Bobzho's Yahrzite

Honoring the first year anniversary of my beloved's transition

I’m sitting in my studio writing for the first time in months. I have immense gratitude for the spaciousness that this implies - I haven’t been able to get here often for a whole variety of reasons. Walking here, through the spring profusion of colors, with blossoms filling the sidewalks after the recent winds, I notice that their colors are shifting from bright pink to pale and dark brown. The circle of beauty, decay, and decomposition is playing out in front of me as a reminder of what I’ve been holding. All this blooming, when I allow myself to take it in, reminds me that there are many possibilities emerging in this time, some unexpected, but deeply welcome. The campus activism in support of the ceasefire and the end of the occupation are inspiring in the midst of the horror of the fascist response to their protests. As someone stated on social media today, “did these fools running campuses learn nothing from history? This kind of repression does not work.” In so many ways, deep loss is performing a kind of alchemy in the collective as well as in my spirit. New identities are being navigated.

During an April walk with Bobzho in Seattle, April 2012.

Another kind of spring blossom - campus activism. April 2024

One of the things that I’m harvesting from this year of grief is a kind of non-dualism; the ability to sit with paradox, to hold what appears to be two sides in one flowing whole. A few of the podcasts I’ve listened to have helped solidify that thinking as has the work I’ve been doing in various support groups. I am plowing deep into what appeared to be parched and dusty soil, discovering that there’s a some moist richness beneath the surface of the stories I have been telling myself. I will be writing more about this in the coming weeks.

In this moment, I’m having an eye-to-eye conversation with the crow perched on top off the condo across the street. Many birds have visited me since Bobzho’s departure from this realm, and they comfort me in ways that are familiar. When I was about 7 years old, there was a beige pigeon with dark brown markings that visited me in the front yard of our house in New Jersey. I joyfully threw it stale crumbs. Its frequent presence, like the trees in our yard, allowed me to enter a realm that was not spoken about in our home. The unseen, loving energy that can be found in unexpected places.

That pigeon was my anchor into a world in which I felt untethered. My parents, who only meant well despite their many flaws and rough edges, were themselves struggling with being untethered. The McCarthy blacklist had thrust them into a lonely and shame-filled space of financial precarity, and conflicting desires of wanting to be accepted, thrive, and belong in a world filled with daily injustices. Both of them put on a good face to others, with my father’s natural charm and warmth and my mother’s competent efficiencies, but underneath there was a churning of unspoken angst. I am feeling their yearnings today, and recognize how the pull of wanting to belong and thrive is so much a part of me and so many others.

Grief offers an opportunity to belong in unexpected ways. When you are navigating a loneliness more profound than any you have known, if you look beneath the incessant static that can clutter the mind, clues of connection will reveal themselves. Whether it’s looking deeply into the particular pile of dirt that is a literal representation of your late partner’s body or you find yourself expressing some vulnerable feelings in a Zoom workshop of fellow writers and heart emojis fill the screen, there are threads there, delicate ones, some offered by the more than human world as well as ones produced in the very human one, and those fragile threads can slowly be woven into something warm and cozy - if you allow it.

On Monday night, I went to a community potluck hosted by local friends, as one of my ongoing efforts to find connection in a culture that sometimes feels foreign to me. After 21 years in the Pacific NW, I’m still finding my footing here, and my emerging new self is attempting to do so with curiosity.

Monday was the first night of Passover and with no liberation seder (a progressive version of the ritual) to attend, I decided to bring a box of matzoh, some homemade harosets (chopped apples, walnuts, cinnamon, dates, and red wine) and horseradish to symbolically sit with all those who celebrate the liberation of the oppressed and enslaved. Harosets was designed to represent the mortar between the bricks in the pyramids, built by enslaved Jews for the Pharaoh. The horseradish represents the bitterness and bite of that time and all the subsequent oppressions. Matzoh, the flatbread, represents the lack of time to wait for bread to rise as they fled Egypt, hence, unleavened bread (matzoh) is eaten. I was not raised in a religious home nor have I had much exposure to Jewish practices as an adult (except for a few Jewish Voice for Peace celebrations) so some of these symbols may be inadequately translated here. May those of you who know more about these symbolic foods feel free to share them in the comments. Here’s more about how Jewish Voice for Peace is celebrating this liberation holiday this year, with details about more symbols on the seder plate.

Despite my lack of training, Bob and I often hosted liberation seders, particularly in communities where there were few Jews, and most often for our meditation groups. While I’m sure there are other Jewish holidays that highlight social justice, Passover is the one that lands just right for me - combining a feast with songs and prayers for liberation from injustices. Bob was often mistaken for being Jewish, and that amused us both given his southern Baptist roots, his indigenous yet evangelical grandmother (she came from Eastern Woodlands Cree & Tsalogi heritage), and his long training (since high school) in Zen Buddhism. We often laughed that we were both “bad Jews” and “bad Buddhists.” And from the latter, came the name of our current sangha.

