Every summer, the anniversary of my dad’s death comes around. He had quite a few health conditions, so it was difficult (but not impossible) to ignore that this would happen someday. He was on my newsletter mailing list and he used to reply to every single one. He would tell me how proud he was, usually in all-caps and with some creative spelling. He was proud of my being a small business owner, like he had been for so many years. His numerous health conditions made it pretty difficult (but not impossible) to ignore the fact that he would not be here forever.
Although we certainly had our difficult moments, in his last few years, my acknowledging this fact of impermanence helped me to act in accord with reality: I was more accepting, more forgiving, more appreciative, and I told him all that important stuff. (One book that really helped me have some important conversations with him was this: Being Mortal, by Atul Gawande.) And now every time I write one of these emails, I think of him, and appreciate his sweetness, with gratitude that I have a practice that helps me see even difficult things a little more clearly.
Impermanence can be quite painful, but it can also be a real sweetener. We sometimes live in a bubble of assumptions and thoughts; we think we know what is going to happen, and act on these assumptions. We go on auto-pilot, and interact with our idea of someone, maybe as they used to be, but perhaps not how they are today. We don’t really know if we are going to see someone ever again. With mindfulness, we can find a place to examine our thoughts –sometimes bursting this bubble– dropping our stories, and revealing life as it really is. We can learn to let our hearts open to life in its tender, powerful, ever-changing radiance.
