going. But then eventually you stumble out of the grass into another path. And then another. Over and over. Some paths take you back to the start. Some paths take you farther and farther out into the field. Some are long. Some are short. But there is one way in and one way out.
First breath and the last.
In between are a million choices.
They all lead to the same place in the end.
How do we want to live?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It had been a really long time since I last picked up 'Tuesdays with Morrie.' I read it my senior year in college, and I think it took me about two days, which, in senior year years, is the equivalent of about 30 seconds (32 tops). It isn't really a book that should sit on your shelf, but rather it's a story, a philosophy, that should be shared and experienced. A couple of months after I finished the book, it was in the cargo hold of a 747 (or a UPS truck) and headed out to the East Coast. It was headed to someone who needed it at that moment. And so I slowly forgot about the book, and the void in my bookshelf was no doubt filled with something on environmental policy or a Cosmopolitain magazine.
Three years down the road, I found myself in the middle of a turbulent holiday. Cancer took my grandfather, and it took him quickly. You never know what the end will be like, what you want to say, until the end. When I arrived 9 hours later in Hilo at my grandfather's bedside, I realized that I had already said everything I wanted to say. I had been saying them through my whole life.
My grandfather had a fighting spirit. He stayed at work until pulmonary fibrosis forced him to quit. The doctors gave him 6 weeks to live, but he stuck around another three years. He was on oxygen 24 hours a day, but sometimes I would receive an email saying, 'Well, I was out moving the lawn and doing yardwork all day, and then I realized I forgot to turn on my oxygen this morning!' which would leave me shaking my head, smiling. Then it was cancer. They gave him until June. Then Mom called me a week before I was supposed to head to Oregon for Christmas, because Hospice didn't think he was going to see the new year. I flew out Sunday, December 17 to find him in bed, hardly talking, breathing heavily, and in pain. We whispered for him to wait, just a little longer, for my brother. All day Monday we watched the clock. My brother finally flew in at 7pm. He sat with grandpa for a while. Then I came to sit with them both. I turned on a CD of my senior recital. The song was Bach's Sonata in e minor. And somewhere between the 2nd and 4th movement, he finally gave in. But he never gave up. I know, we all know, that he was waiting for my brother. Like I said, he was a fighter all his life.
It's funny, because I have never been a very spiritual person, but I found myself talking to him, especially in my grandma's house until I left for Japan again, and even in my apartment in Saitama, I feel like he's still around. Maybe I am just talking to the memory. I light the incense, I leave a beer by his picture and a mikan. Maybe I am spiritual after all. Spiritual, but not religious. Although everything can change, besides being born and finally laying to rest. That fate we cannot elude.
The same friend that recommended Morrie to me in the first place recommended that I read it again. I had a lot of anger at that point. It wasn't associated with grandpa's dying, or maybe it was. Death prompts people to think about things, evaluate life, rediscover what is important. I thought a lot about anger though.
One day after winter break, I was drinking coffee with one of the teachers.
Every so often I go back to my hometown in Kyushuu, he says. There is a beach there, and I have a certain spot where I go to sit and think. There are many people on the beach, but only I know this particular spot.
And no one goes there? I ask. To your spot?
Oh, people walk over it all the time. They even sit there sometimes. But only I know that it is my spot. And I sit there and stare out at the sea and the sun. I think about all the things that are bothering me, that are troubling me, but when I look across the water, everything seems so small. My worries seem so small. There are so many things we cannot control, the crashing of the waves, the air, the sun. We can only control the little things. And in comparison, our little things are microscopic. And then I feel better.
One of the wisest souls I know.
It has stuck with me ever since he said it. I try to remember that compared to the orbit of the planets, compared to the revolving of our galazy, the crashing waves, volcanic fury, and life and death, my anger is small. It helps me forgive. I was almost back to Morrie at that point, even though I didn't know it.
Then last week, I heard that the oldest member of my conversation class passed away while I was gone. She had spirit. She had passion. She had life. She didn't like the doctor, but sometimes she would come to class looking revived with a child's excitement for life.
Kumachan, what did you do this week?
I went to a healing dance, she said.
A healing dance?
Yes, it was so wonderful! They just put on the music and you dance around. Everyone is just dancing and moving. For four hours! Straight dancing. They say it heals. It makes you feel good. I can breathe better now. (She laughs.)
Well, you are looking excellent today Kumachan.
It really is wonderful, she said.
Even at 78, Kumachan was studying English. She had studied it for a long time, in order to keep in touch with her friends who had moved to the United States. She used to cook eggplant and miso for me, and she'd bring it to class in a tupperwear. If the weather was hot, she'd put it by the window to cool it down so it wouldn't spoil before I got home. Another class member went to visit her shortly before she passed away, and even then, she said she wanted to get back to class to see everyone and to 'cook for Hanachan.' She worried even then. Instead of class last week, we had a memorial service, which isn't as formal as it sounds. We just talked about Kumachan. We talked about the wonderful things she did and her furvor for life. We read words, such heartfelt words, about her, messages that flew across the Pacific. Everyone was touched.
It was finally that weekend that I found myself back at Morrie's corner. It is a book that has gained so much popularity that even most small Japanese bookstores carry it in stock. I sat at home reading that night. His life's thesis.
Love.
Forgive.
Once you learn how to die, you learn how to live.
He held a living funeral for himself, before he died. People said all the things they would have said at a funeral. The only difference was that Morrie was around to hear them.
Don't put off until tomorrow what you can do today.
The whole time I have been in Japan, I've been looking for answers. Perhaps this temple, perhaps this person, perhaps this stone or tree will reveal the meaning of life. Where am I headed, and what is my path? It is like wandering through our neighbor's wheat maze. There is a path, but all around is high grass. Sometimes you get thrown off the path, into that tall grass, and it's hard to tell which way is which and where you are going. But then eventually you stumble out of the grass into another path. And then another. Over and over. Some paths take you back to the start. Some paths take you farther and farther out into the field. Some are long. Some are short. But there is one way in and one way out.
First breath and the last.
In between are a million choices.
They all lead to the same place in the end.