As I satiated my hunger with the ritual foods I had brought to the potluck, I said a quiet blessing for all those who have no access to such nourishment, particularly those enduring the cruel famine in Gaza and elsewhere. As someone who participated in protests against injustices and for peace whenever possible since my teens, it’s been a bit hard for me to just witness activism, no matter how inspiring, rather than participate in it. I remind myself that I am still in mourning, not only for Bob, but for this difficult year of parenting our adult son’s struggles, and that my capacities for participation will shift with time.

Last year’s seder was spent with the Tacoma Refugee Choir; it was hosted by some Jewish friends who sing with them. It was a wonderful Liberation seder, with folks from the Congo, Ukraine, Syria, and Latin America. There was a lot of beautiful singing that lifted me up. Bobzho was in the hospital at the time, and the invitation to join others in a celebration of liberation, as I was beginning to understand the loss that I was facing, was comforting.

This year, the timing for that same liberation seder did not work with my schedule, nor did the seder being offered by the local Jewish Voice for Peace group. Both are happening on the nights when I will be at Breitenbush Hot Springs. On Bob’s yahrzeit, I am bringing some of his nutrient-rich soil to perform a small ceremony with a friend on that sacred land. As Bob was, at his core, an social ecology activist who saw healthy soil as one of the most important ways to interrupt the climate crisis, spreading his richness around a landscape that was profoundly harmed by fires as a ritual seems to be a gentle and fitting act of remediation.

I’m grateful to have this opportunity to honor his life and transition to ancestor in this way. Bob and I had been to Breitenbush several times over the past 20 years - it was a digital detox, with no cell service and no wifi, and a place to truly rest the heart and mind. I’ll always remember the one visit when we were so tired that all we could do was sleep, eat, and soak, and then sleep some more. It felt a bit surreal, like we had entered another realm in the quantum. We did quite a bit of laughing about it later: our zombie vacation.

Breitenbush Hot Springs after the fires of 2020 - photo taken on July 5th, 2022 with some of the new guest housing (platform yurts) in the distance.

Bobzho and I had reservations to go there in September 2020, when Sam was attending a young adult transition program during the pandemic, but huge fires swept through that part of Oregon and burnt all of the guest housing at Breitenbush two days before our scheduled visit. They have slowly rebuilt since then, and so, in the spring of 2022, we made reservations again. This time we cleverly decided to drive there on July 4th so that we could be far away from the misery of fireworks and spend 4 nights in the quiet bliss. But sadly, Sam had just come home from another program in Oregon. He was not in good shape and could not be alone. So Bob, who was doing immunotherapy at the time, stayed home with him. I didn’t want to lose our reservation again, so I invited a friend I’d made during the pandemic and spent 4 precious & very quiet nights in one of their newly reborn guest tent/cabins. This will be my first visit back since then, and while it’s a significant day and journey, I’m open to whatever lessons this journey will provide.

Today, I am preparing an altar to honor Bob as an ancestor to share with our sangha (sitting meditation group) tonight. One of the new members of the sangha has brought a folk tradition from his Vietnamese heritage, and, at his suggestion, we will put some of Bob’s favorite fruits on the altar to share with his spirit. Bob had told me about the fruit altars that proliferated in the Vietnamese temple in Long Beach, California where he lived when we first met in 1988. Bob was living for free in a monk’s room in exchange for assisting the head monk whose English was not so good. Bob helped to lead sesshins (retreats) and interfaced with city bureaucrats and the public when necessary. Not having to pay for housing was really helpful so he could use his salary at Long Beach City College to pay for his Master’s in social ecology and certification as a massage therapist.

Tonight’s altar will feature photos of Bob (so many of them include Sam from babyhood to age 8 after which all photos became digital), candles and candlesticks that were a wedding present in 1989, his favorite cap, scarf, and prayer beads, along with a bowl of New England clam chowder, a muffin, a scone, a bulb of garlic (oh, did he love his garlic, and once won a garlic eating contest at a festival in western Massachusetts, and swore that this activity scared off viruses for a year). I can’t forget a cup of strong coffee for his spirit to enjoy. I did forget to get half ‘n half for the coffee, but I did get some butter pecan ice cream; he loved the latter and deprived himself of such treats until he was in the hospital and home for hospice.

I will read a couple of Bob’s poems, something by Thich Nhat Hanh about no death/no birth, and after we have sat in silence, the Bad Buddhist sangha (Bob coined that name for our group) will enjoy eating the fruit and the other goodies.

