45
The Dao doesn’t talk, but knows irony quite well. Yes, I finally learned to let go.
The cemetery they chose is beautiful. Tranquil, green. From the top of the hill, I can see Berkeley, Oakland, the bay. San Francisco waves from behind as if saying that in death we are all the same. Daoists, Catholics, scientists. Strangers rubbing the pain off each other’s backs.
He is there. Dr. Lambrechts. Pale, consumed. I want to tell him not to worry, that I am good, that he tried. Say I’m sorry I misjudged him. But I don’t think he would listen. Not the scientist who thinks he’s betrayed God.
Mrs. Lee comes down from the podium and gets a hug from Master Lau. He holds on to the embrace a bit more than he should. She doesn’t push him away either. From both sides, they wink at their friends. Yes, Mrs. Lee. Go be happy.
Their images are all over the dome of our sky now. The casket is lowered. My students throw flowers. The twins Linds and Ash, Jen, Camara, Kira, even Molly came from her Oregonian farmland to pay her respects. Very nice of you, dear. They open a little gap between their shoulders and here comes Jason. He is so handsome in that black suit. Though he has lost some weight.
On the vast green grass, Shadow Monkey gives me a hug and on the top of every tree, a critter celebrates. My hands, they glow. I glow. My skin shines, white like the fog. I am the White Tigress, finally. The immortal I was set to be. Inside, I feel infinite. The winds, the rivers, the mountains. The fog, the trees and the critters. The stars and the cities, temples and dragons. Oakland, Berkeley, Chinatown, Wudang, everything orbits in me. Then I hear Jason.
“She came here thinking fame would make her immortal,” he says, from the images in the sky. “And she gave all that up because of me.”
He takes something from his pocket, sniffs back the tears escaping from his nose, and continues: “Fullness. That’s what the future said it held for us.” Then throws the coins toward the casket. Three of them, small metal disks, oxidized to green, a square hole in the middle. “Well, I am just empty.”
On the dome of our sky, we watch the three coins fall in our direction, and even they seem confused when the metal pieces cross the blue veil of the sky and land on the grass in front of me. Black Monkey bends down and catches them, investigating their shape and smell. Above the trees, branches shake and rattle, as the audience attempts a better view. Next to me, Shadow Monkey licks them like regular monkeys do. I try to read what he is thinking or feeling, but it’s just empty. A slightly uncomfortable void. Then the feeling vanishes, and transforms into what I can only describe as curiosity, thrill…awe? Coins in its hand, the darkest of the monkeys puts his hands together in a position that resembles the Daoist yin-yang gesture and bows to me. They are all quiet.
“Thanks,” I say.
At the tear I shed, Monkey smiles his simian smile. Small but gentle. In his computer mind, he can almost appreciate the beauty of the surprise. He doesn’t say that. But I know. I am part of him now. We turn back to the screen above.
The two masters and their redheaded apprentice line up next to the coffin, their diaphanous white robes resembling the fog of Wudang. Each of them carries a little clay pot. “Yinyin’s selfless instincts to protect others was the yin that chased her for her entire life. And I honor it with the tea from her birthplace,” says Master Som.
Master Lau, with his gritty voice, follows: “Today, this water represents yang, her nature, her talent and curse. The ancients often refer to death as going back home. Like a river finally reaching the oceans again. Today, we honor the water and ask the immortals to welcome her with all she is.”55
The third man, young and overwhelmed by the responsibility, carries a bowl of grains. His hands shake. Master Som speaks on his behalf: “This rice represents the union of yin and yang—her final achievement, her legacy through the surprises the Dao brings. We are all proud of you, Yinyin. Your fatherly master would be, too.”
They take a moment to wipe a few tears and I am glad this isn’t following the protocol of a full Wudang funeral, with women howling and everything. The priests continue: “We know you must be watching us from your own kind of Dao, for you have always been one to create your own traditions. And for that, with respect and admiration, in the light of the old and the new, we salute you and send you in peace into this next stage of your balanced, bodiless life, Tigress.” The three of them turn their gaze upward and away from me. They hold their silent prayer to the skies of all religions, and I think I notice something weird. Did Master Som peek down and…wink?! Can they see us?
The Black Monkey raises his shoulders. Nothing is clear at this point.
The clouds take over the sky and the images vanish. I close my eyes to hold them a bit longer. Don’t want to let them go. I open a window to a traffic camera nearby. American students, Chinese masters, Jason…some of them never met, but in grief, they’re a family. Mine. They hug, cry a little. Support each other. Murmur stories to whose names they don’t know, offering each other tissues and sympathy. Mrs. Lee organizes them into a line in front of Jason. Time to pay respects.
My almost widower. Draining himself of tears at each pair of arms he meets. They say words that cure nothing, but at least he can carry the love home with him. All that love, except mine.
Love.
“I failed her,” he cries inside Yewa’s unacquainted arms. She had waited in line, patient. The last spot. Her sorrow as apparent as anyone’s. I didn’t expect her there.
“I failed her too,” she whispers. Jason tightens the hug, unaware of the meaning of any of that, for grief begs no understanding. Then I notice.
At my command, the image freezes. I zoom into her. Then further into her shirt. A butterfly shirt. In her hair, the clips, more butterflies. Outside my vision, I feel my hand being squeezed. Monkey agrees, the dream, the S.O.S., the butterflies. Of fucking course! She’s the one who got my message and sent rescue.
“We were too late,” she moans.
Images in motion again, I follow her. From camera to camera, through phones, cars…all the way to her own vehicle, then sneak into her phone. She weeps herself dry. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I should have noticed what he was doing. Should’ve found you faster. Oh my God, I am so…”
Then her phone buzzes.
She checks. A text, with an animation attached. She taps on it just to see hundreds, thousands of butterflies take over her screen, revealing seven little characters hiding behind them: “I’M OK.”
Then I must go. The screens fade, and Shadow Monkey is in front of me. He knows where I want to go next. He agrees.
We walk forever. Up the hills, down the cliffs, through bridges built by men and nature. Fields of tea. Temples. Fog. Trees. Paths I’ve walked as a child, but nothing felt distant anymore. My entire life was present at once, just like people say it does when you die.
The bamboo, I smell it first, and know we are almost there. Then the whispers of the river. As the foliage opens, I see the waters too, watch its spirit be awakened by the sun, then twirl into giant dragons and they silently climb the mountains, toward the seventy-two peaks of Wudang, then the heavens above. I wonder if there is any immortal riding on their backs.
We continue the march. Until finally, I see her. The mighty Tigress, the feared and revered feline who once ruled all the conglin. She lies there, still, lifeless, surrounded by an army of little yang warriors of the same colors, same stripes. Creatures of all sizes still mourn her passing, the departure of their queen. We join them in silence, honoring the life that never ceases to transform. Our hands make the secret sign only the followers of the Dao must know, and we bow to her. Then Monkey and I hop over the bodies, get near the water, and drink in peace.
– THE END –
55. Death is a particularly fascinating idea in Daoism. There are so many stories and allegories about it. But in a culture so driven to uniting yourself with the nothing, it doesn’t surprise me that death itself has such a powerful symbolism. This homecoming idea, by the way, was taken from Den Mong-Dao’s book The Wisdom of the Tao—a good way to get into the Daoist mind through small stories and meditation that seem independent enough to be savored without rushing too much.