Breaking Open in the Bardo

Life Again

 Out of the dusk a shadow,
Then, a spark.

 Out of the cloud a silence,
Then, a lark.

 Out of the heart, a rapture,
Then, a pain.

 Out of the dead, cold ashes,
Life again.

- John Bannister Tabb

“In the bleak midwinter frosty wind made moan,
earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone.”

- Christina Georgina Rossetti

As the holidays arrive and the New Year is around the corner, we find ourselves, indeed, in the bleak midwinter of a worldwide pandemic. We have now lived almost a full year within its throes. It appears that we may live another year or more in this strange state of existence between the death of what was and the rebirth of something yet to be determined. The rug was pulled out from underneath us, and we’ve entered the bardo, as a Buddhist monk might say, the astral state of the soul after death and before rebirth.

As I pondered this, I found myself thinking of the vast number of deaths that have occurred this year, and the greater numbers of deaths to come in 2021. It boggles my mind. I thought of the thousands of eulogies that have been spoken for a dear one who has died. I wondered how the collective energy that has been released into our cosmic field from those good speeches is affecting us?

The holidays bring us opportunities to celebrate life. In the Christian story the birth of Jesus is a time of great joy for those who follow that path. It is referred to as the coming of the Light, or Love. For pagans the Solstice is a time to ward off the darkness with fires, candles on tree branches, good food and yes, good wine. Regardless of your particular faith tradition, the bleak winter darkness is lifted with candlelight, twinkling tree lights, music, traditional treats and being with those we love. The pandemic surge in Washington State and in many other parts of the world means social gatherings are limited only to those in one’s household. How will we celebrate life, the love of family and community? How will we tend our souls in this difficult time?

I am living in this liminal space, poised on a threshold between past memories of good times and a flickering hope for a future when Covid 19 will somehow be brought under some measure of control and we can reconnect in physical and emotional ways. I seem to be on a threshold where I might pass on into a kind of death from despair, or I might re-emerge back to what is life-giving. I step over the threshold and back, over and back, rarely at rest. I don’t want to live in this state of waiting. I want to find some ease.

If I am in unease, how is it for those who are in the deep grief of recent death and loss?  I can’t speak for them, of course, but I suggest that when we have lost someone we love we are at our most vulnerable and exposed. Our illusion of having control over our lives is completely disrupted and we are left in a moment when we can be only what we are, who we are in this exact moment. In this state life becomes starkly simple—a matter of going to sleep and waking up, of breathing in and out, of taking one day at a time, one hour at a time. We are ruptured. We are broken open.

We find ourselves in new depths of uncertainty, unwanted guests in the bardo. We cannot negotiate. We don’t have the option to rationalize away the death(s) we are experiencing. In fact, at the deepest level of our bereavement, we now know what it means to die while we are still alive. We are in a state of shock and our old reality is no longer available. Without certainty, with no grounding and no reference points, we have no rest.

This is often the entry point for religion into our lives. We seek some profound reasoning, beyond basic logic, to help us grasp the moment. If our pot has shattered and our marbles have rolled away, how will we gather them up again? We sit still and watch them roll out of sight.

It is in this profound place of rupture and loss we see that we do not have it all together. We cannot carry on as before. We give up the marble game we have been playing, although we don’t give up the preciousness of human life. We are human beings, living and dying.

Then, a spaciousness appears, I think. We are simply present to what each hour brings. It brings a clarity with it. The complexity of our daily lives tones way down, sometimes disappears. Eventually a profound compassion for all who have suffered what we are suffering becomes a part of our days. Each day single moments follow single moments. Life goes on.

If we can bear to be in this time-out-of-time rupture, if we can bear our own pain as we bear the pain of those we love (in childbirth, illness, hospice), these moments become our new ground of being. We can find an ease, even in the moments of death and in the days that follow. How does this happen?

We may be lucky to find a new wisdom out of the confusion and uncertainty we have been living within. We may be able to live life with a more acute awareness—the silence makes sounds more vivid, food has new flavor, music sounds sweeter, a sunset appears more exquisite. This can become our new dynamic state where creating a new way of life merges with wisdom we have gained from our experience. We can find relief. We don’t have to maintain our old selves any longer. We can break out of the bardo.

As we come out of the shadows and into the light we can ask ourselves, what would it be like to live and love as if we have nothing to lose? All that you thought you would lose has been lost, in the death of your loved one(s). There is a profound poignancy in the realization that life simply goes on.

Emerging from the bardo is a kind of regeneration, a merging of what was with a re-emerging of what is, as the water in a river flows downstream. Like a butterfly cracking open its chrysalis, we come out and gently stretch our wings. We lose our familiar cocoon and find ourselves in a new world. We come through the birth canal into the light of the world. It is a rebirth.

There will no doubt be more loss ahead because that is the way of life. What has changed is how we choose to move with the loss. Those who love us will offer support. We can accept it. We can be present to all the feelings that rise up and simply be. We can be present to one another. In these ways we give and receive and find an ease in our heart. There will be moments in the holidays that are sad, poignant, and joyous. We can be present to all the moments. Today I ask you, what will you choose this season and who will you be in 2021?

With thanks to:

Life Again, John Banister Tabb, 1845-1909, Readings, Singing the Living Tradition, 1993, Unitarian Universalist Association, Beacon Press, Boston, MA.

In the Bleak Midwinter, Words: Christina Georgina Rossetti, 1830-1894; New words by John Andrew Storey, 1935-1997; Music: Gustav Theodore Holst, 1874-1934; Singing the Living Tradition, 1993, Unitarian Universalist Association, Beacon Press, Boston, MA.

https://www.lionsroar.com/four-points-for-letting-go-bardo/ by Pema Khandro Rinpoche| July 15, 2017, accessed November, 2020.