“what is it like to die?”
i asked. so small. so timid.
my words, unveiling fate.
aware of what’s to come,
i cannot backtrack.
thirty two hours from now..
departure.
time is not linear, and in this moment, i need it to freeze.
he is this embodiment.
he is this person.
with him, i feel bonded.
like family, from another time.
i am too shy to look into his eyes, blue, pristine.
mine black brown, reddened, empty.
i do not want him to see me like this.
so i keep my gaze on the damn of Capilano river, north vancouver-
a man made waterfall of self expression- tears with no end.
“just wait.
i want to show you something first.”
with a subtle Czech accent colouring your words
you take one last swig on your cigarette,
then toss it down, stomping down the ash.
he gestures towards a pedestrian path
walking through a forest green,
small river to our right, with a melody of flow,
old growth trees providing the illusion of privacy.
he keeps leading me down, and i keep following.
gravel paths, dirt paths, no paths.
my light pink sneakers turning earthy brown.
1 hour passes. 2 hour passes. we continue.
as we approach signage,
the trail ends here.
it’s time to turn around.
but he keeps walking.
why?
“where are we going?!”
i ask with nervous pitch.
i am starting to feel agitation build.
we don’t have a lot of time left before sun goes down.
“onwards.
come.
i never take the same path twice in life,
so why would we do that now?
one should take any direction they wish,
at whatever speed,
but never go back.
please trust me.”
i do.
i trust him.
he leads.
i follow.
off the known path.
into the wild woods.
we reach, the forest breaks,
golden hour rays hitting softly on
metropolitan concrete, boarding
first the sea bus,
then the city bus.
the scenes passing by
become more familiar, home..
he is leading me
to Granville island
with the gifting presence of sunset.
we take a seat on a park bench
overlooking the docks.
he lights a cigarette, inhaling,
while i breathe in the sea.
infinite peace.
infinite awe.
my soul melts into relaxation.
surrender.
“you asked me a question.” you open, breaking silence.
you, aware i am ready for the hard conversations.
“where do we go when we die?”
“you think i have the answer?!”
his voice heightens pitch, with an attempt at comedic relief.
i feel new waves,
rigid waves.
extreme anger,
agitation,
frustration.
“why didn’t you say that earlier!”
my cheeks are turning crimson red.
embarrassment and anger.
i feel tears welling in my eyes.
he breaks out laughing.
i want to strangle his neck
but i know there is reason.
i trust where he is taking me.
he tosses his cigarette to the ground,
i feel his ambience shifting.
he meet my fears with his own.
this will be first time we address it.
we sit.
observing silence.
then he speaks,
soft and tender:
“i read a book by a Buddhist monk.
they say, when you die, you are merely shedding your skin and will prepare for a new life.
not necessarily human. you can be born as a tiger, a ghost, a god, so much.
and for you – probably a free bird who adventures in the forest everyday but
is called back to the ocean for golden hour for every sunrise, sunset.”
we laugh.
his eyes, so bright,
his smile, so infectious.
“that sounds lovely.”
i relax into it.
He continues:
“for 49 days, after you die,
you enter the Bardo.
an in-between state.
where you release your old life and begin to work through your old karmic connections,
until it is time to be reborn under the circumstances of your past life.
the Bardo is like a dream state.
the scenes, they change, fast and rapid.
you experience, you see, you feel.
but you are not alive or in your physical form.
like a swift changing of scenes. all in connection to your past life, and the karmic seeds planted for your future life.”
“it can get overwhelming and scary.
you will see things, you will experience things, it will be very intense, heightened.
but in the book, they monk says the most important thing to do to ensure a good rebirth, is to realize none of it is real.
things will move fast, and you will feel excoriating pain + fear at times. believe none of it. it’s all a delusion.
the most important thing- no matter how scared you get:
you cannot go backwards.
you must relax onwards,
forwards.”
“be brave and let each scene change, unattached.”
he asserts, as i soak in all his words.
“be floppy and relaxed?” i say, trying to sum up , in a flow, i can resonate.
he laughs. “yes, be floppy and relaxed.”
he continues. “things will move very fast. very intense. be an observer. none of it is real. it’s all a dream.”
i let his words marinate in to every cell of my body, like a roadmap to the next life.
“49 days of the Bardos.
what an adventure.”
i am lost in thought.
i come back to the weight of my broken heart,
feeling a wave of grief, earthquake my chest.
my brother… what his journey into the Bardo was like.
was he scared? where is he now? oh, my heart aches for him.
i bring myself
to the point
of intersection..
past,
present,
future..
i speak with porcelain vulnerability,
emotion quivering into my voice,
“tomorrow i will spread the rest of my brothers ashes.
but i don’t where. or how.”
“i know. your mother told me.
we mustn’t worry about tomorrow.
take each day as it comes, each moment.
even now, it’s all but a dream.
you will know what to do when the moment has arrived,”
you speak, grounding me back to now,
with a Buddha’s compassion.
he takes my hand,
my right hand,
and we merge back
into sacred silence.
on Granville Island,
my soul’s home.
golden hour
at it’s finest.
i find myself
drifting off with the waves.
“i wonder what my bardos will look like?” my heart ponders silently.
“i think it will look alot like India.” my soul replies.
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