Between samsara and serenity: the legacy of a fierce London-Irish matriarch
What the Buddha says about death can help us to live
My oldest friend just told me his mother has died.
I have known Jack since we were seven years old, growing up together in working class South London. Now in our forties, we live on opposite ends of the country. I am settled on the east coast with my loving wife and young son, while Jack shares his life with his wonderful husband in a village on the Welsh border.
Jack’s mum, Mary, was a typical London-Irish matriarch - forthright, proud and fiercely loyal to her son. Indeed, she threw his alcoholic father out when the boy was twelve (in an act of bravery my own mother - herself a victim of domestic abuse - was incapable of) before struggling on in a exploitative factory job. Chronically fatigued, penniless and alone, yet more than capable of moulding young Jack into a kind, beautiful man.
As a child, I took shelter at their house. I tended to go in the evenings, when my own father was at his bestial worst. And every time, without fail, Mary would collect me in her arms and sit me down with Jack for dinner. Afterwards, we would race our toy cars across the living room carpet, under his parents’ feet. Strangely, I always found his father, John, a charming man; almost sophisticated (in as much as he drank his beer from a glass; unlike my own can-swilling old man). I later learned that the devil only emerged after lights-out - when John would corner Mary, claw at her nightdress and beat her into silent surrender. She absorbed the blows, quietly enduring the violation, the violent penetration, in order to spare her son. Still, try as she might, her stifled cries would leak out into the hallway, as Jack cowered in his room, pretending not to hear, crowding out the noise with a cheap Walkman and a pile of old comic books.
Mary’s decline in later years was grotesque. To see such a proud woman deteriorate into a shambling wraith was a unique horror. First her body shrank, then her skin withered and joints buckled causing her to take up a cane. Eventually, her mind collapsed and she was placed in care where she promptly lost all memory of her past life. Needless to say, Jack visited daily, keeping vigil as his old mother slid into the next world. By the time she passed she was ready - her mind wiped clean, as pure as when she had entered this life.
What did the Buddha say about death?
The Buddha spoke about samsara - the cycle of birth, death and rebirth. Each one of us runs through these stages of existence, all the while pursued by our suffering. That feeling that things are not as they should be. We age, decline, and eventually break. Sickness robs us of our vitality. Infirmity seizes the brain, the soul; our very being.
Buddhists believe we can alleviate this suffering through acceptance. They say the trick is to allow life to run its course without resisting its pull. When we fight against time, we suffer. Likewise, when we long for lost youth. To merely watch as the world turns is to know serenity. The Buddha taught that to be free, one only has to let go - simply release our stranglehold, and accept the unvarnished moment. Although, crucially, you must do this without effort. For to grasp at this concept is also, paradoxically, to push it away.
Mary accepted reality as it was. No doubt, she was still an active participant in life. After all, she expelled her abusive husband and singlehandedly raised a strong, upright man. But she was reconciled with her lot. She knew the truth of her experience, that the world could be a mean and nasty place - but it was also a domain of great beauty and love. She spent her life fighting to preserve this ideal, always with the same graceful demeanour; that of a loving protector and warrior. A gently powerful woman. A goddess.
She will be greatly missed.
I can only hope we can accept her passing with that same grace.
I want to mention gratitude for sharing this. It's vulnerable to lose someone, and my condolences for your loss.