All The Help I Can Get

Last morning of the year. Cold rain falls outside in the darkness. Inside where I write from the warm comfort of my antique barkalounger, the Buddha and Bodhisattva statues gather in their usual silence on the bookcase next to me. They’ve been there so long, I rarely see them. It’s a cluttered arrangement with an old damaged enamel bowl, a small orange porcelain koi and a brass turtle spread throughout the convocation.

One of Bodhisattvas, Jizo, resides in a cup. Jizo is the guardian of travelers and the unborn. I wonder if his job has been easier this year with so few of us willing to travel? In his cup, he’s tilted a little, leaning against the side. He’s standing on some ashes. I like to think he’s watching over them. I’m not sure whether he’s protecting the ashes or me. His small stylized hands are in the prayer position and with his particularly round bald head he seems very serene. Just now, I straighten him up and I think he appreciates that.

Just next to him is a slightly smaller and much more delicate white porcelain statue of Kannon, the Bodhisattva of compassion. She is the one who hears the cries of the world. It is said that she responds immediately to each cry, though depending on the day, I might or might not be willing (or able) to stand by that statement.

As long as I can remember, calling out and hoping/waiting for a response has been a theme in my life. For some reason, calling out to something beyond has always made sense to me. I don’t remember ever struggling with the existence of God. I’m sure there is a God—some inconceivable source that goes by many names. My question has always been as to the nature of this being/force/principle that is beyond comprehension. I like the Jewish tradition of honoring the unimaginable quality of God by writing G-d instead of the full word.

And I have always loved the Psalms—these ancient songs of calling out. Calling out in both praise and lament. These human voices from so long ago have been companions and guides for me along my journey. They have made me feel less alone—have given me hope in dark places. Maybe, if we mush the traditions together for a moment, we could say that the Psalms are one of the voices of Jizo to the traveler. Of course, we are all travelers through this world of joy and sorrow. And we all need comfort.

Sometimes on especially dark mornings, lying in bed I put my hand on my cheek to reassure myself. ‘There, there sweetie,’ I say to myself, ‘everything will be OK.’ It’s kind of extraordinary how many days have, in fact, been OK. I might even say that since I’ve made it to this morning, the last one in 2020 that all the days since I tumbled, messy and helpless, out of my mother’s womb have been OK. And by OK I mean that all of the wonder, difficulty, dullness, excitement, anxiety, confusion and clarity that have filled them have led me to the next thing. I have not been abandoned to float through endless darkness and yet the ancient dread still arises.

And maybe even floating through endless darkness would be OK. I wonder what I might see or imagine as I floated through the dark universe. Maybe there are terrors and wonders to behold. Maybe I could just relax and enjoy the ride. Weightless and tumbling once again. I imagine myself as the astronaut in 2001: A Space Odyssey summersaulting over and over into the endless darkness. Only you can’t tumble over and over if every way is the same. With no gravity, everything is still. I would let it be still. I imagine. And Jizo and Kannon and G-d and the many other gods and Buddhas would accompany me. And they would be me. And that would be that.

But this morning—not yet. Apparently still more to come in the New Year. The good earth continues to hold and orient me with inescapable gravity. The breathing and the blood pumping and all that sustains me happens of its own, just as it has for the past sixty-eight years. And I continue to ponder the great matter—grateful for all the help I can get.