COME ON, JUMP ALREADY!

"Why do westerners talk so much during a funeral?" Kajorn wants to know. He is buddhist and like most Thai men he devoted three months of his life living in a monastery - meditating, doing daily rounds receiving food in his begging bowl, and blessing people. That's what monks do. Moderation and non-attachment are the hallmarks of Thai living. Funerals are strictly ceremonial. There's no talking, there's no holding on to an individual life. Even when the King dies there won't be any spoken tributes. Kajorn asks because a friend of theirs was one of the UN victims in Haiti's earthquake and many people spoke at his funeral. His question comes from simple curiosity.

"People get together to share their memories of the person who has died." Eugene answers. "It's nice to hear how others have experienced them. You get a different perspective. It's really a celebration of their life."

I concentrate on the beautiful fruit salad Kajorn has whipped up for breakfast. Mango, grilled banana, papaya and sweet corn (Yes, corn for breakfast!). Not too long ago these fruits hung gloriously from living branches. Now they're peeled and cut up for my pleasure. Smacking my lips will have to be my celebration of their life. "I think it's a kind of a tying up of loose ends." I venture, "Like cleaning out someone's closet." That's the Virgo in me speaking. She likes things cleaned up and done with.

Phil who is all about relationships and talking about relationships (what do you expect from a shrink?) says, "Talking about the loved one is a way for the family and friends to connect, to understand, maybe even to forgive. Buddha spoke about treating people with loving-kindness. Speaking well about the deceased, with compassion and understanding, is one way to practice loving-kindness."

"But it's about the talking," Eugene counters as he scoots the last chocolate croissant across the table to me. (Now that was an act of loving-kindness!) "The Thai believe in action," he continues, "If a father works hard to give his children a good education, that speaks for itself. Nobody has to say a word about it."
"Now what I don't understand," he opines in his outspoken Dutch fashion, "is people who have a burning desire to make their mark, to leave a legacy. A hundred years from now who the hell cares that you have a building named after you? Who would even know you existed!"

Back when I was still practicing karate, Grand Master Shihan taught us to think of everyone and ourselves as impermanent. "On Waikiki beach," he said, "So many people, yes? But ten years from now, so many people already dead too. Maybe you dead too." Within 15 years Shihan himself had died. And doing karate is but a memory for me. After I'm gone - no, NOW already - who cares that I once loved going to the dojo every night at 7:00 PM and that I wore myself out practicing kata and sparring, even won two medals at some tournaments. That's long gone, together with my mini-skirts, platform shoes, dented orange VW Beetle, partying and more partying, and my need for attention and adoration. Oh wait, I still need those last two.

Last week we had the pleasure of visiting Paul Spencer Sochaczewski and his wife Monique. They live in a marvelous garden compound 5 minutes from the office tower where Monique works. The house is filled with the most extraordinary collections of Ganeshas and buddhas, amulets and art objects they brought back from their world travels. Paul writes riveting books - his latest "The Sultan and the Mermaid Queen" - and Monique's job entails persuading countries to accept the countless refugees that wars and persecutions breed.

At dinner Monique commented on the necklace I wore. I told her it was the only necklace I had brought with me to Bali. "I want to know how you did that," she said, "just going off and leaving everything behind." "Well, I was a refugee myself." I say. "Guess it gets in the blood." But I thought to myself, If I had those priceless collections they have, I wouldn't be so quick to let go of things.

I think of Mits Aoki who taught courses on Death & Dying at Hawaii University back in the 80's and 90's. He must be up in the nineties himself now. Is he still alive? A gentle buddhist, I remember him saying, "At death you are to let go of everything, not just material things, but everything you believe in, as well, even your most cherished religious or spiritual beliefs." It sparked my imagination. I tried to think of myself as a blank, everything completely erased. Who would I be? Didn't they make a movie like that? Like "The Unbearable Lightness of Being"?

Just free associating now. Ten years old and I'm standing on the edge of the high diving board. I'm supposed to jump or dive from it to qualify for my swimming diploma. I aced all the swimming requirements, but I've never climbed up on the high diving board, never wanted to jump from it, never even thought about doing it as preparation. I just put it out of my mind. Just climbing up the ladder and walking to the end of the bouncy board was already more trauma than I could handle. And now it was my turn to jump. I'm trembling. I've never been up this high. The water below looks dark green and oily like a deep sea monster waiting to devour me. All eyes are on me. Mr. Wouters, the swim teacher, blows his whistle, but I'm paralyzed with fear. I'm sure I will die if I jump. Everyone is getting impatient with me and calling for me to jump. I wonder now if it will be the same when I'm dying. Death blowing his whistle and I'm holding on and everyone else going, "Come on, come on, jump already!"

So here we are, still in Bangkok. Phil's stents are in and we're waiting to see if more are needed. Anything to do with the heart scares me. Thoughts of death, Phil's, mine... Exhausted from worrying about Phil and worried about my own health (I know, worrying does nobody any good, but there it is, I was worried), I ended up writing a rambling late night email to my daughter, listing accounts, passwords, where everything was, what needed to be done right away (like paying our staff for last month's work) in case I kicked the bucket that night.

I didn't kick the bucket. I didn't jump off the board either, preferring humiliation over death. And that buddhist "No attachment" thing? Biggest bitch of all.