Momentary Balance

The improvised cold frame where I hardened off my little seedlings is nearly empty. Most of them have now reside in their appointed positions in flower pots and the garden. At this moment, the petunias are the most showy of my successes.

I planted them in mid-March, then set them out in the cold frame in early May. In mid-May I risked a hard frost and set them out in containers. Now they are wildly blooming in the long plastic planters I set on top of the rails of the access ramp at the Temple. Just a few feet from where I sit, buddled up against the morning chill with my laptop and cup of tea that was warm just a few minutes ago.

The planters themselves are just resting on top of the railing. I put petunias in these pots, in this location every year. I really should secure them but I don’t. Twice, in heavy winds last year, one of the pots tumbled down to the garden below—a twenty-foot fall. The petunias were a little bruised and disturbed, but they survived both falls. Maybe this year I’ll secure them.

I’d like to know they’ll be OK.

I’d like to know that I’ll be OK. But who can say?

An ongoing joke with a close friend: ‘Will everything be OK?’ one of us asks. The other one replies, ‘Short-term or long-term?’ The joke is that in the short term most things will find a way to work themselves out so the answer is ‘Yes, everything will be OK.’ But in the long-term the answer has to be ‘No. Your extended prognosis is sickness, old-age and death.’ Not a pretty prospect.

When I began to seriously practice Zen in my late twenties, I was clear that part of my intention was to be able to ‘die well’. Even at that tender age, I was concerned with the certain end that no one talked about—you work hard and do something worthwhile, then it’s all taken away—not just what you possess, but your physical and mental capacities—even your memories eventually vanish.

You can hold out for some vision of heaven elsewhere—that we will be reunited with those we love and live in perfect peace forever. But I could never work out the details of this in a way that satisfied me. If you are married twice, do you live in perfect peace with your first partner or your second? Or all three of you? And what kind of life could possibly be interesting and satisfying for the rest of eternity?

How to meet our predicted and unavoidable death? How to meet the multiple deaths of each day? The plans that fall through. The friends and family that don’t always seem to take us into account or care and support us the way we would want them to. Parts of us are dying moment after moment.

There is no possibility of holding onto what we have or even who we think we are. The David of yesterday, and his whole world, has vanished. The memories are still strong, and much seems the same, but pausing and looking closer, I can notice that this particular morning has never happened before.

The petunias are solidly balanced on the railing. Their wine colored trumpet-like flowers are already too numerous to count. Maybe this is heaven? The miracle of delicate flowers emerging from the damp dirt of infinite possibility this cool morning. I can predict there will be more and different flowers for many weeks now. Who knows, maybe the planters will even one day be secured to the railing.

Maybe there’s a place to abide right here in the middle of it all.

Surrounded by uncertainty,
without doubt, flowers bloom.

Personal Practice: Take a moment to reflect on your prognosis of sickness, old age and death. This is your human birthright. What if it’s not some giant mistake of the part of the creator of the universe? What if the transience of our lives is part of what makes joy and appreciation possible? See if you can remember at various moments throughout the day how precious and miraculous this very life is in every moment.