In Think Like a Monk, the author writes that monks do not ask one another (or themselves) how long they meditate for.
The answer to that question — whether it’s 10 minutes or 10 hours, once a year or 500 days in a row — is unimportant.
Instead, they ask how deep you meditate.
Numbers are just numbers until you give them meaning.
A few weeks ago, I traveled back to my hometown — from San Francisco to Miami.
The plane flew at an altitude of approximately 35,000 feet.
The cruising speed was 840 kilometers per hour.
Door to door, I traveled over 3,000 miles.
But numbers are just numbers.
What was the meaning?
I traveled home for my mom’s (and grandmother’s) memorial service.
Yes, I flew a great distance. Those were the numbers.
But I didn’t realize how deep I would have to go.
The meaning would be revealed soon enough.
THE POWER OF STORY
To my knowledge, my mom never finished high school.
Ironically, or perhaps not, she always had a book on her nightstand. She read and learned. She asked questions.
She read every Isabel Allende novel with the exception of Paula.
She recited the works of Cuban luminaries, Jose Marti and Jose Angel Buesa.
She followed the political writings of Cuban exile, Carlos Alberto Montaner.
Above all, she taught me the power of story.
She spoke of mythological heroes, like Achilles and Hector.
She drew parallels between Cubans in exile and the Jews’ exodus.
And she read to me about the relationship between parents and children:
And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, Speak to us of Children.
And he said:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.-Khalil Gibran, On Children (from The Prophet) [emphasis added]
For the Spanish version of the poem, the version that she read to me, see here.
WHAT WE REMEMBER
At the memorial service, a few of us gathered to share stories and memories of my grandmother and mom.
When I spoke of my grandmother, a woman who spent her entire life in service of others, I shared her late-life transition to Buddhism and spirituality. In my final interaction with her, she asked me for my thoughts on reincarnation.
When we come to our end, it would seem that we are no longer troubled with the trivialities of the day.
She and I didn’t discuss the weather or politics. Those things were unimportant.
Instead, we chatted about life and our journey through it.
In the end, my grandmother and I chose to go deep.
And then, with tears, I spoke about my mom.
What better way for me to remember her than to share Gibran’s poem on children?
I was born because Life longed for itself.
My mom gave me shelter, but my soul lived in the house of tomorrow.
My spirit lived in a place that she could not visit — not even in her dreams.
And, thus, with great sorrow in my heart, she is not here to read these words.
THE ARROW OF LIFE
In Olympic archery, the distance to the target is 70 meters.
But numbers are just numbers until you give them meaning.
My mom was the bow, and I the arrow.
With the aim of the Cosmos — the archer — my mom bent her life for my own.
She gave unconditional and fierce love.
She watched over me and my environment like a lioness surveys the savannah to protect her cub.
And the arrow was shot.
Not 70 meters to the target. Not 3,000 miles while traveling coast to coast.
But into the infinite.
The arrow ventured toward the unknown.
This arrow — “Gusti,” as my family calls me — cried as a lactose-intolerant baby.
It wrote poetry at age 5.
It fell off bikes.
It had nightmares and moments of jubilation.
It loved and lost.
It fulfilled dreams and aspired to more.
It wrote. And it stopped writing. And it wrote again.
And, now, the arrow cries out to the bow that it longs for.
The bow that did its duty and abruptly faded into the cosmic background.
This arrow, brilliant as ever, gazes back to the origin.
It searches for the bow and finds only an abyss.
That is the meaning that was revealed to me.
I may have traveled 3,000 miles to remember my mom.
But I had to swim into the depths of my soul to grasp her legacy.
Of family.
Of story.
Of love.
Her love for me was boundless. Her hopes for me were limitless.
To her, I was the universe.
To me, she was the ocean.
So, I ask you, dear reader:
How deep do you go? How deep are you willing to go?
This life may seem short. It may seem unfair. It may seem merciless.
You may have lost a job or loved one.
You may have felt rejected.
You may have endured great difficulties, and no one was there to notice.
Yet, this moment is your own.
Will you use this precious gift to speak of insignificant things?
To expend needless energy and fill your heart with the unimportant?
Or, like an arrow, will you fly with purpose?
Will you burn so brightly that the stars reach for you?
Will you have the courage to search deep within yourself to find truth? To feel peace?
I wonder:
When all is quiet and the light turns to dark, and you reflect on the life that you led, how deep did you go?