A beloved teacher at the Village Zendo has died. Robert Kaku Gunn. Kaku means Song of Emptiness. I can hear his voice now, a beautiful tenor, always on pitch, leading our chants, shepherding us toward the sweet emptiness that is ever so much closer than we think.
Looking at his picture here I smile with him. This morning hearing the news I cried. I hadn't seen him in a while so really nothing will change for me, except that I know his journey is over. All of us will eventually accomplish death.
There is a Feldenkrais teacher whose recordings I practice with. He died of cancer many years ago and yet his voice and his mind still guide me. When I first found out he was dead I felt betrayed, as if he had failed something. Now that I am closer to death I inwardly congratulate him. You made it!
On her birthday, our Roshi wrote a death poem, as is traditional for Zen practitioners, and shared it with the Sangha. I decided to write one too. The format is like this:
- line 1, something about experience right now
- line 2, include the years of your life
- line 3, how you feel about death
- line 4, a word of zen.
So here is mine for 2020ish:
Falling and walking and pushing and loving,
61 years mixing this and that
At ease against my will
trusting rain to fall and breeze to blow
republicans to rot
Ok, well, I added context. I think I can be forgiven. It was in reaction to their bizarre loyalty to the fascist populist who fired up enough hatred to distract the people from the astounding theft of the poor by the rich.
They will rot, and soon. And so will I. We all come together in the end.
Harpers recently excerpted accounts by men on death row, to be published soon in a volume called Right Here, Right Now. The last words in one excerpt: It's taken me a lifetime to learn that life's deepest meaning isn't found in accomplishments, but in relationships. All there ever is is this moment. You, me, all of us, right here, right now, this minute, that's love. And that...that's a whole lifetime.
I remember when Kaku told us what he had learned from Roshi. When I first came to practice with her, I was full of mistrust and told her I didn’t trust anyone, especially myself. She said, ‘I hope you will let us love you.’ And I did. And they did. Unending bows for an unending practice!”
Here in NYC the spring is arriving and dying without end. I am still breathing, bowing to you.
March 12, 2021