I’ve written before about Flopsy, a miniature schnauzer, and my parents’ second dog. She passed away in 2002.  Yes, I have missed that sweet little dog. But I have been comforted in the more recent years. My understanding of birth and death is a lot different now. I probably value life even more, but I also feel like I don’t really believe in birth and death. I have learned that those two events are relatively arbitrary points on a vast, ongoing continuum of life.

I have been especially reassured by some of the writings of the Zen teacher, Thich Nhat Hanh. His writing has shown me that one can take a bigger view of life, a view that is not limited by time or space, birth or death, coming or going, being or non-being, coming or going. Let me quote a few of his words here.

The day my mother died I wrote in my journal, A serious misfortune of my life has arrived. I suffered for more than one year after the passing away of my mother. But one night, in the highlands of Vietnam, I was sleeping in the hut in my hermitage. I dreamed of my mother. I saw myself sitting with her and we were having a wonderful talk. She looked young and beautiful, her hair flowing down. It was so pleasant to sit there and talk to her as if she had never died.

When I woke up it was about two in the morning and I felt very strongly as though I had never lost my mother. The impression that my mother was still with me was very clear. I understood then that the idea of having lost my mother was just an idea. It was obvious in that moment that my mother was just an idea. It was obvious in that moment that my mother is always alive in me.

There is obviously much more to the teaching, but here is the link to the complete article from which those quoted paragraphs come.

http://www.beliefnet.com/story/113/story_11310.html

If you enjoy that one, here is one more to savor.

http://www.beliefnet.com/story/113/story_11309.html

As little as 10 years ago, I would have said some of this was crazy talk. That was before my awakening began. It has been a long process, this waking up, but each day, each moment that I am mindful of my life, I wake just a little more and see reality a bit more clearly.

My parents’ first dog, Mopsy, grew up with my brother and me. That dear little dog passed away in 1989. I’ve cried a lot of tears over them, but I have been consoled more recently.

In December 2005, while I was on vacation on the Florida Gulf coast, I was taking a leisurely, but mindful walk along the beach. Walking shirtless in the wet sand near the water’s edge, I noticed the endless progression of waves. They rose, they fell. They came, they went. Some were big, some were small. Yet, for the first time I can remember, I saw much more than the waves. Within and all around the waves, I saw water, the ground or essence of being of the waves. I was deeply calmed and at peace by this realization. All the vicissitudes of life, the birth and the death, and the endless changes we experience were still there, but I saw into the nature of them and of me. I was no longer frightened.

As the sun’s light shone on the sea’s sparkling surface, to my left I saw pelicans flying over the water. To my right, a crowd of seagulls were resting on the warm, dry sand. As I continued walking, I had to look twice, but I saw both Mopsy and Flopsy playing in the waves. As the small waves broke on the shore, those two little dogs were rolling and running and tumbling over one another. The sound of the gently splashing water was like the happy panting of two dogs enjoying themselves in the present moment–the only place where dogs live. At that moment, I saw them, present, alive, well, and joyful, years after they had passed away and just over a thousand miles from where they had lived in Chicago. Having seen them, I am at peace. I know they are always with me. For that, I am blessed and very grateful.