Gone Beyond: Finding the Middle Way

Gone Beyond: Finding the Middle Way

By: Erica Saccente

I entered the viewing room with trepidation and approached the casket. I had been in that room numerous times before, but this time felt different. What was Nonno John doing in there? He's not supposed to be in a casket. It seemed like he was the man that would live forever. My cousin and I agreed on this when we walked in.

But as we all know, no one lives forever.

The first touch of his cold hands was the hardest. Why was my dynamic grandfather lying in this box, lifeless? As the hours passed, I kneeled in front of the casket again and again. It became clear that my nonno was not there. It felt easier when I understood that this corpse was not the man I had known. My nonno had warm hands. His vibrant eyes looked at me when I spoke to him. They were blue, like the sea under a clear sky.

The next morning, I put a typed copy of the eulogy I wrote for him under the left side of his suit jacket. Michael, the funeral director, said this was the best place – so it could be close to his heart. This thought brought comfort.

By the time we said our final goodbyes to him, just before they closed the casket, I knew with certainty he was not in there anymore. His body was there. The sturdy build that lived a hundred years. His body was there, but he was not. He must not have been his body.

This realization brought some relief when we watched the gravediggers raise his coffin into the wall of the mausoleum. Now head-to-head with my grandmother, whose body was placed in that wall 25 years earlier, they were together again. Except that my nonno was not in his sleek blue-gray casket, and she must not be in hers either.

So then, where was my nonno? Walking around the bardo, I suppose, hopefully not confused or afraid. Over this past month, I have recited many prayers and listened to the Tibetan Book of the Dead countless times hoping he can hear it. Hoping it will help guide him through the transitory state. I hate the thought of him being in the bardo, frightened and alone.

Two weeks after the funeral, while walking through the lush forests in Japan, I had the insight – walking through the bardo is just like walking through an unknown forest. No need to feel bewildered. Instead, approach it with wonder, with curious eyes. I remembered something that came up during a Theta healing session in Greece. My healer said about a past life, “You were an entire forest. And your energy is still that grand; that’s why it has felt strange for you to be in a small, human body this life. But remember, the essence of the forest is contained in a single blade of grass and in the tiniest of flowers.” As I hiked the mossy rocks of the Kumano Kodo Trail, I wondered. What is the essence of a forest? Impermanence. Interdependence. Continuous cycles of creation and destruction. Beauty. Wonder. Emptiness. The forest is composed of all its constituent parts, and yet, each constituent part contains the essence of the entire forest.

Nonno John’s body is in a casket behind a marble slab at a cemetery in Long Island. His body was not him. His mindstream with all its imprints and karma is wandering the bardo, but that isn’t him either. My nonno was like the forest, composed of all his constituent parts. Each part alone is not him, just like a tiny wildflower is not the forest. Yet, his essence exists in the coming together of each of the parts. He exists and does not exist, simultaneously without alternation.

We buried him on October 17^th. Three days later, I believe he manifested as a rainbow during an Inter Milan game in Italy. He may have helped his favorite football team win, but mostly it was his way of saying hello to me and my brother (rainbow back-story for another time.) Three days after that, I traversed the imaginary international date line and instantly jumped one day into the future. Heading into another Buddhist pilgrimage with my beloved teachers and friends, I was emotionally drained and physically exhausted. My mission to dedicate the merits of pilgrimage to my nonno provided some encouragement.

In Kyoto, during a teaching with Zen master Jeff Shore, a theme emerged and became a mainstay for my pilgrimage experience.

Exists and Does Not Exist. 

Jeff talked about the use of Zen koans, which he explained can stop the discursive mind. They are riddles without an answer and pertain to the “the great doubt” of life and death. He also said that some people have a life-long personal koan, and I immediately remembered a distressing thought experiment I used to whirl myself into as a child. It went something like this:

Where do you go when you die? Nowhere. How long does that last? Forever. When does forever end? Never. When does never end? Never.

These questions were unfathomable to my seven-year-old self. Truthfully and as a side note, I assume this inquiry arose when I was seven and not at another age because this is the age at which I first encountered death. Three events occurred during that year, although I do not recount the order in which they happened. My aunt, whom I was very close to, had a traumatic miscarriage at 5 months. I had been so excited about having a younger cousin. I had already picked out which of my toys I was going to give to the child, and I drew pictures and wrote little messages for him/her. But that baby never came. Where did my unborn cousin go? My aunt developed a series of significant, somewhat mysterious illnesses after the miscarriage, which lasted for years. There was even a period when I wasn’t allowed to see her because of how sick she was. So, in a way, I lost her too, at least for a while. She was one of my favorite people on the planet at the time, so the impact of this loss was devastating.

My great grandmother died that year as well. I had never met her because she lived all the way across the Atlantic Ocean, but my grandmother was really sad that her mother had died. She and my grandfather went to Sicily shortly after and stayed a while, although this was not out of the ordinary for them. That year, I also realized through a scarring event that my father could die, and that there might be nothing I could do to save him.

It was a hard year for that sweet seven-year-old girl. I didn’t have many resources to understand this mysterious but inevitable thing called death. This must be why I started spinning the koan-like web of distressing questions about existing and not existing. I tried to extinguish my anxiety but was unsuccessful as the questions only fueled my angst.

