Chop Wood, Carry Water: Zen and Coping with Bereavement
I know what I am talking about is almost too personal to be articulated properly and also something that everyone either has or will have gone through at some time in their lives.
Recently I have been persistently thinking of the Zen saying, “Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water”.
I don’t mean that I have become enlightened, far from it! But I have recently experienced what I could call a “life-splitting event” — a death that brings with it grief for many other deaths, that brings endings of all kinds, let’s just say the end of the world as I knew it. It is the kind of loss I could not fully grasp or even imagine before, although mentally, throughout my mother’s cruelly brief and cruelly long terminal illness, I certainly knew it was on its way. Emotionally too I felt some kind of premonitions of what it might be like, life afterwards.
So, I am faced with a new world. What can I do in it? Abstract thinking and concentration are difficult. But as far as everyday life is concerned, as far as chopping wood and carrying water is concerned, I do exactly the same as I did before. Everything is totally different, and everything is exactly the same.
Maybe that is something like the experience of enlightenment, suddenly being awake, and only then realising that you had been asleep. A few months ago I was chopping carrots, and I was not conscious of the preciousness of life, and how short it is, and how much I need the people I love. I knew all that, of course, but I was not aware, I was not entirely awake. Now I chop carrots and I am painfully aware. In a sense it is horrific, that I was so stupid, that I wasted so much time; it even seems somehow horrible that there should still be carrots in the world after such a disaster. At the same time it is soothing, comforting to be doing a familiar thing, that the carrots need chopping whoever lives or dies, and it is also a kind of relief that while I am chopping the carrots I am required to do exactly this, no more, and no less.
I am laughing now because I don’t chop carrots much at all. Nor do I do a lot of chopping wood or carrying water. But although I don’t know why I chose the carrots, I know I have had exactly this experience while doing something or other, while loading the washing machine, or cleaning my teeth. I know what I am talking about is almost too personal to be articulated properly and also something that everyone either has or will have gone through at some time in their lives.
In a way we are all totally powerless, we cannot keep ourselves or anybody else from death. In another way we are always active, always doing something, keeping ourselves and each other going. We are separate and yet completely interlinked, and somewhere hidden within this there is something that we might call meaning, or we might call hope, something which may one day hit us like enlightenment when we realise that it was we who were hiding it all along.
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18th June 2008
Beautifully put.
The magic of the separation and communion is in the meeting. Perhaps as we are (however distantly) now, because you have spoken from your heart. Rawly and without pretense.
Thinking of you.
19th June 2008
I read this post as I was sitting on my couch wondering if I could go to work today. My father died a few weeks ago and I don’t feel like myself. This post helped me decide to get off the couch and do what I need to do. Thanks.
19th June 2008
Thinking of you, diana…
and thank you Evan.
1st September 2008
I recently held my grandmother’s hand as she died. She was a wonderful woman, a role model, a saint. While I was very sad to lose her, I handled her death better than I have ever handled a death before. I actually spoke to her as she was dying, telling her that it’s okay to go to Jesus. My grandmother loves flowers, and I told her that she was going to see the most beautiful garden ever, and she was going to be with Jesus and my grandfather, and all of her loved ones who went before her who had accepted Christ as their savior. I told her that I wanted to go with her, but I’ll wait until God’s time, according to His plan, and I will see my Grandmother again. She’ll be healthy, without pain or illness, and in a heaven without sin. I can only imagine.
It’s somewhat soothing when someone dies… to know where they are going and that they will live in eternity with Jesus. It just blows my mind. I can’t wait!! But I will. God still has more plans for me.
If you get a chance, read the book “Heaven” by Randy Alcorn. It’s amazing.
Please know that I am not religious. But I do have a person relationship with Jesus and pray for everyone who doesn’t have that relationship.
God Bless,
Karen
3rd October 2008
Sarah,
WOW….
11th June 2009
I am very touched by this post. The acceptance of impermanence is at the very core of Zen teaching’s. Indeed, we only begin to understand after we have suffered greatly. This idea we have of ourselves, our stories, are greatly dependant on those we love and associate with. When we lose them, we lose a part of ourselves, we have to make a sober adjustment to our story. The underlying truth is that our stories are more imagination than anything else, and only when they painfully conflict with reality do we begin to question them. So what happens if the ego dissolves and we do wake up, what do we do then? We chop wood & we carry water. But we don’t build a story around it. We don’t use others and the world to add to our idea of ourselves, to achieve personal gain. There is another Zen saying: “A day without work is a day without food.”
It’s really that simple. All that is left is to follow the natural law’s, no story required. Like the birds, the plants, the animals.
The reason for doing is inherent in the doing itself. After eating, wash your bowl. The only difference between us and the rest of nature is that inner commentary we maintain in our minds. The only “problems” in existence are in the human mind. Where else?
So, we can accept life as it is, and align with the natural way.
Or, we can keep telling ourselves stories, adding consolations and rationalizations to keep it working. Either way, chop wood, carry water.
John J. Patton
11th June 2009
Hi John, I really resonate with your comment. I think at the moment I am in “a day without work is a day without food” phase (or a day without knowing what work to do is a day without food phase). I guess I am looking for the natural way of making money online. Thanks for your comment.