by Milarepa, Japan, May 1999
I had finished giving a concert in a small Japanese city called Shizuoka and some friends invited me to stay in their house for the night. They lived outside the city in a large, traditional-style Japanese farmhouse made of wood and paper walls. In one part of the house, their grandmother had been living with them. She had just died the day before.
The musicians I was traveling with were each given a choice which part of the house they would like to stay, when our host turned to me and offered Oba-chan's room (oba-chan is the Japanese word for grandmother). She said she said she thought I would have more space to rest there, as long as I felt comfortable with the situation. So I graciously accepted her offer. Stepping through the door to Oba-chan’s room, I couldn’t help but notice the official certificate of death tacked over its entrance, placed there by the local Shinto priest. I assured my hosts I would be fine and we all said goodnight.
Alone in the room, I could sense the
presence of death hanging in the air. It was still tangible, like a vibrating
stillness. I felt I was on sacred ground and bowed to the shrine in the corner
(every Japanese house has such a shrine). I lit some incense sticks and placed
them carefully next to the buddha statue within the shrine. A small mirror had
been placed strategically at the shrine’s center, one of the influences
of Zen Shintoism has absorbed. Its significance being: Whoever seeks God by
looking in the shrine will see their own face in the mirror.
I lay awake a long time that night before finally drifting off into a deep, dreamless sleep. The next morning, I woke up feeling grateful to Oba-chan for the opportunity to have participated in the mystical experience of her death. Taking a pen and piece of paper, I wrote the following poem in her honor . . . just to thank her.
In the corner of my
small house
An altar with a mirror shines
Empty and clear
Reflecting ripples on the lake
This house!
Where I lived a life
My shoes wait now
Patiently by the door
Where only moments before
I laughed in the sun
Alive in this Mischief
Kind people come here
today
To sing and play their instruments
Such is their joy!
Laughter
Carried by the morning breeze
Echoes through my former rooms
Someone lights to burn
Fragrant sticks in the room
Where only yesterday, I lay
Sick and dying.
Nothing much has changed today
Only this is not my house
Anymore
The incense burns slowly . . .
And with each passing
day
Soon the memory of me will fade away
Until the mirror at the altar shines
Again, empty and clear
Reflecting ripples on the lake