We had a couple of young wāhine come to our door and ask whether there were any ancient people, antiquaries almost, geriatrics, in the whare. Cushla said yes, as apparently, I qualify.
The two young wāhine were academics from the University of Auckland who introduced me to a major study that was being undertaken through the University of Auckland Medical School. I’m still not altogether sure about all the details of the study (I’m as deaf as a post), but I did find out that it involved two skilled researchers returning to our whare and interviewing both Cushla and to me for a couple of hours simultaneously about my brain function. My interview was full of tricky questions designed to determine whether my brain was still functioning at the optimum level.
The results indicated that I have done quite well, so far, and that I am, in fact, functioning at 100%. As you can imagine, I was extremely grateful for that as the rest of this worn-out old bod is definitely functioning well below par. It was fun too – there’s not much I enjoy more than chatting with smart young women – and I figured that, once the interview was over, that that was that.
It wasn’t, of course, and, after three or four weeks, enough time for my results to be processed, I had a call from Professor Ngaire Kerse, MNZM, the boss of the project, who was very keen to know how I was getting on and how I had experienced the survey. I said I’d enjoyed it and that I really appreciated the work of the researchers. She then said she was calling because, during the survey, I had talked about my history of self-harm, suicide attempts, suicidal ideation, and the meaning of the cherry (plum) blossom tattoos that I have on my arms – the falling petals, each one signifying the death of a samurai by seppuku (ritual suicide by disembowelment). She wanted to make sure that I had not been triggered by the survey, and I assured her that all was well in that department. I chose not to go down the path of the carefully considered options I have should I ever become a burden to my whānau, to myself, or to the world. If and when this happens (because it will), I will no doubt resort to my Zen Buddhist practice and my Samurai traditions, write my Jisei no Ku (verse of parting with the world), and depart as tidily and invisibly as possible.
Mata kondo.
This assumes, of course, that I still have all my faculties which is certainly not a given in today’s world. Imagine the turmoil should I take a deep dive into dementia and go wandering.
In my Zen Buddhist philosophy, death, like life, is seen as part of a greater cycle to be experienced with full awareness. My life has been an eclectic shambles somewhere between a Gordian knot and Medusa’s hair (a delicious lesbian friend, a classical scholar, pondered recently whether Medusa’s pubic hair might have had snakes as well), a life of unplanned mayhem and chaos that’s at once been alternatively weird, exciting, affectionate, and dangerous, so likely my jisei will be the same: a snake-jammed cobra basket filled with love and venom with little, if any, ‘awareness’ in it at all.
In other words, chance exemplified.
My jisei would ideally be closely tied to the culture of the samurai and to Zen Buddhism, a personal testament focused on honour and loyalty, or, as our monk’s remind us, of impermanence, emptiness, and the cyclical nature of existence.
On the other hand, it’s just as likely I will channel Spike Milligan, Dorothy Parker, or Joe Orton or simply not write one at all. I do love them though, and here are a few of my favourites, starting with an early one from 7th century Japan and coming (almost) up to date:
There is no one to grieve for,
Flowers fall;
It is simply nature.
How could it be otherwise?
Prince Ōtsu (7th century, Edo, died by seppuku)
A special favourite:
I came into this world empty-handed,
I leave it barefoot.
My arrival, my departure—
two simple events,
woven into a knot.
Ichikyō Kozan (1283–1360 Zen monk and meditation master)
And one written on the deathbed of an old man:
My old body:
a drop of dew, heavy,
on the edge of a leaf.”
Kiba the Poet (1868 age 90)
And finally, from 1970, writer and anarchist Yukio Mishima died by seppuku:
A small night storm blows
Saying ‘falling is the essence of a flower’
Preceding those who hesitate
Yukio Mishima (1925-1970)
Seriously, I’m most grateful to the amazing Professor Ngaire Kerse and to her University of Auckland IDEA Study (Impact of Dementia mate wareware and Equity in Aotearoa) researchers for including me in the project. It was a great experience and one that I came away from feeling valued and seen.
Yes, valued and seen.
How often does that not happen?
I don’t know whether there will be anything more – I quietly hope there might be – but I did get a lovely Christmas card, personally signed, from Professor Kerse and her team which was like the icing on an already scrummy-yummy cake.
dykiegirl 