11 Jun Death has silent wings

Death has icy wings. It sails silently, floating over the snowy landscape and frozen lakes. Death has no words and shows no understanding. It has no tomorrow and no way out. Death is silent and vast and inescapable. Its shrill song pierces through our bodies, through our bones, through my heart.

When its cold has penetrated us and there are no more tears, and you explore the chilly white landscape you walk through, you only now notice a pattern hidden in the bare branches, in the icy blades of grass. The sun reflects the frozen water, and a soft fire of wonder glows in your heart.

You don’t need comfort, you don’t need company, you’re already together, the sparkle is everywhere.

The glow in the heart has begun to smolder and ignite, the snow is melting, drops trickle down, forming rivulets of sparkling water. You dip your hands in it and drink the liquid. This is warmth you drink, this is love.

Master Kosen
My Zen master, Stephane Thibaut, Master Kosen, has passed away. In Zen, you are so much together, in silence but also in everything else. Steph, as we called him, married me twice, smilingly draped a Zen scarf around all my children, lived with us for three months, was sometimes angry with me, and then forgave me. In the dojo, we were silent and attentive together, while his roaring laughter shattered all the sacredness, simultaneously embracing and warming us. No one is as human as the master.

On a wall
During the first summer camp after the death of Pauline, my first wife, I was practicing zazen in the hall just outside the dojo. Our young baby was sleeping on the floor just below the dojo. From where I was sitting, I could hear every sound. When I heard her, I would quietly get up to get her out of bed and prevent her cries from disturbing the meditation. The meditation was over and the group of practitioners was streaming out, but when Steph saw me sitting on a wall with the baby on my lap, to my horror, the whole procession turned in my direction and came to a stop right in front of me. Steph looked at me lovingly and said, “You don’t have to sit in the hall, come into the dojo, let it go, it’ll be okay.”

From that moment on, I practiced zazen in the dojo with everyone else, and my daughter waited patiently until the end of the meditation before she made herself heard. Had she been listening?

Steph is gone but more present in me than ever.

*This post has been automatically translated from Dutch