Strength is quiet.
It doesn't call attention to itself.
It doesn't need to ask questions.
It greets sorrow with a smile.
It does not indulge in sadness.
It stands still.
It watches the motion, the noise, the chaos,
Watches everything
Without being shaken.
About two weeks ago, a group of us spent a couple of days volunteering at a Thai traditional medicine hospice for cancer patients. The hospice is located at a beautiful temple in the northeastern province of Sakon Nakhon, and allows patients to live there for free. Most patients are in the end stages of cancer, and seek out the temple as a peaceful place to spend their last days. There they receive herbal medicine treatments each day, participate in group meditation, prayer, and other activities, and live as one big family.
On our ride home from the temple, my friend Ning and I were discussing that ever so difficult question -- Why do bad things happen to good people? "Christianity doesn't really have an answer to this question," I told her. I suppose there are answers we create and speak into existence to comfort one another, but these answers still leave a bad taste in one's mouth. "Oh, but we have an answer," she replied. "We suffer because of the sins of our past lives." I thought for a moment. "But we can't remember those sins, or our past lives. If we can't remember them, did we really do anything wrong?" This is one of my faults. I always asks questions, and am never satisfied with the answers. "Mmm," she nodded. I could tell she, too, was dissatisfied with this answer, but didn't feel the need to say anything more. Strength is living with the questions. Strength is being dissatisfied, but not discouraged.
Nong Achi with Luang Dta, the monk who founded the temple healing center.
The tumor on his shoulder is covered in a herbal cooling paste.
Though Achi's symptoms are worsening and the tumor on his shoulder is growing by the day,
he still manages to smile for the camera.
I thought about Achi. The light in his eyes. The tumor on his shoulder growing bigger and bigger with each passing day, sucking the blood, the life, right out of his body. We watched helplessly as he cried in pain, as the doctor said he could offer him no more morphine. In between spurts of pain, Achi still managed to smile. "He would grow up to be handsome," one said. He already is handsome. He is beauty and light -- the kind that is too bright for this world. "I will fight my hardest," he says. "I will endure." There are moments when I feel a red hot anger rise within me. Why must this wonderful child experience pain and suffering? There are plenty of horrible people in this world who live lives of comfort and pleasure. Why not one of them rather than Achi? But I watch those who take care of the boy and the other patients at the temple, and I see that none of them are angry. None of them are crying. They are warm, smiling faces. They are big, tall trees. They walk into a room like water gliding over stones. They sing songs, hold hands, and speak words of comfort. I know that they, too, are human. That they must also feel, at times, angry, sad, and uncertain. But when they walk into a patient's room, they do not bring these feelings with them. They bring a soft strength instead, for this is what the patients need to endure. What they need is someone who can calm the troubled seas of their souls, so that they may go in peace. As I stood in Achi's room I realized how weak I am. I like to pride myself on my sensitivity, my ability to feel intense emotion for others. I've never contemplated that these qualities can be, at times, self-indulgent. Achi did not need to look at me and see tears. He needed to see peace, warmth, strength. He needed me, needed all of us, to smile.
The more time I spend here, the more I become acquainted with the sort of person I want to be. I am neither as strong or as wise as I would hope. I don't know what story I have to tell. I still wish I would handle life more gracefully. I wish I could have held Achi's hand, and be a source of strength for him. I wish I could look the tough questions of life in the face and smile, not needing to know the answers. Maybe one day, I'll manage.
I want to plant my feet in the rich, dark earth
I want to reach my arms up high, leave them there until
They twist and gnarl and grow towards the sky
Until my fingertips feel the warmth of the sun
I want to send my roots both deep and wide
I want to teach them only to take what they need --
And no more
I want the wind to move up and around me
Prickling my skin
I want arms children can climb in
Cloaked in emerald light
I want to be many things for many people
Or perhaps nothing at all.
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