Accepting Impermanence

One of my molars lost its crown last week. Diagnosis: advanced decay in the tooth under the porcelain, I think due to a buggered root canal but no one at the dentist’s office was saying. Prognosis: not good. Resolution: yank the tooth and build a bridge between the flanking teeth. Since I’m all for keeping as many teeth for as long as I can, I’ve committed to the plan and the first step happened yesterday: the tooth was extracted.

No one likes dental work—if they do, they need more help than a dentist can give them. I have spent years getting over my childhood, but the last tooth I had pulled was wildly painful (and also the result of a root canal gone bad). It’s hard to get past it until you get past it, right? Fortunately, my recent adoption of the “be here now” and “worry is a waste of time” policies helped immensely in getting me through the wait time over the weekend. I hardly thought at all about what awaited on Monday, and when I did, I acknowledged the anxiety, then boxed it up and set it aside.

On Monday morning, however, Ter read my mind and handed me Your True Home—the Everyday Wisdom of Thich Nhat Hanh. I sat with the book in my hands and asked myself: “What wisdom will help me today?” I then performed my thumbing ritual, eventually opening the book to page 361:

“Offering Flowers to the Buddah”

When I began this little ritual a few weeks back, I would often look at a heading and think, Seriously? I have learned to restrain judgement (and dismissal) until I’ve read the piece—as I did yesterday morning.

It was all about the importance of accepting impermanence. Nothing lasts forever. Everything changes. Accepting impermanence enables us to suffer less and enjoy life more. I’m paraphrasing, of course, but the nugget in this piece really helped me. I was upset at losing the tooth because I was afraid of how much it would hurt to have it pulled. Soooo … accept that the tooth has to go. Accept that it will be painful (pain is inevitable; suffering is optional), but this too shall pass. Breathe. And know that all will be well.

It took 45 minutes and four, count ʼem four, needles to numb me sufficiently for him to do the job. When I was finally frozen solid, I closed my eyes, felt a little pressure, heard a little scraping, thought, Good bye tooth, I’m letting you go—and it was done. No pain, no noise … and a lot of bloody gauze. Yikes, recovery is the brutal part.

It too shall pass.

Inner Silence

My father asked me one day if I ever stop talking. He meant it literally, but I was lying when I replied, “Sometimes.” In truth, my internal chatter rarely shuts up and it’s starting to annoy me as much as my external chatter annoys Dad.

I’ve been anticipating the Easter weekend for many reasons, one of which is my intent to slow down and be quiet for an extended period of time. For weeks, my brain has been revving at an unhealthy pace as I try to keep up with office nonsense. On my spare days off, shutting it down has been almost impossible. Today is utterly, completely mine. I’ve planned to write solidly, nonstop except for tea and pee breaks, but do you think my mind has allowed me to focus on anything for more than a heartbeat at a time? A thousand other things, disguised as pleasurable alternatives, have popped up to distract me from my chosen path. Sifting through them has sucked up more time than doing any or all of them likely would.

So this morning, admittedly out of desperation, I tried an experiment. I picked up Ter’s copy of Your True Home—the Everyday Wisdom of Thich Nhat Hanh and sat with it for a minute. I laid the book on my knee, folded my hands atop it, closed my eyes, and pushed everything from thought but a single question: What do I need to know for today?

Eyes still closed, I tipped the book onto its spine and ran both thumbs across the edges of the pages. My left thumb “felt” louder, so I concentrated on the pages comprising the first half of the book. My thumb ran over and over until, finally, a break in the pages appeared. I opened the book, eyes still closed, and thought, Don’t look to the right. Look to the left. I turned my head, opened my eyes, and here is the wisdom that greeted me:

Inner Silence

Silence is something that comes from your heart, not from outside. Silence doesn’t mean not talking and not doing things; it means that you are not disturbed inside, there is no talking inside. If you’re truly silent, then no matter what situation you find yourself in, you can enjoy the silence. There are moments when you think you’re silent and all around you is silent, but talking is going on all the time inside your head. That’s not silence. The practice is to find silence in all the activities you do.

Did I need to hear that? You bet your sweet bippy I did. It’s the best advice I could be given, a Zen version of the paternally ubiquitous “Shut up, Ruth!” that has given me focus, something to remember as I move through my day. Achieving inner silence will help me to be here now, to find joy in each moment, and to follow my heart—at least until my hockey game starts at 4:00. After that, all bets are off.

Until then, however … silence.

Present Moment

I watched a guy on a street corner the other day. He got there as the “don’t walk” signal kicked in and while I thought he’d go for it anyway, he hesitated. In that brief pause, he missed his opportunity. The light turned red and north/south traffic began to flow. He stood for a sec, visibly twitching, then pivoted on his heel to cross in front of my car. Again, he waited too long and the light changed. Spinning, he was away like a thoroughbred at the races, but having observed his agitated behaviour, I thought, Are you kidding? You can’t wait for two minutes at a traffic light? What-is-the-big-rush?

Same goes for the driver of the big a** truck who changed lanes three times to reach the intersection no further ahead of me because the traffic was literally bumper-to-bumper—and this on a Saturday afternoon when you have to know that it’s gonna be nuts out there. But really, the pedestrian seeking the quickest way across the street puzzled me more. Admittedly, I get miffed if my rhythm is stalled by a mistimed crossing signal, but you know what? It’s fun to stand still for a minute and watch the world zoom by. It pulls me from mindless chaos to mindful presence. At least, with practice, I hope it will.

I learned a wonderful meditation last week, courtesy of Ter’s current philosophical mentor, the marvelously tranquil Thich Nhat Hanh. It’s short and simple, so I’ve remembered and am applying it when required:

(breathe in) Calm

(breathe out) Smile

(breathe in) Present Moment

(breathe out) Wonderful Moment

I can’t meditate in front of a candle—I fall asleep—but I can do it on a street corner. Whenever I feel myself taking off into orbit, I can slow myself down and proceed more peacefully.

Sometimes. Not always. But I’m getting there.