I recently re-read Ruth Ozeki's book, A Tale For The Time Being. There's a lot to say about that wonderful book, with its reflections on the nature and quality of time, and its shamanic and metaphysical overlays and underpinnings, but I was most drawn in this reading to the 104-year-old character, Jiko Yasutani, who is a Zen Buddhist nun, anarchist, and feminist.
In the book, Jiko pens a final calligraphic poem on her deathbed, keeping with the Japanese tradition of jisei, the writing of death poems. Jisei literally translates as "farewell poem to life." A practice of the literate class, death poems would often include both a nod to the imminent death of the author, and a general reflection on the experience of dying.
The Jiko character is clearly unwell in the book, but somehow rallies, and with help, sits up and puts inked brush to paper. When she finishes, she lies back down, takes a couple of breaths, and dies.
That image really stuck with me, as did certain ideas raised by that scene, such as: what a thing it is to be alive and to know you're going to die. (Which, when one thinks about it, is true at all times.) I found the possibility of a final creation before the moment of death fascinating and intriguing.
I looked up death poems of actual Japanese historical figures and was gobsmacked at how much eloquence and profundity were shoehorned into these short works. Here are a few that stood out for me:
holding back the night
with its increasing brilliance
the summer moon
--Tsukioka Yoshitoshi, died 1892, Japanese woodblock artist, well known for his print series, One Hundred Aspects of the Moon
Had I not known
that I was dead
already
I would have mourned the loss of my life.
--Ota Dokan, died 1486, samurai warrior and Buddhist monk
In all the kingdom southward
From the center of the earth
Where is he who understands my Zen?
Should the master Kido himself appear
He wouldn't be worth a worn-out cent.
--Ikkyu Sojun, died 1481, poet and Zen master. Ikkyu was a big fan of master Kido, and I think he's saying here that even master Kido's presence wouldn't change the inevitability of Ikkyu's death.
Now it reveals its hidden side
and now the other—thus it falls,
an autumn leaf.
--Ryokan Taigu, died 1831, Buddhist monk
Inhale, exhale
Forward, back
Living, dying:
Arrows, let flown each to each
Meet midway and slice
The void in aimless flight—
Thus I return to the source.
--Gesshu Soko, died 1696, Zen Buddhist teacher
falling sick on a journey
my dream goes wandering
over a field of dried grass
--Basho, died 1694, haiku master
And all that led me to look up Ars Moriendi, a Latin how-to on the wherefores and protocols of a good death. Ars Moriendi translates to The Art of Dying, which somehow seemed related to the jisei idea of making art when you're about to die. Turns out, there were a couple of Ars Moriendi versions—a long one and a short one—both written in the wake of Europe's experience of the Black Plague. I guess the plague had driven home the idea that there were good ways to go, and not so good ways to go. Ars Moriendi warns against five temptations that can complicate a dying person's experience; both the long and short guides outlined how to avoid them. Those five temptations: lack of faith, despair, impatience, spiritual pride, and avarice.
It seemed to me that, if those temptations indeed posed a challenge at the time of death, focusing on creating a final work of art might provide a wholesome distraction.
Amidst all this stuff, I read a poem, inspired by coronavirus deaths and the dilemma faced by some healthcare workers about whether or not to lie to a given patient about whether his or her death is imminent. The poem tied these bits together and made it all absolutely current.
Here’s the poem:
Am I Going To Die?
They ask, and you know what they mean.
They mean today, this week, this time
In the hospital. Yes, you say,
Or No. You have a pretty good guess.
You say what you see, but they don’t hear
The no. The yes is what they came
For, or came to fight about. They hate
You as soon as you say it. You know this,
But you tell the truth. You have
A small hate yourself, for those
Who waffle, finger stethoscopes
And lie. You believe after thirty years
On the job that people can prepare.
Given warning, they can mend
Their lives. An hour is enough. It
Doesn’t matter, another nurse said once,
It’s a white lie. God doesn’t keep
A Book of Good Deaths. But you say,
It’s their last chance to make art.
--Janis Lull