By Nancy Hawley
My brother, sister, and I decided to meet with my aging parents to discuss this stage of our life as a family. As we sat together discussing health proxies, wills, and funeral arrangements, I was filled with a sense of interconnection with them, how deeply the roots go. I was also filled with a sense of impermanence.
As I walk around Fresh Pond today, tears flow as I survey the beautiful trees in the breeze and consider the trees I will plant when my parents die.
Already a subscriber? Log in
You have read 5 articles this month.
For only $3 per month or $28 per year, you can read as much as you want!
A digital subscription includes unlimited access to current articles–and some exclusive digital content–released throughout each week, over thirty years of articles in our Dharma archive, as well as PDFs of all back issues.
By Nancy Hawley
My brother, sister, and I decided to meet with my aging parents to discuss this stage of our life as a family. As we sat together discussing health proxies, wills, and funeral arrangements, I was filled with a sense of interconnection with them, how deeply the roots go. I was also filled with a sense of impermanence.
As I walk around Fresh Pond today, tears flow as I survey the beautiful trees in the breeze and consider the trees I will plant when my parents die. I breathe and sing a prayer to soothe myself as I face not only my parents' mortality, but my own.
Four years ago I began a journey that today allows me to breathe, sing a Jewish prayer, and contemplate impermanence. In the Spring of 1989,1 met two teachers—a teacher of Jewish mysticism and Thay. I was able to open the spiritual door wider with the support of Thay, Sister Chan Khong, and the retreat community at Omega, and I left feeling inspired to learn more about my Jewish roots and discover ways to practice Buddhism that didn't offend my feminist sensibilities.
Since then, I have helped create the Boston-area sangha, and I also study the Kabballah and the Torah and learn with other women about women in Judaism. At times the practices come together. For example, I invited a small group to practice sitting meditation as we celebrated Purim and our foremother Esther. I seek out other teachers to learn from. Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi blesses my journey as I integrate the precepts of Judaism and Buddhism. Most of all I practice, learn, and celebrate with family, friends, colleagues, and other spiritual seekers. I was thrilled to join with other Jewish Buddhists in Western Massachusetts last Fall to discuss where these paths come together and where they diverge, and I look forward to continuing the discussion this Fall. I see the Shofar, blown on the High Holidays, as a way to visualize my spirituality: the narrow end representing my Judaism—the particulars of my background—and the wider end representing my Buddhism—an all-encompassing, compassionate world view that provides a spacious context in which I can practice both. I put my lips to the Shofar and produce my own clear sound that joins with the sounds of others to create a strong community.
Nancy Miriam Hawley, Good Omen of the Heart, is a social worker in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
