I recently arrived from a trip to my homeland, Spain. It was a powerful journey since I also traveled with my parents to the small village, deep in the South, where all my family comes from. We were going there for a family reunion, but as I was driving there, I realized this was more than just a family trip. This was a pilgrimage to the site of my childhood.
The nightmares of children
After many hours of flying to Madrid, and later driving to the small town in one of the poorest regions of Spain, I arrived excited but also a little bit concerned. I had not visited this village in more than twenty five years, and this place had been the site not only of good memories, but also the place of an accident that changed the rest of my life. This accident involved my brother (who later died) and kept me crippled for months in bed. Even worse, as a result of that moment, for many years to come, I had to endure multiple surgeries until I was almost eighteen years old, when I finally started to live a more “normal” life. Going back was suddenly much more than a family reunion; it was a pilgrimage to the heart of all my fears.
The first day of the family reunion went on happily. I enjoyed being with so many of my cousins, and I was moved by their loving kindness and the fact that many of their lives had been dedicated to teaching and social justice. At the end of the day, however, I was concerned. Consciously or unconsciously, I had avoided my grandmother’s house, which is where the accident had taken place. Perhaps fear was winning that day. One of my cousins, not knowing this, offered a tour to downtown. I went along, thinking I could see the old, nineteenth century house again, and I would not be alone.
Falling into Anger and Fear
The next morning, a few of us walked together toward downtown. At first, I was distracted by the conversation, the wonderful stories I was hearing about our family. But a few minutes later, when I looked toward my grandmother’s house, I was horrified. There was nothing–only a desolate space in ruins. I knew the house had been sold, but I had no idea the bank that bought it had erased the historical house to the ground. The memories of the old house became, in that moment, an ugly image of emptiness, a painful image of loss, a reminder of how our lives are always appearing and disappearing. I was, in that moment angry and filled with fear. Where did the memories go?
Presence of Mind
In one of the old Sutras, the Buddha talks about keeping at all times “a presence of mind.” This means that when we can keep a mind that is not attached to thinking, to emotions, or to the narratives we create in our minds, then we can perceive the “truth” in front of us. Zen master Seung Sahn calls that “a mind clear like space, a mind clear like a mirror.” This means that when a mind is open and clear, when it is able to perceive the truth, it can also reflect the truth. Like a mirror, such a mind brings clarity. When somebody is hungry, you give them food; when you are thirsty, you drink water, and so on. Our actions are a reflection of truth. Certainly, a boundless mind, open and free from attachments, does not reject anything, whether is mourning the loss or acknowledging the fear; it just simply, in that moment, reflects the truth.
I am still digesting the trip, the sense of loss, anger and fear; the reminder that our lives are always subject to the laws of appearing and disappearing. But somehow, on that day, a few hours later, I remembered to simply reflect the truth of that moment. In the next few days, I enjoyed the interconnectedness of our family, the vast net of “self” that kept me connected to the past and the future, the love that permeated our reunion and our conversations. In that presence of mind, in utter clarity, I perceived not only the transiency of life, but also the freedom, the true self that is always there when you can clearly see who you are.
Namaste,
Juan