Email is an impersonal way to find out a dear friend has passed, but sometimes there’s no better way to break bad news. In my Zen school, we chant Kwan Seum Bosal–the name of the bodhisatta of compassion–when someone is in need and Ji Jang Bosal–the name of the “Earth Treasure” bodhisattva–when someone dies. Right now, the names of Kwan Seum Bosal and Ji Jang Bosal are echoing around the globe as members of my Zen school learn via email that one of our own–a long-time and dear Zen-friend–has passed, leaving a bereaved wife and many devastated friends.
In the immediate aftermath of shocking news, you have no words to express (much less explain) what has happened: all you have is a sad, stunned feeling, like a punch to the chest. The beauty of chanting, I’ve found, is that you don’t have to say anything. Once you take up your moktok–the hollow wooden instrument used to keep time during chanting–and open your mouth, the familiar melody takes over, like an oft-repeated prayer that prays itself. When Zen Master Seung Sahn died several years ago, Zen practitioners around the world chanted “Ji Jang Bosal” in his memory; when MBTA operator Terrese Edmonds died last spring, folks at the Cambridge Zen Center, having read the news in the paper, intoned the same chant. It doesn’t matter how near or far death strikes; when you receive word of bereavement, either your own or that of another, there’s only one proper response: Ji Jang Bosal.
Years ago when I lived at the Cambridge Zen Center, we’d come together every evening to chant Kwan Seum Bosal for those in need or Ji Jang Bosal for those who’d died: as a community, we carried one another’s heartaches. Every time I go to the Cambridge Zen Center to practice, I look at the names written on cards on the altar: one card listing those who are struggling, and one card listing those who have died. It’s a reminder that we’re all in this together: at any moment, any one of us will find ourselves suffering or bereaved, and at any moment, any one of us might die. We chant to give one another solace in times when words can’t express our sympathies, and we chant to remind ourselves that none of us is immune from suffering and death.
When I lived at the Cambridge Zen Center, residents would sometimes use the main meditation room for solo practice during the day, when others were at work or in their rooms. Sitting meditation nicely lends itself to solitary practice, but the sound of chanting seeps through walls and windows. Whenever I’d come home to the Zen Center during the day and would hear the sound of one of my house-mates chanting, I’d pause to listen: Kwan Seum Bosal means someone needs help, and Ji Jang Bosal means someone is grieving. In that brief moment of listening, I’d silently chant along with my unseen house-mate, not knowing the precise story behind her or his intention. From day to day, the names and faces we chant for may change, but the chant itself–and the emotion behind it–stays the same.
I was living at the Zen Center when both of my grandmothers died, and I was living at the Zen Center when my father was diagnosed with (and successfully fought) cancer. In all three cases, chanting by myself and with others brought me great emotional solace: it was something I could do, I found, even when my heart was broken, the fluid ribbon of a familiar melody carrying me even when my voice trembled with sobs. In the aftermath of tonight’s email, I have no words, but I have a clear intention: Ji Jang Bosal Ji Jang Bosal for the one we have lost, and Kwan Seum Bosal Kwan Seum Bosal for those of us left behind.
Apr 8, 2009 at 9:27 am
So sorry.
LikeLike
Apr 8, 2009 at 9:49 am
[…] Hoarded Ordinaries In the immediate aftermath of shocking news, you have no words to express (much less explain) what has happened: all you have is a sad, stunned feeling, like a punch to the chest. The beauty of chanting, I’ve found, is that you don’t have to say anything. Once you take up your moktok–the hollow wooden instrument used to keep time during chanting–and open your mouth, the familiar melody takes over, like an oft-repeated prayer that prays itself. —- This entry was posted Wednesday, April 8th, 2009 at 10:49 am and is filed under Smorgasblog. Print […]
LikeLike
Apr 8, 2009 at 12:13 pm
The loss itself is like an ache, the suddenness of the event hits me like a train. It is not one feeling. There are lots of them, moving quickly.
LikeLike
Apr 8, 2009 at 6:26 pm
(o)
LikeLike
Apr 9, 2009 at 4:59 am
Thank you, Arvind and Pica.
I spent a good part of yesterday driving back and forth between NH and MA yesterday, Mu Mun, so I had plenty of time to “sit with” this loss. I just can’t make sense of it.
You’re exactly right in saying there’s a whole swirl of emotions. On the one hand, there’s the loss: a dear, loving man we’ll never see again. On the other hand, the shock of any suicide: what hidden turmoil leads anyone (and JW in particular) to do this? And somehow, on a third hand, the resulting “what if’s”: is there anything I/we could have said or done differently? What clues did we miss? What balls did we drop?
Still sad, still stunned, still without words.
LikeLike
Apr 9, 2009 at 4:29 pm
I’m so sorry. Interestingly, I’m not familiar with those chants — maybe this has to do with the school of Zen I’m practicing with — but I will try to chant them a bit for you and your sangha when I next sit.
LikeLike
Apr 9, 2009 at 5:03 pm
It might be a Korean thing: we tend to chant a lot in my school.
There’s also an oft-repeated story about a monk who didn’t know how to chant, so he made up his own melody and “faked it” when a lay woman came to the temple with an offering, looking for someone to chant for her family. Because the monk’s intentions were pure, the woman deemed his chanting “perfect” even though she knew he’d gotten them wrong. The emphasis is in why you chant, not how well you do it.
LikeLike
Apr 10, 2009 at 4:32 pm
Ah! That explains it. I’m in the Japanese Soto lineage. We chant too, but in different ways! (And obviously different languages, I guess! 🙂 )
LikeLike
Apr 11, 2009 at 1:54 pm
Ji Jang Bosal is “Jizo” in Japanese, and Kwan Seum Bosal is “Kannon” or “Kanzeon.” Different names; same direction.
LikeLike