And there was nothing left for me to do, but go. Though the things of the world were strong with me still. Such as, for example: a gaggle of children trudging through a side-blown December flurry; a friendly match-share beneath some collision-tilted streetlight; a frozen clock, bird-visited within its high tower; cold water from a tin jug; toweling off one’s clinging shirt post–June rain. Pearls, rags, buttons, rug-tuft, beer-froth. Someone’s kind wishes for you; someone remembering to write; someone noticing that you are not at all at ease. A bloody roast death-red on a platter; a hedgetop under-hand as you flee late to some chalk-and-woodfire-smelling schoolhouse. Geese above, clover below, the sound of one’s own breath when winded. The way a moistness in the eye will blur a field of stars; the sore place on the shoulder a resting toboggan makes; writing one’s beloved’s name upon a frosted window with a gloved finger. Tying a shoe; tying a knot on a package; a mouth on yours; a hand on yours; the ending of the day; the beginning of the day; the feeling that there will always be a day ahead.
-- George Saunders, Lincoln in the Bardo
Thich Nhat Hanh has died. He would not want me or anyone else to make a big deal out of it, to spend a lot of words on him. So I will spare you the memorial service and instead point you to his writings.
My introduction to his work was the same as for millions of people: Living Buddha, Living Christ. I became a church-going Buddhist long before I read that, but it gave me plenty of reassurance and encouragement on that path. It helped me to understand what I was casting aside and what I needed to keep my focus on. It helped me to embrace the many paradoxes of my path and discard the need to explain them.
There's also The Miracle of Mindfulness, his love letter to this difficult and verdant life. It's jam-packed with ideas that changed my perspective forever.
If you're really into Buddhist study, you study the Sutras. And when it comes to the Sutras, you couldn't do much better than Awakening of the Heart, his collection of essential Sutras with commentary.
But usually you just need a very simple 101-level practice, and I'll give you two good ones. One is a pebble meditation that I picked up for my kids, who responded by shrugging and looking at their shoes. But it turned out to be really valuable for me. It's detailed in A Handful of Quiet: Happiness in Four Pebbles. I do it with marbles.
The other is How to Walk, which teaches you exactly what it claims to. Tiny book, simple ideas, big impact.
(So why grieve? The worst of it, for him, is over.) Because I loved him so and am in the habit of loving him and that love must take the form of fussing and worry and doing. Only there is nothing left to do.
-- George Saunders, Lincoln in the Bardo
I will not make a mess, but I will say this: He was my teacher, and I never got a chance to tell him that. I never got a chance to say thank you. I never got a chance to hold his hand or enjoy a quiet walk with him. That makes me sad.
But! If he were here now (and he is, and he never was), I have little doubt that he would see that sadness and would smile and remind me that the sadness comes from my doggedly insane hope for a better past, that today is all I have now. He would remind me that he doesn't want or need my tears. That the best way to honor him is to practice as he taught me, to let him live in me by carrying his teaching forward, as he did for his teachers.
I was fortunate enough to bear witness to his work, to behold the changes it wrought in my heart and mind and life. The only thing that I can think to do is to tell others about it, about him. Because I loved him so and am in the habit of loving him. He was my teacher and friend, though we never met. He is a wave that has crashed on the shore, but what made him special was that he always knew that his true nature was nothing less than the sea.
I was in error when I saw him as fixed and stable and thought I would have him forever. He was never fixed, nor stable, but always just a passing, temporary energy-burst.
-- George Saunders, Lincoln in the Bardo