Tag: hospital

What Time is It

On May 18, 2018

In Death, Time, Space, & Knowledge, Uncertainty of time of death

“What time is it?” he asks, forgetting:
shifts his pain in the chair.
I search, again, to answer; but sense
clock time isn’t what he really wants.
“I don’t know,” I murmur.

His bony feet in my hands.
The white ward wall, sun-splashed.

At thirty-three, he’s dying.
My hands are strong.
This morning: I breathed, stretched, enjoyed
the grass beneath my own – in a park.
Firmness of feet; earth supports.

Birdsong, a lyrical breath.

“It’s a very spiritual thing,
massaging someone’s feet,” he rasps.
“Scary, this… not knowing…”
We wonder. I begin to speak, but he’s saying:
“What’s going to happen, I mean…”

A sunlit curtain; a breeze.
And he asks again: “What time is it?”

Christopher Ash.
Copyright, 2018

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Comment:

The point, to me, of the poem in my last post is in those two words toward the end: “We wonder.” We wondered together. The young man was in a hospice. And, he was dying – of that, there was no doubt. Not long to go.

And yet, at any moment, it is still a matter of not knowing exactly when; and there is always the question of what it will be like. He couldn’t sleep at night for fear of it.

I was merely a few years older than he was; but, I knew his questions were mine, too – albeit less cogently. I was healthy, but I had begun to contemplate the inevitability of death. It wasn’t a matter of only one of us having the certainty of death, without knowing when.

What will it be like? Sometimes I’m plain curious, almost excited, like Mary Oliver says in her poem When Death Comes:

“I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?”

Now, decades years later, now that I’m old enough to die naturally, and after my cancer last year, I have been thinking more about what will death be like.

The practice of dissolution of the elements is a wonderful one, and I have no doubt at all about its helpfulness – not only because it nurtures a joyous, wakeful life; but because it goes a tiny, tiny bit of the way in meeting the unanswerable.

However, the event of one’s own will is intimate. I sense its breathy inscrutability. “What’s it going to be like?” This question is wake me up. I was healthy back then, but his question prodded at my conceit, called it into question, rousing me from the slumber that is there in the trance of youth, in the trance of health, and in the trance of one’s life appearing not to be threatened.

“There are, practitioners, these three kinds of intoxication. What three? Intoxication with youth, intoxication with health, and intoxication with life.” – The Buddha, quoted in the Anguttara Nikaya.

But, here’s the more impelling point: When I realise that death is not readable, I have no reason to believe it will be more readable when it comes. Why? I feel the presence of Nowness in my life as equally mysterious – equally unsayable. And each haiku-like perception is as immeasurable. No breath can be timed in clock-time. We are unable to measure our lives in ‘coffee spoons.’

The breeze in the curtain, the sun-splashed wall, these are not findable, not objects thrown over there.*

“Now” just as unfindable as death, while it’s intimately, radiantly ineluctable – the real doorway to the infinite. Death is this moment.

Every time he asked me what time it was, a perplexed clock stared at me – non-plussed, Dali-esque.

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* My OED tells me that ‘object’ means literally: “thing thrown before or presented to (the mind or thought.”

Attuning to Felt Awareness

By admin

On June 22, 2016

In Body, Death, Enquiry, Focusing, Memoir, Mindfulness, Positivity, Practices, Radiant Citta

Those who thoroughly engage
in mindfulness of the body,
who don’t practice what shouldn’t be done,
and regularly practice what should be done,
conscious and clearly comprehending,
their toxic impulses fade away.

– Dhammapada, Verse 293. Translated by Christopher J. Ash

After my stay in hospital for the removal of my cancer, in 2014, when I returned home, a friend wanted to know how I had practised mindfulness during my stay in hospital. I replied by detailing a number of methods by which I had stayed in my body continuously, so as not to dissociate from present-moment experience.

