Histoire d'hiver

My mom died three nights ago. I had been looking after her for several years, managed her home hospice daily over the last six months, and as usual, was alone with her in the house when she went.

The blessing is that she went quietly, after dropping into a two-day sleep from which she did not rouse. Finally she simply declined the next breath, and that was that.

Likely the death any of us would choose if choice were given.

It's famously hard to know what to say to a person in my place. What is less well-known is how hard it is to know what to say when you're the person in my place. Aside from Issa, few meet the challenge.

Which is perhaps why one of my favourite cinematic moments has been running through my mind.

It's the last line of the brilliant Canadian coming-of-age memoir, Histoires d'hiver. As the final scene of his childhood plays out, the protagonist, now my age, says this in voiceover:

« Papa est décédé il y a quinze ans déjà, et maman, elle, la nuit dernière. Et aujourd'hui, je me sens comme un enfant qui n'a plus le choix de devenir enfin un adulte, car il n'est plus le petit gars de personne. »

(English translation here.)

I expect I'll share further meditations as they become available.

(Photo from the final scene of Histoires d'hiver. The movie itself, like most Canadian films, is difficult to find. The YouTube video linked in the text is the only source I could locate, and of course, YouTube tends to blank such things straightway.)

WW: Daffodils sprouting in flood water

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Street Level Zen: Refuge

"Touch the earth, love the earth, honour the earth, her plains, her valleys, her hills, and her seas; rest your spirit in her solitary places."

Henry Beston

(Photo courtesy of Mario Dobelmann and Unsplash.com.)

WW: Walking stick

(I've posted about my monk stick before, but there's no denying it has a very "rural" vibe. Ideal for forest and field, but rather too "Lord of the Rings" for road and town. That needs something shorter, and probably without a berry hook.

Hence the above. It's about sternum-height and is made from a nice piece of evergreen huckleberry [Vaccinium ovatum]. Though somewhat heavy for a walking stick, it's a hard, fine-grained wood, resistant to abuse, and oiling to a satiny deep gold lustre. A brass pipe cap - invisible under the snow - serves as a ferrule.

I've gotten used to the heft of the thing, and received some nice comments.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Wandering

Not all who wander are lost. Some of us are looking for our keys.

Or our glasses.

Or our glasses so we can find our keys.


(Photo courtesy of Maxpixel.net and a generous photographer.)

WW: Coral mushroom scramble

(Scrambled eggs and coral mushrooms foraged in the forest last week comprise this delectable disc. I didn't bother to ID the fungus, but believe it was Ramaria. Chopped celery leaves round off the feast. Or maybe finish off the round feast.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Ten Years And Counting

This month past brought Rusty Ring into its tenth year of publication, not counting the four-odd months that I sat ango. This blog has become so integral to my monastic practice that I didn't even notice that an anniversary had passed until this week.

There's an ancient Zen commandment that monks keep a journal of their lives and activities, and that such records should be accessible to all in order to support others' enlightenment practices, present and future. Rusty Ring, and the regular posting schedule that I imposed on myself from the beginning, with the resulting pressure for material, quickly filled that gap in my monastic programme.

And then it added something else as well: sangha. As I've mentioned before, the third is the hardest Treasure for hermits to acquire, and the lack most keenly felt. In the case of Rusty Ring, just the blog itself, absent of readers, is already sangha; somebody for me to talk to. That it's also attracted a modest but loyal cadre of regulars, with similarly serendipitous stop-ins from visitors all over the world, provides a cogent counterpoise to my monk game.

And so I feel like this is the moment to let a small but significant cat out of the bag: that this is in fact an actual primordial 'blog. That is, in the original intent of the medium – by its full name, a weblog – it's a personal thought journal, with the appended late-90s enhancement that others can read it too if they wish.

Thus, all of the posts here are messages to me. Reminders, for the most part, practical and philosophical.

To lift my spirits and strengthen my resolve.

To summon the kyôsaku when I start sloughing off.

The recipes posted, I refer to while cooking.

The sesshin and practice points I consult while organising my own.

And crucially, the moral and political exhortations that frequently appear here are all addressed to me.

Spoiler alert.

Not quite The Sixth Sense, but there may be a touch of O. Henry in that revelation for some, all the same.

Any road, I hope the reflections that I share here – or at least make available – or at least don't hide – are useful to those who must, with increasing difficulty, dig them out. (I have got to move to a better host!)

Your company and contributions have been invaluable, and I'm deeply grateful for your influence on my life and practice.

In pleasant anticipation of the years to come, I remain,

Your obedient servant.