If You Are The Ocean, The Waves Need Not Worry You
In previous posts you’ve probably read about my challenges navigating single-life and self-love, as well as the peace I’ve gained through meditation and Zen Buddhism. What I haven’t really elaborated on is why I included the “dad” in “Single Buddhist Dad.”
You see, my goal in SBD is to articulate how life’s circumstances have shaped me into who I am today, and perhaps you’ll take a closer look at how your life is shaping you, too. For me to give you a complete picture, I have to acknowledge the role of parent and, in particular, being a dad to a 16 year old cancer survivor.
Now listen up: I’m not gaming for a pity party here so allow me to speed ahead: he’s fine now — 3 years later my son has a clean bill of health. So relax. Hopefully you can now focus on the meaning of this post without worrying about the ending.
My son’s cancer diagnosis 3 years ago (he was 13) was my Hurricane Harvey and Irma — all wrapped up into one super storm that swept through my inner and outer life. I didn’t survive it alone. At the time I was in a very serious relationship with a lovely woman with 2 young children. Although not my son’s birth mom, by most measures she was a strong and loving co-parent for 4 years — including the period when he had cancer. I don’t know what I would have done with out her.
Two days after my son’s diagnosis — still reeling and disoriented from the new reality — I decided to attend a Sunday morning meditation group that I liked. Driving along I came across a small dog on the side of the road. Fearing that it might be hit, I pulled over with the intention of rescuing the dog and taking it to safety. With the dog on one side of the street, and me on the other, I began walking towards it but decided to let a truck pass by me first. I could see that the driver couldn’t see the dog but hoped the dog would stay put. Unfortunately, the dog saw me and for reasons that I still can’t understand, began running across the street towards me — as if I was a its long lost companion. You can probably guess what happened next, and it happened before my eyes: the truck hit the dog.
The moments after impact are etched in my memory in slow motion. The devastated driver who saw the dog too late to stop, pulled over. I got a blanket from my car and covered the dog and then carried it to the grass. When the dog’s owner came out of a nearby apartment building, all I could do was stutter an apology and explain that I had only tried to help. I watched the dazed man carry his companion back to his apartment, head down.
It impacted me greatly. I didn’t go to my meditation group that morning. Instead, I got back in the car and drove home. And I cried. I cried as hard and long as I had in a long time. I cried because I was terrified of my son’s cancer. I cried because I didn’t deserve this burden. I cried for the life of that gentle dog and its grieving owner. I cried because I felt responsible for all of it.
What began to seep into my awareness that day — and the subsequent weeks and months at the hospital watching my boy go through chemo and radiation — was a simple yet painful truth: we ALL suffer. It is part of our human experience and there is no escaping it.
I thought that I could stop that dog from being hit, but I couldn’t. I thought I could (and should) protect my son from a deadly disease, but I couldn’t. Life is beyond our control, yet we insist...even obsesses…that we are in charge. Control is an illusion. If we can accept what is — no matter how painful — we can begin to move past the suffering and find peace. And when we bear witness not only to our own suffering, but humanity’s suffering, we begin to understand the lessons of the Buddha.
After all, if you are the ocean, then the waves need not worry you.