I told her of methods I was able to call on, learnt over decades. After talking with my friend, I reflected to myself that all of them awakened space. I had used every means possible to be in spacious awareness in a loving way. Inviting the experience of space was a core thing, because with space comes enhanced sensitivity.

(And vice-versa, of course. Opening to the senses as they are, and to one’s whole-body sensing, brings space.)

Where am I going with this? I have been asking: what do we need to cultivate, to ask the big questions; and to hold the big terrors that can come with illness, death and dying? The broad answer is: mindfulness of the body, with specific attention to the feel of being.

When I was in hospital, most of the time, mindfulness of the body was in union with simple resting in Being. The experience of the body was rarely pleasant, with all the pains; but there was, nevertheless, a pleasant abiding in the heart of being alive. Resting in unsupported awareness, in union with mindfulness of the body, these each supported the other.

To be conscious of what I was experiencing – needles entering my skin, sending love and gratitude to my condemned prostate (for its years of healthy functioning), being wheeled on the gurney, receiving the anæsthetic mask (while hearing Mozart in the theatre), waking up in the recovery room, being woken in the dead of night, swallowing pills, painful trips to the toilet carrying the catheter, receiving the care of the attentive nurses – to be conscious and to clearly comprehend my situation with a positive heart, all I needed to do was be present without any desire for another world (of experience) than the one that I was experienceing.

This gave rise to the experience of space aware of space. It was all space. The needle and the flesh – space to space. It felt, most of the time, like a blessing, to be so present, and clear that I was present. And so peaceful. There was nothing for me to do, but to be there.

However, let me be clear about being there. Despite what I say about space – or, perhaps because of it – being present is a feeling thing. It’s a knowing from the inside of the body, in a felt way. It’s the aliveness, the warmth, the felt presence of a bodily existence. This kind of space is not dissociation.

One can be mindful of, and clearly comprehend, any experiencing – the body, the feeling-tones (pleasant, unpleasant, and neutral), the states of mind or attitudes, and the dynamics of your experience – if you welcome the whole felt world (loka), without possessing any of it.

Comprehension can occur, then, in different ways: about your being in the situation, about others being a part of your situation, and of what there is to learn about the functioning of your mental habits in the situation, and so on. This is the field of your responsibility – the clear comprehension which is present in Buddhist mindfulness. But this comprehension – in its more obvious and its subtle forms – is inseparable from unlimited space.

How does such comprehension happen? By some imposition of a rule, or conformity to a pattern made by others? No, by the felt bodily knowledge of one’s situation. Clear comprehension is not a dry ‘thinking.’ It’s knowing from inside the known.

And, sometimes – and this is, for me, the most precious experience – sometimes you are just effortlessly present, and you comprehend presence itself for the miracle it is. Mindful in the sense of being awake without effort or purpose; and, intimate with wakefulness itself. You are completely resting in a pure, total, warm presence whose light leaves nothing out. Conscious and clearly comprehending by being conscious awareness, without separation.

So, for the growth of our capacity to be intimate with living process as it occurs – for our ignorance to fade away – we need to cultivate spaciousness, which is a bodily-felt space. To do this, it helps to awaken mindfulness of the body – whole-body awareness – and, specifically, attunement to that band of experience called bodily-felt meaning.

Nectar with Brahma

By admin

On August 13, 2015

In Body, Memoir, Mindfulness, Positivity, Radiant Citta, Time, Space, & Knowledge

– Dhammapada, Verse 293. Translated Christopher J. Ash

I practised inviting space continuously during my stay in hospital for the removal of my cancer, last year. When I returned home, a friend asked me how I practised mindfulness during my stay. I listed all kinds of upaya (skilful means), which I’ve learnt over decades. After talking with my friend, I reflected to myself that all of them awakened space. I had used every means possible to be in loving, spacious awareness.

