I wrote this new piece for Tricycle: The Buddhist Review. (Feels kind of like a bucket-list publication for me, as I've long read and respected their work.)
It might be helpful for anyone who loves someone who's terminally ill (oh hey, that'd be all of us). Or for anyone with a mind that's busy thinking, planning, or worrying.
The first time I really “got” meditation, I was standing at my kitchen sink washing dishes.
My father was dying. Cancer.
Hospice bed in the living room-style cancer.
I’d flown back to Nebraska to see him one last time, to hold his hand, say goodbye.
Now, the haunting question of when.
I was 26, living in a 100-year-old flat in San Francisco, bartending my way through grad school, subsisting on coffee and cocktails. Standing there at the sink, I could hear the young couple upstairs vacuuming, the Chinese family across the alley clattering pans, and the cable car clanging one block over on California Street.
My mind was obsessively circling the drain.
When would Dad die? Where would I be? Walking out of class? Trudging up Nob Hill? Shaking a martini? Tomorrow? Next week? I should buy a black suit. I should book a flight. I should cover my shifts. But no. That’s so morbid. He’s still here. But when? How am I supposed to prepare for this? How am I supposed to think about anything else?
You can read the full article here.