Less than two weeks ago, when cleaning the Zendo, I discovered that Bob’s sitting cushions were covered in mold. There were 3 of them in the Zendo. I had bought him a new one when we moved to Tacoma, 8 years ago, to replace one or both of the old, stained and weathered ones, but he never was drawn to it. He liked the energy of the old ones that had traveled with him from monastery to retreats to his home practice, and obviously, so did the fungus that found them. The Zendo, a renovated garage, is only heated one night of the week, and without adequate ventilation during these chilly months, it has the perfect climate for growing fungi. It was not without some heartache that I placed these very worn cushions along with the newer one in the city trash barrel. I thought about all that they contained from his very disciplined sitting practice, and how the disposing of these sacred objects was in some ways fitting; phrases like “non-attachment,” “turning compost into flowers,” “no lotus without mud,” filled my head. The contents of the trash barrel, sitting outside the Zendo in the alley, will be finally be hauled away tomorrow. I have sat with the power of this action, this letting go, since I discovered the mold. Interestingly enough, I had no allergic response to cleaning the Zendo, even unmasked as I was. It’s like this mourning period has given my immune system an extra boost - so grateful for that big mercy.

I am becoming someone both new and old in this time, shedding some really useless layers and patterns that no longer serve this new chapter, while embracing parts that have been neglected. I am thankful for all the work I’ve done in the wee hours of the night to conquer fears and to neutralize or become less reactive to my critical inner judge. My persistent insomnia has gifted me with hours of reading Soul without Shame: A Guide to Liberating Yourself from the Judge Within by Byron Brown and Fear: Essential Wisdom for Getting Through the Storm by Thich Nhat Hanh. While I am still in process with this work, it has offered some traction that has helped me sleep better through the night, despite multiple crises. I have learned to put my ancestors to work to help me erase my tendency towards catastrophic thinking, and instead they remind me that love is accessible in so many ways in every moment, and I meditate with that.

I am thankful for several groups and healers that have offered me tools to untangle codependence and remember who I am without the roles I have played in the past. While I will always be a loving mother, Sam no longer will live in my house. For his 29th birthday last week, he quite willingly entered an addiction recovery program and the caseworker there will help him navigate next steps to living independently. My journey with Sam during this year of grieving has given me some big opportunities to practice non-attachment, or in the words of Al-anon, “detachment,” knowing that I cannot control his choices or his life’s trajectory. Despite lots of heartache, I feel held by some unknowable energy that is guiding me through this time.

Grieving needs to be done in a multitude of ways. While some of the process is a private unfolding of layers mentioned above, some of what we experience needs to be shared and spoken about with others, so that you can feel held by human hearts. I’ve lost several close friends this year who could not walk with me in this grief; I believe that they are still alive, but the loss of their ability to connect with me in any way has felt like another death. I’ve sent blessings in their direction, and moved on. I’m making new friends and embracing the many rediscovered parts of myself as a new friend as well.

What is going to unfold in this new chapter is unknown; I do know that I don’t want waste time worrying about things, and I am handing over my worries so that dead folks can take care of them. Listen to Perdita Finn’s practices in that sphere of understanding. My sense of mortality is definitely more alive in me due to Bob’s departure from the physical realm, and I’m seeing myself daily in the dirt that I move around in the garden. Becoming soil is in my future (not necessarily in this garden, but somewhere) - we eat and are eaten. This circle can actually be comforting if you take it in fully.

I ground myself in daily practices as I’m able to: I write at my desk every day, often for several hours despite distractions. My peers in the London Writers’ Salon keep me accountable, and I’m deeply grateful to them. I’ve learned to do household chores mindfully (channeling Bob’s spirit - his Zen practice allowed him to embrace simple chores joyfully). My other practices, aside from working in the garden, and creative projects, include physical self-care and rest. During this year of endless crisis and exhaustion, I was not able to keep up routines for more than a few days at a time, but I am ever hopeful that there will be less chaos within my home, now that I am taking care of myself alone, and more solid routines can be established. As I draw a bath with epsom salts (a twice or thrice-weekly routine that has been secure throughout the year) I settle into the comforting warmth, surrender to the unknown, and call in ancestors to guide me through the uncertainty of this time. Bob’s spirit reminds me to drink a tall glass of water. And as my hospice counselor told me today, uncertainty is something that we can all count on, and that glass of water embodies my gratitude for this moment, this present moment.

The seven columnar apple trees that we planted at his life celebration ceremony (6/24/2023). They were planted in a mixture Bob’s soil with other organic soil and are thriving. I don’t know whether any pollinators found the blossoms because it’s been a chilly spring, but they were definitely a delight to behold. This photo was taken on Sam’s 29th birthday, 4/19/2024.