"Who is this person?" Mom asks haltingly between bites of lunch. She lifts the fork in a slow trajectory toward her mouth: a swipe at the cheek, a shaky rotation to the chin, then a hesitant slide into her mouth. I resist the urge to applaud, or to say, "Good job!" as if she were 10-month-old Oliver.
"He is a kind and compassionate man, who believes that all sentient beings -- " I begin.
"Scented beans?" Mom demands. Simultaneously we burst out laughing. A piece of cantaloup shoots from my mouth. We howl so loudly that Liz, the day shift nurse, comes inside to see what's happening. Lynn emerges from the den.
"What's going on here?" Neither Mom nor I can speak.
"Oh, dear, you've made me wet my pants again," Mom gasps.
"That's okay," Lynn says. "You're the only one who can."
"What else?" Mom asks, when we have recovered.
"Well, a few times a year he and his students go to Maine for a ceremony to release lobsters, and sometimes clams and mussels as well. It's called a Tsetar Ceremony, the practice of Life Release."
Mom chews thoughtfully.
"If he releases them, doesn't he have to catch them first?"
I have no answer to this. I am imagining a happy troupe of Buddhists manning a fleet of dinghies on choppy seas, reeling in lobster traps and flinging wide the doors. "You are free, crustaceans, free!"
"I have a new beau for..." Mom says suddenly, popping my fantasy.
"Tina?" I know where this is going.
"Yes! I forget his name. He's a sort of a...?"
"Neighbor."
"Bill something or other..."
I mention the name of a man 30 years older than my sister; in fact, he is a contemporary of my mother's.
"Yes! They have so much in common. They both go around sniffing for worms," Mom says.
"They what?" Lynne, Liz and I demand. We cannot speak as waves of laughter roll through us.
Mom wiggles her fingers. "You know!" she says.
"She means dowse," Lynn guffaws, having heard this many, many times before.
"Yes!" Mom agrees. "That thing to find water."
*
I find E-Vam Center in Long Island City and a place to park on the street, a mere block away. At 6:30, the door opens, and we descend past prayer flags and a stone buddha down a few stone steps into a small, bright room. Rows of cushions have been placed upon the floor before an altar of artifacts, small bowls, relics. There is a colorful teacher's chair. There is a row of chairs and a small couch at the back, but ignoring the fact that I cannot sit comfortably with legs crossed for more than 20 minutes, I eschew the more comfortable seats to be closer. I will spend much of the next 2 hours squirming painfully, legs and hamstrings numb. I will take careful notes. I will make a mental note to get a pedicure. I will be reminded how in moments of discouragement or loneliness, I can always return to the cushion, always to the breath. I will gaze at Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche, at his calm and beautiful face, moved by his kind attention, wisdom and open-hearted presence.
"We do not know who our parents will be when we are born," Rinpoche says. "Karma brings us to connection with dharma, to a particular lineage; a particular teacher sparks our interest to study and practice. It could have taken lifetimes to get here, to be on the path, yet even with obstacles, there is an ongoing experience of growth."
For me there is also a sense of an internal life, of being someone who finds joy in meditation. I have no real understanding of how I got here, nor how many lifetimes it's taken me. What I know absolutely is that one of my root teachers is 95, and her sense of humor is irresistible.
*
