By Bob Zeglovitch:
I’ve had a handful of personally compelling experiences with mettā in my life, and I thought I would share them on this blog during our practice period. I do this not because I think I have any special capacity for mettā. Instead, I simply hope that these experiences will serve as some examples of how mettā can be a powerful force. I am very grateful for these few instances in my life. They serve as wholesome memories for me and remind me of what is possible. I’ve told a couple of these stories before in our sangha, but some of our members have not heard them (or some have perhaps forgotten them!) and I’ll try to add a twist or two that will in any event hopefully make the re-telling worthwhile.
My first story has to do with my father’s death. My dad was often difficult to be around. He could be cutting, sarcastic, and mean at times. Later in life my relationship with him improved (although he could still be quite churlish). He had a misanthropic streak and lacked friends or any social network. My mom died shortly after he retired, and he spent many years alone, surviving a difficult bout with cancer. In his 80’s, he developed dementia. It was a somewhat slow decline, and he fiercely resisted getting the help he needed, living independently at a great distance from me and my two brothers, with the wheels slowly falling off. Thankfully, circumstances eventually came together which enabled us to place him a very nice memory care unit. When he arrived there, the presence of a community seemed to open something up in him, a kindness and gentleness that was not evident previously.
While my dad had dementia, he knew who he was talking to and he could sometimes carry on relatively cogent conversations, amidst some bizarre ideations and significant memory lapses. There was some renewed difficulty in our relationship because he was paranoid about money, and I was the executor of his estate and had power of attorney to manage his finances. Unfortunately, I became a target for his sense of loss of control and his fear that someone was going to take advantage of him. I worked through this with him the best that I could, trying to reassure him that his assets were safe and no one was stealing from him.
At some point, as a result of a pretty clear intention on his part, he stopped eating and went into hospice. I thought that it might be a good thing to offer him mettā as he faced death. It was immediately apparent to me that the traditional mettā phrases would not be suitable for a dying person, so I developed my own phrases, as follows: (1) May your mind be clear and spacious, free from fear or worry; (2) May your body be relaxed and free from pain; (3) May your heart be open and filled with love; (4) May you be free of any clinging to this life and any craving for future existence; and (5) May your journey be peaceful and filled with ease.
I told my dad what I was going to be doing and he signaled that he was open to it. He did not know much about Buddhism and was not spiritual or religious—although he had always been curious about the mind and consciousness. He was not prone to the softer and emotional side of life, so I wondered how this would go. The family members who were present gathered around his bed and I slowly recited the phrases out loud, with everyone else joining in silently. After a number of minutes of the recitation, he made a face and starting gesturing with his index finger toward his chest. I thought he might be in pain or distress, and I leaned in to ask him what he was trying to communicate. He whispered, ”I understand, in my heart.” It was a beautiful—and truly surprising—moment, with the gift of mettā landing and opening his heart at just the right time. And yet, at the same time there was a tragic element to this—the fact his heart was not more open during his life, when he and others could have benefitted.
As I reflect back on this, a few things stand out for me. First, I’m very grateful that I had been exposed to and trained in mettā practice, so that I could share it with my dad when he needed it. In a more general sense, I can say that my dharma practice gave me enough stability to think of offering this practice and then to carry it out. Second, this was an instance where giver and receiver (and perhaps the gift itself) became hard to separate. I could say that I gave the gift of mettā to my dad, but I was receiving the gift at the same time. His relatively peaceful death was of great benefit to me, as was this moment between us. Third, while mettā is often a solitary practice where we cultivate our wishes for goodwill silently to ourselves, even as we are radiating them out to others, this was making the practice more explicitly interpersonal and relational. While it may not always be appropriate or possible to vocalize our mettā to others, we can look for opportunities where it may be received. We might have to take the risk that it will not land well, but we can use our intuition and discernment. Finally, we can use our best efforts to be creative in how we adapt mettā to the circumstances at hand, using language that has the best chance of expressing our intention and “hitting the mark.”
A wonderful resource along these lines is Roshi Joan Halifax’s short paper on The Boundless Abodes for Caregiving, Dying, Grieving. (Hyperlinked here). I hope that you will remember this resource and that it will be of benefit to you and to other beings as you and/or they face one of these challenges.