11 Jun Where are your bones?

As I enter the dojo, step over the thick wooden beam, and prepare to greet the altar, my gaze is drawn to the right. A large bouquet of flowers, still wrapped in cellophane, lies on his cushion where the Zen master usually sits. My thoughts race through my mind as I search for a spot to meditate, continuing to do so throughout the entire meditation. When I emerge, I approach a bald monk I don’t know. “What’s going on?” I ask. “Don’t you know? The master has passed away.” Suddenly, everyone is gone. I’m standing completely alone in the small square. Above me, I see the clouds. A blackbird whistles. I hear voices. The bald monk is still facing me. “And now?” I ask. “What’s happening now?” “Now we’re doing zazen (Zen meditation) here in the dojo for 49 days and nights.” “Oh, and what’s the purpose?” “You participate as much as you can,” the monk answers with such a naturalness in his voice that I don’t dare ask any more. From that moment on, I still go to the dojo in the dark in the morning and again in the evening. I do nothing but my theater classes, short periods of sleep, and zazen. Only much later will I realize that I spent more time in zazen there than anyone else.

A long, suspended breath
Now, 43 years later, we conclude another 49-day period. This time, the dojo was an online Zoom connection. It seemed as if a baton of silence was being passed every half hour, like a long, suspended breath. And now, here in the temple in the South of France, amidst the deep green moss-covered trees and the tawny yellow-brown autumn leaves, fringed by two wild streams, and shrouded in deep darkness and countless stars in the evening, we string together the final meditations, still in silence, and bid farewell to Master Kosen.

Where are your bones?
Back then, during the closing ceremony of Master Deshimaru’s 49 days, I went to the temple for the first time. As the ashes were being interred, several older disciples spoke, including the young, confident Steph. He stood in the middle of the path and looked up. “Where are your bones and your marrow now?” he called out. “Where is your spine and your extended neck?” In Zen, many clues are given about the body, both realistically and symbolically. The bones and the marrow represent the essence. The spirit of the master, the core of his practice, were very much alive in the man who stood calling out with his gaze upward, and whom we now commemorate here in the temple. I feel time flowing, and even silence flowing. There is nothing to grasp, and nothing to hold on to. You can only be a participant.

How do you say goodbye?
Saying goodbye is part of life. Saying goodbye hurts. It’s as if everything within us screams: don’t let this be true. It’s so difficult to accept. But here too, nature has created a path to process the loss. Loss isn’t just about a loved one close to you; it can also involve an end to a relationship, the loss of a job, or anything else you hold dear. After all, we all face changes in our bodies and loss of abilities until we leave everything behind at our own death. Yesterday, just before the ceremony, one of his faithful disciples cried so deeply. I held her in my arms until her shaking body calmed down. Crying is the first part of grief and helps with the healing process.

The stages of grief
Dealing with loss is part of the workshop “De Innerlijke Metamorfose”. We’ll explore the different stages of grief and reflect on unhelpful thoughts that slow or block the grieving process. There are also thoughts that are actually helpful. A key stage is what I call “the cold winter forest.” This cold and lonely phase is essential to the grieving process. It’s not just cold there, but we’re also sensitive to the little things around us. The winter forest reveals what’s truly important in life. There, we also find access to “the love that never dies”.

*This post has been automatically translated from Dutch