Since 7:30 this morning in New York, John Daido Loori Roshi is no longer as he had been known since birth in 1930.
It was raining tonight as I emerged from the Métro to go sit with my Wild Flower friends, innumerable drops endlessly falling, « general all over, » as Joyce wrote of the snow in « The Dead. »
« All over » is unfathomable, as is the last breath « out, » and the next breath « in » that doesn’t come.
All we can say, as Bernie Glassman Roshi wrote, is that John Daido Loori Roshi has passed from this realm of practice.
Bernie’s eulogy can be read here: Daido Roshi
Isapwo Muksiska, a Blackfoot indian chief dying in 1890 whispered this:
What is life?
It’s a flash of firefly in the night,
It’s a breath of a buffalo in winter time,
It’s a little shadow that runs through the grass
And loses itself in the sunset.
"There is no death of anyone except in appearance, even as there is no
birth of anyone or becoming, except only in appearance." Apollonius of Tyana.
Though I never met Daido Roshi, when I read what people write about him, I feel grateful for his life and I feel inspired.
A human life can be a beacon of hope to others.
Much like most of us never met Obama, and he too can be such a beacon and receive the Nobel-price for peace because of it.
And I think we are all part of this emerging hope.
(In a ridiculous simile taken fro american football; the credit for a decisive passing game is shared between the passer and the receiver.)