Losing Everything

I started a post last week, talking about everything I've been losing lately. Not losing in the metaphysical or psychological sense, but literally misplacing.

I spent a week mourning the loss of my diary. Without it, I'm just a lumbering body and mind with no recollection of ever having said or thought anything wise or insightful.

After going back to Portland to track it down, and giving many kind folks the opportunity to help me, I found the diary. Somehow it had crawled under the seat in Rob's car. It seemed OK for its week in the dark, although it did get stained when I spilled tea everywhere while pulling out of the driveway.

My wristwatch is still gone, but I have hope. Putting a little note asking for its safe return on my altar is as effective as any other strategem. Certainly, looking everywhere for it hasn't borne any fruit.

There is a more profound and important sense of loss happening, and it's begun since I drafted that first post. Then, I mused in a sort of half-hearted way, wondering what would be next. My hat? My camera? Deep inside, I was thinking, "My life? My friends? Rob? Hikari? Meave or Ann or Dan?"

Finally, we lose everything. Loss of these tiny items is preparation; their return to us is an aberration. One day, nothing will come back to us. Our health; our loved ones; our memories; our very lives are all about to be mislaid, permanently assigned to some other time and place.

Right now, most of the monastery residents are away in Japan. There is only the slightest clue of their lives: a few pictures on a blog; an email here and there. Hogen called today, and my heart welled up at having a familiar conversation with a person of whom, I realize, I am quite fond.

The monastery building still bears the imprint of their lives here. It's like a scent in the air, this feeling that the room is full, that the dorm has bodies in it, that I am not meditating alone. But slowly this is fading, too. First the bodies go, and slowly the psychic energy fades, and then what? In fifty years, the building may be demolished, or home to another group, and all memory of these people I know so well will be lost forever.

In the meantime, I dedicate noon service to those on the pilgrimage in Japan, and wait to see which things return and which things, once lost, stay that way.