This is the time of year when the veil between the living and the dead grows thin. It is the time to remember those who have slipped to the other side by lighting a candle, singing, praying, or whispering to your loved ones in the wee hours. The threshold between birth and death is hallowed time. It is like standing at the entry of a shoji screen door where you can see—and be seen—through the frosty surface. I have an inkling of this as I was born on November 2nd, a day celebrated as the raucous, colorful, bone rattling Dia de Muertos South of the border. At this threshold, I feel the presence of my mother who died one year ago. And I feel with elections in two days, that we stand on the brink of hope and change.
At the threshold we must let go of our small-mindedness, our private worries, obsessions, and fears. Through the flimsy veil we are afforded a peek into just how ephemeral and precious this life is. I was once an avid reader of Carlos Castaneda who channeled the Yaqui desert shaman Don Juan. To become a “man of knowledge” he wrote, “the thing to do when you’re impatient, is to turn to your left and ask advice from your death. An immense amount of pettiness is dropped if your death makes a gesture toward you, or if you catch a glimpse of it, or if you just have the feeling that your companion is there watching you.” Today, I am asking death’s advice how to relinquish my fear, to be more receptive, clear and kind. I ask advice how to be more at peace and in place inside. And I ask how we might all live together in promise and possibility rather than doom and destruction.
We don’t realize it but we are always standing on some kind of threshold. Every moment, every thought, every encounter is a new beginning. The Japanese Zen master Dogen wrote in his essay “Shoji” (the translucent doorway) that birth and death are the everyday practice of the Buddhist way. So at this hallowed time, stand with courage. Stand on the brink between two worlds and celebrate wholeheartedly the living and the dead.
-Tias Little