Most of the time, mindfulness of the body was in union with resting in voidness. Each supported the other. To be conscious of what I was experiencing – whether it was needles entering my skin, sending love and gratitude to my condemned prostate (for its years of functioning), being wheeled on the gurney, receiving the anæsthetic gas, waking up in the recovery room, swallowing pills, making painful trips to the toilet with my catheter, or receiving the care of the attentive nurses – to be conscious and clearly comprehend the quality of my attitude, to dwell in a positive heart: all I needed to do was be present without any desire. It was space aware of space. It felt, most of the time, like a blessing, to be so present, and clear that I was present. And so peaceful. There was nothing for me to do, but to be there.

Until I wrote that – clear that I was present – I haven’t thought of the combination (mindful and clearly comprehending, satānaṃ sampajānānaṃ) as meaning quite that; but it feels right. That is, one can be mindful of, and clearly comprehend, your experiencing, your pasture: the body, the feeling-tones (pleasant, unpleasant, and neutral), the states of mind or attitudes, and the dynamics of your whole felt world (loka). Comprehension can be, for example, about your being in the situation, and what there is to learn about the functioning of your mind in the situation, and so on. This is the field of your responsibility.

And, sometimes – and this is, for me, the most precious experience – sometimes you are just present, and you comprehend presence for the miracle it is. That is, mindful in the sense of awake without effort or purpose; and, intimate with wakefulness itself. You are completely resting in a pure, total, warm presence whose light leaves nothing in life out. Conscious and clearly comprehending from inside the conscious awareness. It’s like drinking this nectar with Brahma.

An Instance

By admin

On July 27, 2015

In Memoir, Radiant Citta, Time, Space, & Knowledge

I am lying on a gurney. I have on only the gown for the operating theatre. I am prone in an ante-room, with a white ceiling filling my visual field. I am there a long time; about half an hour. I am waiting for them to put me under and open me up, to extract an afflicted organ. ‘Extract’ is the right word: ‘To take from something of which the thing taken was a part.’ He needs to be precise. I know I am breathing. I send metta to all, combined with the loka practice. That is, I send metta to: all above, all below, all to the north, all to the south, all to the west, all to the east. And, then I add, “And in the middle. May I be happy, safe and well.” Sending metta, the loka opens up its boundaries. Immeasurable space.

I think, “The chances of dying are only seven in one million, but that’s a possibility.” I can’t know that I won’t die in the next hour or two. It seems to me that I would still do metta, even if I knew that I would certainly die in the next hour or two. What else would be worth it, at this hour? It’s bliss. I continue to track my breathing.

I remember the last time that I had a general anaesthetic. I am hoping for the same experience, because it was so interesting. I was mindful as I went into the theatre. I was mindful as they put me on the table. I was mindful when I came out of the anaesthetic, and I knew instantly that I had been present all during the operation. I don’t mean on the surface – aware of the operation, no – aware of the silence of the mind. It was a thread of presence all the way through. That was special. I felt such a sense of awe that I didn’t care that I had survived the anaesthetic.

But, excuse me. I’ve moved away from what I wanted to say. I’ve giving you an example of loka. Lying on the gurney, my lived world is vibrantly alive with luminous space. A white, hospital, cork ceiling could appear boring, but the space isn’t impeded by the limits of my ageing eyes. The space has no limit. Nothing can be boring, when it is the manifestation of the unbounded awareness. My breathing is doing itself. I am feeling so alive. And the space is undivided. It has no centre and no periphery. How could space have a centre?

I can hear the rock and roll in the operating theatre. Yes, rock and roll. I think how last time he operated on me, he asked me what music I preferred. He asked me in the theatre, and I didn’t have much time to think, so I said Bach. What I heard as the sensory world dissolved was Bach’s Mass. I smile at this. This time I was ready and had told him I wanted Mozart piano sonatas. I might die. The ceiling looks beautiful. Breathing in, breathing out. May all beings be happy.

It didn’t happen this time, that thread thing. It was different. I wonder if no two deaths are alike.