Autumn reminds me that there is always an insufficient quality to life, even in the sweetest moments. In my youth, my father too spent many many hours teaching me to drum. Patience and hardwork were his virtues. I don't drum as often anymore. Sometimes I hear the pulsing like the marching of his heartbeat. Other times I avert my gaze when I see this instrument of the goddess because I am not ready to visit my own underworld.
There is something in the air of late October where I live that compels many of us to (re)connect with our ancestors. And perhaps it is the scent of fresh decay in the nearby woods (oddly reminiscent of Chinese herbs) or maybe it is the passage into Scorpio season when it is cold and dark and rainy, but this year my father’s passing is hitting harder than usual. Today would have been his 70th year.
Truth be told, I don’t think I ever really processed this death entirely. Sometimes I’m not even sure what grieving actually means. What exactly am I supposed to do, sit with the hollow feeling and watch the broken carousel of memories spin? I think there are two kinds of people in this world. There are the people that are really expressive with their emotions and will live them generously. And there are the Moons in Capricorn, like me. Distant, pragmatic. The problem-solver type. How long are we going to mourn? Can we just get it together already?
At the time of his passing, someone said to me that grieving can also be a form of honouring. And I didn’t know what to do with that either. The cult of ancestors is a widespread practice in my culture. Altars piled with offerings of food, drinks and flowers, mixed with the constant burning of incense and activated with chants sung in unison, where buddhas and bodhisattvas share space with passed family members, are common sight in our homes. And they make me uncomfortable.
It always felt like they were watching. And silently judging. I would look at the stern photo of my paternal grandmother and wonder, would she be proud of her bloodline? She passed away before I was born but I hear she was withdrawn and unloving. Maybe she too had her Moon in Capricorn (high five, grandma!). I’m sure she had her own private sufferings that no one else could understand.
Recently it dawned on me that I must have misunderstood Mahayana Buddhism somewhere along the way. That the offerings we make do not necessarily always need to be pristine. That we can also offer our hurt and anger, at least to the bodhisattvas. I don’t know if my ancestors would appreciate that but hey, they all share the same altar.. Maybe this is a Westernised re-imagining of Buddhism that has nothing to do with tradition. But you know what, I appreciate this. It’s a fresh perspective that takes away the guilt. We are done with feeling unworthy, yeah?
Twice a year, on his birthday and death anniversary, my family —whether apart or together— would make a larger offering. And this year is no different. Except, I wanted to offer something different this year. There is of course the usual: vegetarian dishes, dessert, water, tea, flowers, candlelight and incense.., but this year there is also my own dukkha. This feeling of unease, dissatisfaction, insufficiency that exists in our lives. In darker moments, I feel it as the dread of existence. Hey dad, with your permission, I’m offering these too. Please take them so that I may feel lighter, so that I may be light.
Maybe honouring is to give meaning to all the minutes of the day, to make sense of the brevity of our time here. To remember, respect, and appreciate. And so once the incense has burned down, I will share this meal and recognize that this dukkha is something we also share, my ancestors and I.
🌑 ♏
Featured deck: Gaian Tarot (Joanna Powell Colbert)