I can remember the exact feeling that this thought experiment created. It was an intense fear, a sense of terror at the thought of not existing. Strangely, I felt compelled to keep asking myself the questions. I was terrified to die because I thought it meant you would be dead forever, and that forever would never end, which meant you’d never be alive again. And in a way, this is exactly what death means. But what I realized in Japan is that existence and non-existence coexist simultaneously during life and death, so, there is no reason to fear death.

As my teacher, Geshe Tenzin Zopa, explained in Japan, fear arises when we lose our self-grasping. In other words, as we surrender our attachment to the ego, to the sense of ourselves as a solid, inherently existent being, fear arises. If I think “I am Erica Saccente,” then the thought of death is terrifying because “Erica Saccente” will never be alive again in the exact way that she is alive right now. But, when I realize that “Erica Saccente” does not exist inherently, that her existence is interdependent with myriad other causes and conditions, that she exists as the combination of her constituent parts, which are always changing, then I can get a taste of blissful liberation.

The ego has a strong urge to be existent. This gets us into trouble. As Jeff explained, sometimes there are things to work through before you can fully give yourself to the practice of meditation. Perhaps my seven-year-old terror about death has been my obstacle to fully settling into the practice. It manifests as a restlessness that makes it hard to focus single-pointedly on the object of meditation. Sometimes the restlessness is obvious and other times it is subtle, but it is almost always present. It has been difficult to work with. 

In a sacred mountaintop temple at Mount Koya, I had a taste of surrendering the ego. Prior to the ceremony, I did not know that powerhouse Shingon Nun Myosen was going to offer prayers for the swift completion of the Rachen Nunnery World Peace Stupa. Nevertheless, I was quickly pulled into her mandala. I allowed myself to relax into visions of Rachen with the completed stupa. This was not surprising as the stupa has previously appeared in my mind’s eye during meditation and sleep. But what happened next was unusual. A compelling sense to let go pulled me deeper into the resonance of her thunderous chanting. I relaxed my body a little more. I allowed the ground to fully support me. I surrendered a little more. My sense of self started to dissolve. Fear arose, but it was subtle and not overpowering, so I was able to stay with the practice of surrender. For a few minutes, I experienced a glimpse of non-self, an imprint that I can continue working with post-pilgrimage. 

Afterwards, I reflected on the subtle fears (which manifest as questions in my mind) that have kept me from truly surrendering. If I surrender the will of the ego, will I die? Will surrender lead to self-obliteration? How can I surrender if I’m terrified not to exist? In Japan, I realized that if I already don’t exist in the way I think I do, then there is nothing to fear about supposed non-existence. Inherent non-existence does not exist.

Nonno’s dead body lying in a casket is not him. His consciousness in the bardo is also not him – stripped of the body that carried him for a hundred years. He was a combination of all his parts plus the lifeforce that animated his bodymind. Nonno John no longer exists in the way that he did when he was alive, and yet, he exists in my mind and heart. He exists in the memory of the other people that knew him and were impacted by him. He exists in the DNA that we share. In death, he exists and does not exist. This is not unlike when he was alive, because during life, he also existed and did not exist. If we always exist and do not exist simultaneously, then what is there to fear about death?

An understanding of emptiness is required for surrender, for whole-hearted renunciation of samsara. Otherwise, the fear of non-existence based on the ignorance of an inherently existing self might prevent us from full renunciation.

This summer, while I was on pilgrimage in Tibet, I had the great fortune to honor Lama Je Tsongkhapa on numerous occasions. I seemed to be the only pilgrim on the trip practicing according to the Gelug lineage, which meant I had many opportunities to connect with his sacred spaces without interruption. I was magnetically drawn into one room at a temple complex that was filled with Lama Tsongkhapa statues. Sitting in front of one of them, I recited the Three Principal Aspects of the Path, his abbreviated, 14-verse version of the Lam Rim Chen Mo. This is one of my heart texts, and I have recited it for years, all around the world. Afterwards, I was moved to tears as I sang the Migstema, a prayer to Tsongkhapa. When I was ready to stand up, I continued my circumambulation around the room and discovered that this shrine was built around the Busarayi Practice Cave, which is the cave where Lama Tsongkhapa first practiced Sojong – the purification of vows according to the Mahayana tradition. I rejoiced in this synchronous, inspiring opportunity.

Seeds planted and nourished eventually bear fruit. Thus, I was delighted when Geshe-la announced that we would be using the Three Principal Aspects of the Path during pilgrimage as a guide to exploring the Lam Rim and readying our minds for eventual Tantric initiation. Through the line-by-line study of the text, and all the other teachings and reflections, my understanding of renunciation, Bodhicitta, and emptiness deepened during the Japan pilgrimage in unexpected ways.

A ripening during pilgrimage, I have “gone beyond” ordinary perceptions and extreme views and reached the Middle Way. I understand that things exist and do not exist simultaneously. I will not be able to always hold this view, but the graceful glimpses I experienced in Japan are another step on my gradual path to awakening. Emptiness is the essence – of the forest, of my nonno, of me. It is the natural state of awareness that I can return to when I observe the space between breaths. As Zen master Thomas Kirchner said, this gap is the moment of creative consciousness, where anything is possible.