The Hardest Word

“Sorry,” dear Sir Elton, is NOT the hardest word.  The hardest word is “good-bye.” 

There is a Zen Buddhist precept of non-attachment.  The idea is that if we cling to the desire for things to be permanent, then we will develop strong attachments, and because of attachment we will suffer.  This is the second of the Four Noble Truths:  "All suffering arises from desire."  As a consequence, if we recognize rightly that all phenomena are subject to change and transformation, then there will be no room in our hearts for fear and worry.   We can accept anything, even death, with a peaceful, cheerful mind.   The accomplished Zen man and woman can face all the vicissitudes of life and death without fear.

I am NOT an accomplished Zen woman. 

My attachments run deep and hard.  I suppose I can find some comfort in knowing I might be a peck or two ‘ahead’ of most Americans in that I don’t hold dear many material things.  However, that comfort is quickly swept away in the acknowledgment that few people of any race, culture, creed or nationality hold quite so desperately to her people as I do.

I not only hold fast to the desire for things to be permanent, I require it.  My mother is not allowed to die for instance.  I don’t know how she’s going to do that, but it is a requisite.  (I’ll leave her to figure out the logistics on that one.)  How I could possibly continue in this world without her patient ear, I can’t imagine. 

When it comes to the idea of losing my children, however, I’ve taken this whole thing to a professional level.  It seems the room in my heart for fear and worry over them is pretty much mansion-sized.  I cannot tell you how many times I have ridiculous scenarios played out in my head if I so much as hear a siren nearby if Dia is out at the park with a nanny or Mom.  Those same sirens can draw up a brilliant image of car accidents if Tim or Cheyanne are supposed to be driving somewhere in the vicinity.  Oh, I have pictured falling accidents, moving vehicle accidents, horrible illnesses, acts of God… pretty much the gamut. 

I love an excerpt from Tina Fey’s book.  It’s a prayer for her baby girl and in it she writes:  “Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.”

Yep – exactly.

Then there’s the loss of friends…  Certainly I’ve grieved the death of more than a few friends, but I’ve also grieved the death of a friendship or two as well.   Over my years I’ve had one or two ‘best’ friends turn away from me for one reason or another and despite my best efforts to remedy the situation they have remained estranged.  It took me awhile, but I finally faced the fact that I had to grieve that loss.  They were gone to me for all intents and purposes just as in death. 

Sometimes, however, it’s just a matter of location.  Ten years ago I moved from Indianapolis and, while I’ve never for a single fleeting second missed one square foot of that town, I miss my friends who had so faithfully substituted as my family while I served my sentence there.    There are many days that being so far away from Stephanie just absolutely wrecks me, and I can’t describe how many parties I’ve thrown where I wish so much that my Indy friends could be there. 

Today I’m facing the fact that one of my favorite people in this universe will soon be moving 2,500 miles away (well, 2174 miles to be exact).   I have to believe that we will remain as close as ever or I really just can’t get through this.  I’m not being dramatic – it’s my Achilles heel.  I just can’t do good-byes.   Especially when Sabra is one of those people that I could see every day and still want to spend more time with her.  She and her family have graced me with so many gifts.  I have learned more through them than any college course could ever teach.  I have laughed harder and cried more freely.  I have played the part of the strong, supportive friend simultaneously standing in awe of her strength and spirit.  She was Dia’s first nanny and she has been a part of her life every step of the way.

And now, I have to say good-bye. 

And as the tears roll down my face, I can only pray that God will smile on me enough to watch over us and keep this friendship in tact despite the miles.  I look to my friendship with Missy for encouragement.  Though I haven’t seen her in years now, every time I pick up the phone and speak to her it’s like no distance and no time has passed.  I suppose that’s what real friendship is.  It transcends all obstacles. 

So while I’ll never be able to be an accomplished Zen woman – not in this lifetime anyway – I hope that I can become trusting enough to get through this good-bye gracefully.  I hope that I can have faith that there actually won’t be a loss other than our frequent visits.   But still, I will cry, because “good-bye” is actually the hardest word.