20 Years and Buddha's Mustard Seeds

 

 

Today, my dear child, marks the 20^th year since you left us and left yourself in us for ever. In my moments of solitude, I hear and see you. When I go through photos I have taken 30 years ago, I always take respite to see you grow, a frame at a time. For your 12 years with life, you were my favorite model.

Today, I recalled a moment from a couple of months after you left.

I had to be in Taipei at the National Taiwan University for academic work. A colleague of mine met me at the airport and we had tea together. She said “you are still in mourning, and I can say nothing to heal your heart. But I wonder if you know the Buddhist parable about the mustard seed.”

I did not.

So, she told me the story of a young woman meeting Buddha after her young son dies. She could not accept the death of her beloved child, and she held tight her dead son refusing to proceed with the funeral.

An old man from the village took pity on her and told her to go to Buddha. “May be he can help you,” he said.

So, the woman goes to Buddha and holding her child, asks him to bring her boy back to life.

“You know all the medicines,” she said, “can you make one to bring my child back to life?”

After a long pause, Buddha said:

“I can make such medicine, but I need a special ingredient.”

“I will find that ingredient,” the woman said, “just tell me and I will go around the world to find it.”

And Buddha said:

“Bring me a handful of mustard seeds, but not any mustard seeds – you have to get them from a household where no child, spouse, parent, sibling, or servant has died.

And the woman went to every household in and outside the village. Everyone one was ready to give her mustard seeds, until she asked if anyone had lost a child, a sibling, a parent, a spouse or a servant.

She could not find a household where death had not taken a toll.

So, she buried her son, and went back to Buddha.

And Buddha said:

You thought that you alone had lost a child. But the law of death is that among all living creatures there is no permanence.”

…This morning, 20 years later I thought about that parable - my mind understands the message. But I have not reached nirvana to be at peace.

I hope you are.

 

And, as I sat down to write, I looked at a photo I took when you were 9 years old. It is a framed moment when you, your twin brother and Pita our dog posed for the shot. Pita was exactly the same age as Greg and you, so we used to say that we had triplets.

… As the woman in the parable found a resting place for her boy, we found one for you too.

And, I cannot end my note to you without remembering those hazel eyes that held so much promise:

 

Even when captured in Black and White:

 

There is no permanence, except for the memory of you and how you touched all on your path.

 

July 18, 2025

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2025

Broken Wings

 

 

I grew up in a country you never knew, and spoke languages you never had time to learn. But I told you about these and you listened with your hazel eyes wide open.

When I was your age as in the above photo, we had a French language teacher who as a “punishment” for any misbehavior in class would assign a poem to learn and recite standing in front of the class, a couple days later. I loved that punishment as I loved poetry!

One of the poems I had to learn and recite 60 years ago was by Victor Hugo entitled “Demain, dès l’aube”. I did not understand the meaning of the poem, but like many other “punishment poems” I never forgot it.

Later in life, I learned that it was a poem about Hugo visiting the tomb of his daughter. And, for the past 19 years, on July 18, I recite the poem, alone.

This year, I wanted to share it with you. So I looked for an English translation and found one by Camille Chevalier-Karfis that I think you will like.

The poem starts with Hugo getting ready to leave at dawn for the journey to his daughter’s tomb. The first two opening lines are:

 

Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.

(Tomorrow, at dawn, in the hour when the countryside becomes white,
I will leave. You see, I know that you are waiting for me.

 

And the poem ends with two simple lines:

 

Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.

(And when I arrive, I will put on your tomb
A green bouquet of holly and flowering heather.)

 

 

…It is said that memories are a weight we carry on our back. They have weight and affect our movement through the journey. Through the passage. Through the passing.

Memories can be heavy as rocks. Memories can also be colourful and light as feathers. Both rocks and feather have weight. But feathers become wings and lift us up.

 

I have learned about the meaning of Hugo’s poem and the weight we carry through memories. But I have not learned how not to miss you. The dirt I threw on your grave 19 years ago had the heritage of rocks. But your memory became my wings. You still make me soar over moments that could have broken my back.

 

 

July 17, 2024

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2024

18 years

 

There are days when I look at your twin brother and see how he has changed 30 years after I changed diapers for both of you. He is at his prime, a handsome man full of promises.

And I wonder how you would look 18 years after I put a lily on your coffin.

And I go to the boxes where thousands of your photos, all in B&W, are kept. I remember where and when I took each of these frozen moments. And yet, after all these years, I find one that makes me think. Makes me recall a smile, a frown, or the playfulness of a 10 years’ old girl.

Here is such a photo. I took it on the lake in Virginia where our family was blessed for a decade. There was laughter and there was life.

So, how would that smile, those hazel eyes and that blessing go? How would you look today as a 30 year old woman?

I will never know.

What we have is a cold stone to look at.

 

July 18, 2023

© Vahé Kazandian, 2023

Chiaroscuro

 

 

Seventeen years ago, on June 18, you were all smiles in the Emergency Room. "I feel fine, daddy, probably something I ate” you tried to comfort my fears.

Two days later you were in a wheelchair getting worried, and asked to say a prayer.

That is when I took this picture at the Johns Hopkins hospital in Baltimore.

 

Seventeen years ago, on July 19, we kissed you for the last time.

 

That kiss, with your eyes already closed, will be the kiss I remember when my time comes to close my eyes on a life where a corner of emptiness never found is solace.

 

July 18, 2022

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2022

Sweet Sixteen

 

The world changed since I last wrote about you, my sweet child. It is no more a place of abundant comfort for many on lands you did not learn about in school.

And yet, I saw you in my dream last night. You were wearing a blue dancing gown. You were not the 12 year old I held in my arms for the last time on July 18, 2005. You were all smiles. “It is my Sweet Sixteen dance gown” you said.

One of the last photos I took of you was in the PICU when the clowns came to cheer you up. Even through the pain and your knowing of the short time left, you gave them that laughter I now miss so much.

… The world changed since I last held you in my arms. Now, I hold on to photos of you, of your brother. And sometimes I hold on to the dreams of you in a blue gown.

Just as blue as the gown you wore for the last time on this earth.

 

July 17, 2021

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021

Fifteen Years Later

Fifteen years already. I keep this photo of you at the equestrian club on my wall.

Made a papier maché sheet and wrote to you in a language you wanted to learn but we never had time to do so.

Here is what it says:

Rocky Left As Well

You did not know him. He came into our lives right after you left, perhaps to help your brother. But he was too young, too lost to care for a 2 months old sick puppy.

Rocky was never sick for more than a decade after that day. He filled us with that simple joy of being there at every step.

Two months ago, fourteen years later, I held him for the last time. Like I held you.

Too many left since then – all four of your grandparents, Pita the Labrador who grew up with you and your brother. And now Rocky.

It has been 14 years since you left us wondering. And I still struggle to write these lines.

As I inevitably walk toward my own sunset, I hope it will be all flame, colour and celebration.

Just as you were for the 12 years on earth.

July 17, 2019

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2019