Seven sevens

Penstemon, Superstition Mountains, AZ

     I traveled in good company. Over oatmeal my aunt, the Chan Dharma Master, and my mother, the Zen Priest, discussed the Buddhist rituals and ceremonies that surround death. I listened, an invited fly, soaking in discussions that I mostly understood.

     "In the Chinese Buddhist tradition, the family of the diseased would abstain from eating meat or drinking alcohol for the forty-nine day period following the death. The merit of this action is dedicated to the deceased."

      I counted back on my fingers, remembering meals. Was the ground turkey I stirred into pasta sauce Wednesday lunch or Thursday? I am not a vegetarian, though an allergy to red meat and training in both sustainable living and yoga philosophy have lead me to eat fewer meals containing meat.

       I drifted away from the discussion. Could I do it? Forty-nine days with no meat, no beer? Should I cut out sugar too? How would it serve me, my grief? How would it serve the traveling spirit of my aunt? But why not? I thought, I'll try it. It certainly won't hurt me.

      And it did serve. It served me in ways I had not foreseen.

      After returning from California, I found myself sensitive: the news grated, and I turned it off. I made simple, nutritious meals, and made my daily walk a priority. This period of abstinence was not only for Gail's sake, though I happily diffused to her the merit of my actions.

      Instead of muting my sorrow with a glass of wine, or seeking comfort in breads and pastries, I inhabited my sorrow. I grieved, yes, but I did not wallow. My body and mind were exhausted, but nourished and clean. I was receptive to words, memories, insight. I was tuned and attuned; vibrating and vibrant.

     I lived deliberately.

     I felt the full force of my grief. 

     I began to heal.