Every year, the DeYoung Museum in San Francisco hosts a much beloved exhibition called “Bouquets to Art.” More than 100 masters of the floral arts—mainly from (but not limited to) the Bay Area—are invited to interpret, using flowers, a specific artwork from the Museum’s collection. It’s a beautiful show, a sensory expansion of the screen-limited, cerebral world we so often inhabit. (Although I have to admit, a lot of visitors were viewing the arrangements mainly through their camera screens.) (Guilty as charged.)
Part of the show’s appeal is that it lasts only a week. During that time, local florist teams are called in to refresh the bouquets. But no flower lives forever. By the week’s end, even the most handsome floral artworks have taken on the undeniably weathered look of Robert Redford. The florists then deconstruct their bouquets, and dispose of them as they see fit.
In that way, Bouquets to Art reminds me of Tibetan sand mandalas. Some of you may have seen them; they’re fairly large, and astonishingly labor intensive. Trained artist-monks spend weeks assembling them, coaxing colored sand, grain by grain, from tiny funnels.
Shortly after these mandalas are completed, they are swept up. It’s shocking to witness; a vivid illustration of the Buddhist principle of Anicca: Impermanence. The sand is collected in jars, and sprinkled as a blessing into streams and rivers.
In 1990, at the Asian Art Museum in San Francisco, monks were almost finished creating an enormous sand mandala when something jaw-dropping occurred. Click this link to read the story, from 108 Beloved Objects. Not only is it a beautiful illustration of Anicca; it’s also reflective of what I suggest in the next part of this post’s second half.
For much of my life, I’ve been a person who is continually anticipating disaster. There’s a term for this: “catastrophic thinking.” In fact, I’ve been famous for it. Or notorious:
“There’ll be no place to park!”
“I’m gonna break my neck on that sidewalk.”
“If they were going to take my manuscript, I’d know by now.”
“Bridge traffic will be a nightmare.”
“That road work outside is going to make writing anything impossible.”
Well.... The jackhammers are raging out there, and here I am.
It sort of makes sense. Now that I’m facing a non-imaginary crisis in Parkinson’s, my attention has shifted. How and why that happened is just starting to make sense. Over the years, I’ve cultivated a sort of willy-nilly Buddhist practice. But it was always a background skill, like knowing how to tie a slipknot, or pick a lock, or horse whisper; something that, at some unknown future moment, might prove useful.
That moment is here, and it’s going to be a long one.
In the millennia-old tradition of Buddhist philosophy, there are four “divine abidings” of meditation practice. These are metta (loving-kindness), karuna (compassion), mudita (joy in the joy of others, the polar opposite of shadenfreude), and upekkha (equanimity).
The dude abides.
You might say that these days are polished with a new vein of spiritual grit. One thing that Parkinson’s demands of its disciples is to live on a day-to-day, even a moment-to-moment basis. The good days are sweet, and I can wash the dishes without back pain, walk from one end of my flat to the other without dragging my left leg, and even consider online dating (Just kidding. See last line). The bad days, I do my best and remind myself to be grateful for the many blessings, friends, and readers who fill my life. Yes, there will come a Last Perfect Day (see page 228 of Carl Sagan’s Cosmos). I won’t know that day when it comes. But I hope to be ready for what comes after, and view it with equanimity.
But what it all seems to boil down to, at least for me, isn’t an elusive Buddhist abiding. It’s simply the conviction that we’re all part of a divine comedy, a sometimes spastic dance, with none of us getting what we anticipate or work for, much less deserve.
So at my lowest points, I try to heed the wise words of the venerable prankster/clown Wavy Gravy:
“If you lose your sense of humor, it’s just not funny anymore.”
Sorry, everyone, I got Wavy's beloved quote wrong (typo) and there's no way to fix it. Mortifying! It should be, of course, "“If you lose your sense of humor, it’s just not funny anymore.”
"You might say that these days are polished with a new vein of spiritual grit."
"The bad days, I do my best and remind myself to be grateful for the many blessings, friends, and readers who fill my life. Yes, there will come a Last Perfect Day. I won’t know that day when it comes. But I hope to be ready for what comes after, and view it with equanimity.
"But what it all seems to boil down to, at least for me, isn’t an elusive Buddhist abiding. It’s simply the conviction that we’re all part of a divine comedy, a sometimes spastic dance, with none of us getting what we anticipate or work for, much less deserve."
Beautiful words, beautiful mind. And hey, when those bad days hit hard, and/or after that last perfect day is nothing more than a memory, there'll still be strawberry shortcakes and hugs knocking on your door, and all kinds of other tidings of love from that Big World of yours. <3