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 : March 2013
SHAMBHALA SUN MARCH 2013 49 I made a film called Halving the Bones. I bought a cam- era and filmed myself and my mother as I finally delivered the bones to her. We talked about our family, our history, my grandmother, and death. During the editing, I con- tinued to interview her and ask her questions, and when I finished, we watched the film together. This process brought us closer, so much so that later on, when she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, she agreed to move in with me and my husband and allowed us to take care of her, and then to be with her when she died. I don’t think any of this would have been possible if we hadn’t made the film together. I realize this was a ridiculously complicated way of dealing with what ought to have been a fairly simple problem. I could have just gone and talked to my mother. We could have gone into family counseling. But that solution never occurred to me. Later, I started writing novels about the difficult situations in my life. When I was confused about workplace ethics, or sad about the deaths of my parents, or angry about corpo- rate malfeasance, or anxious about the Japanese earthquake and tsunami, I used the long process of writing stories or novels to sit with my discomfort and investigate it deeply. I’d ask myself questions: What does this feeling feel like? What kinds of stories am I telling myself? What would that person think or do? What would it feel like to be inside his mind? Her skin? Writing is not unlike meditation in this way. In medita- tion, you become intimate with your stories in order to see through them and let them go. In writing, you become inti- mate with your stories in order to let them go, too. But first you must capture them and make them concrete. There’s no need to be a professional artist or writer to trans- form difficult situations into creative work. Poems, or journal writing, or quilts, or collages, or songs need never be made public. They can be utterly private, because in privacy is where the work is done, even for the so-called professional artists. Humans, all of us, are boundlessly creative beings, and as long as we recognize this and give ourselves permission to respond to our difficulties artistically and intuitively, not just medically or practically or rationally, then we can access this way of transforming suffering into something meaning- ful, which may benefit us all. RUTH OZEKI is a bestselling nov- elist, filmmaker, and Zen Buddhist priest. Her new novel, A Tale for the Time Being, will be published in March by Viking. PHOTOBYABIGAILSIMONPHOTOBYMYLESWICKHAM/MILLENNIUMIMAGES,UK