using the arrow buttons.
by clicking on the page.
the page around when zoomed in by dragging it.
the zoom using the slider when zoomed-in.
by clicking on the zoomed-in page.
by entering text in the search field, and select "This Issue" or "All Issues"
by clicking on thumbnails to select pages, and then press the print button.
displays sections with thumbnails and descriptions.
displays a slider of thumbnails. Click on a page to jump.
allows you to browse the full archive.
about your subscription?
Lions Roar : January 2012
SHAMBHALA SUN JANUARY 2012 42 It wasn’t yet dawn; we had hours before the people from the funeral home would come with their black bag. So I stayed sit- ting on the hospital bed—between the wall and my father slowly going cold. I wanted to sob, but held back because I didn’t want to make this more painful for my grandmother or the others. My grandmother, I was pretty sure, also wanted to sob, but held back for me and the others. Maybe this is how families always support each other; individuals keeping themselves glued together for the benefit of all. I talked quietly with cousins, aunts, and uncles. “The people from the home will be here in half an hour,” my aunt Peggy finally said, and my heart contracted. Sobbing I could do later, alone. What could only happen now was wedg- ing myself into the crook of my father’s arm. I tried to pull his elbow to the side, and it was like ice water in my face when I real- ized I couldn’t—he’d gone stiff. Still I crawled between his arm and his chest—that small, rigid space just as it was—and there I breathed for both of us, following the breath. This was a rare moment in my life—I had my father all to myself for half an hour. “SOME YOUNG PEOPLE are angry with their father,” Thich Nhat Hanh says. “They cannot talk to their father. There is hate.” Then Thay tells us in his soft, accented voice about a young man he once knew who was so angry at his father that he wanted nothing to do with him. The children, with their tiny, bare feet, are still in the gymna- sium turned dharma hall with the adults, and I’m surprised by how quiet and attentive they are. Sitting by one of the loudspeak- ers is Alison, my retreat roommate, her hand on her baby-round belly. “If you look deeply into the young man,” continues Thay, “you will see that his father is fully present in every cell of his body and he cannot take his father out of him. So when you get angry with your father, you get angry with yourself. Suppose the plant of corn got angry at the grain of corn.” I’ve never been like the young man that Thay knew. My father and I were always on good terms, but—though I never told him this—it touched off seeds of anger in me when he got sick. My father left when I was four. One day, my mother and I came home and there was a note on the kitchen table. There was also a plate with sandwich crusts on it—the leftovers of the lunch he’d eaten before getting on a plane to Calgary, a faraway city where a woman was waiting for him. I didn’t see my father for two years. After that, I saw him for a couple of weeks every summer when I’d visit him and his new family. The nanny would feed me and my half siblings dinner and then I’d get sent to bed at the same Walking meditation with Thich Nhat Hanh PHOTOBYDZUNGVO