Bardo in Autumn

The bardo is the state of existence between death and rebirth. It’s that liminal space — the wood between the worlds. The bardo is talked about as being filled with appearances that arise from the impulses of one’s previous unskillful actions. The invitation is to recognize the peaceful and wrathful displays alike as projections of one’s own mind.

I find myself in a bardo between my life in Boulder as a therapist and this trip to Nepal as an I-don’t-know-what. There are many things to be done between now and then, not the least of which is to say goodbye. I have spent some time looking forward to some pinpointable moment where I will breathe life into that word — goodbye — and be all at once released. I have been disappointed to discover that, for me, goodbye seems to happens gradually over time. I sometimes indulge this fantasy of appearing brave by not needing anything from anyone but lately I’ve been considering that the bravest thing I can do is square my shoulders and expose that embarrassing moment of longing that happens after saying “I love you” and before abandoning hope of hearing it back.

We had a party two nights ago and the house was still a mess this morning. I just took the trash and recycling out this afternoon. I wanted the remnants, somehow. It’s hard to let go. It felt nice this evening to clean up but to leave the furniture rearranged in this new open way. It felt nice to wash the alter-ego off my face last night. I was touched to find myself uncovering someone who I thought was beautiful — there was some surprise at finding myself happy to be reacquainted with my original face.

“It depends” and “I don’t know” keep coming up as my answers to things. Wrathful and peaceful appearances keep arising from the impulses of my previous unskillful actions. Sometimes I can recognize them as projections and then let them go. Sometimes I get seduced by them — they can look so goddamn beautiful. Like a lullaby. Like lying down in a field of poppies. Like going down the rabbit hole. Waking up can be painful but I learn something every time. This time it was something about rhythm and frequency. Love is complicated.

I’m pretty scared about leaving my job and I’m brokenhearted in many ways about ending relationships with clients to whom I feel connected and with whom I feel privileged to work. I don’t feel bored — I just feel hungry. In Quaker meeting for worship this morning, All Saint’s Day y Dia de los Inocentes, people stood and spoke about autumn. One woman spoke about preferring to see death not as darkness; one man spoke about teaching his physics students that darkness is simply the absence of light and without whom we could not notice light; another woman spoke about Persephone and about discerning what to let fall away and what to point your attention toward. I cried when this second woman spoke. I’m off to Boudhanath at the beginning of the year and am likely to be stateside a few months later but I am leaving home and saying goodbye for now. Leaving things in storage. I think my intention for this trip is to hold an open, warm, and clear space for seeds to grow in their own time. My intention is to study and practice meditation; to write; possibly to practice therapy. My intention is to be willing to be a fool. My intention is to build a more intimate relationship with loving-kindness.