We had a couple of young people come to our door and ask whether there were any ancient people, antiquaries almost, geriatrics, in the house. Cushla said yes, as apparently, I qualify.
The two young people 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, but it involves two researchers coming back to our home and interviewing both Cushla and me for a couple of hours. 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, that I was, in fact, functioning at 100%, and 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, and I figured that was 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 the boss of the project who is very keen to know how I was going and how I had found 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 – the falling petals signifying the death of a samurai by seppuku – that I have on my arms. 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 because if and when this happens, I will no doubt resort to my Zen Buddhist practice and Samurai traditions, write my Jisei no Ku (verse of parting with the world), and depart as tidily and invisibly as possible.
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, 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.
My jisei should ideally be closely tied to the culture of the samurai and to Zen Buddhism, a personal testament focused on honour and loyalty, or like our monks it will speak 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 Professor Ngaire Kerse and 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 from Professor Kerse and the team which was like the icing on an already yummy cake.
dykiegirl 