Letter to Mom, February 26,1986

Let me relate how Jackie and I coped with her sickness.

You may remember us talking about "wa," the Japanese term for a hard-to-define sensation of personal grace, an area within you that harbors the soul from the awful mordant surprises of life. It's there in all of us, by degrees larger and smaller depending on how much it's exercised, like a muscle. It's not there to deny one's pain or fear but to defuse it, to render it manageable, isolated, contained and ultimately powerless. It somehow ties us in with all of existence, with everything that's ever happened and everything that will happen, let's us look at ourselves from a very lofty vantage point, refreshes us like a psychic splash of fresh spring water.

But essential to this concept is the absolute belief that our lives here are a very tiny part of an infinite whole.

I think the most virulent feature of psychic pain is its omnipresence, the way it looms over everything, travels with us like a silent enemy and lies in wait for us at every turn. But that's only because we let it. In isolating it we've beaten it, like a vicious criminal behind bars without possibility of parole. No one can deny he's still there and as vicious as ever, but we no longer fear him. If he'd been feeding on our fears, he'd die.

Long before Jackie was sick we used this principle to help us through trying times. On a daily, weekly, monthly basis, depending on the amount of stress, one would tell the other to "remember your wa." I can't tell you how much that helped. Blurry fears would come into sharp focus and I could see the little whimpering creature, its fangs and hairy arms and bloody talons no more than a silly costume I had wrapped around it.

When Jackie was diagnosed, we honestly believed she'd live. That belief alone carried us through the early period. But when we knew she was going to die, our concept of "wa" again became critical to us. Even then, writhing in agony and with a fear of death so strong it had an odor, she could step back from herself and regain her "wa" so the pain and fear could become bearable. Not that she could then dance and sing, but by putting the pain back in proportion to her whole being, she could dominate it, realize how small a part it played in the infinite future she could so clearly see. And that's why her "wa" helped her: she could see with more than just her eyes.

Your pain is very real and very potent. You'll never stop missing Jackie or wishing she was still here. Neither will I. Missing our loved ones is our monument to them, the highest honor we can pay them. Memories of pleasant times and wonderful places will always haunt you, as they do me, but hopefully in an eerily beautiful way. And you feel other people's pain as much as your own, a selfless and admirable trait, but one that needs tight discipline to keep it from overcoming you. You, more than anyone I know, needs to develop this sense of "wa." Put your sorrows and pain in their place, know their dimensions and the infinity inside you that- dwarfs them. Feel Jackie within you.

I’m very sensitive to your pain, Mom. I understand it. I don’t mean to preach or sound as though I have the answer. I’m just trying to tell you what I’ve learned in the hope that it may help you. There is peace and tranquility inside us and I call it “infinity.” Look for it. You are a sweet and wonderful woman and I love you.

P.S. Our figurines arrived yesterday intact. They’re absolutely beautiful and we can’t wait to display them under my homebuilt manger next Christmas. I’m going to try to rig up some subtle lighting inside the manger to cast a sublime feel to it. Thank you very much.