Has a different kind of "quiet revolution" overtaken Taiwan?

In September of last year the Chinese-language edition of The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying went on sale in Taiwan. Over the last four years, this book by Tibetan Buddhist master Sogyal Rinpoche has been published in 17 editions around the world, and spawned many other books discussing the Buddhist view of life and death. In Taiwan, in just four months since the book's publication, it has sold 110,000 copies.

Is the world after death absolute destruction and silence? And what is the purpose of life? This, one of life's great questions, has exercised philosophers and religious thinkers throughout the world since ancient times, yet no generally accepted conclusion has ever been reached. What beliefs about life and death, and attitudes to life, will spring from the fusion of ancient and modern, Eastern and Western thinking which is taking place as this century draws to a close?

Sogyal Rinpoche is the spiritual heir of an ancient lineage of teachers reaching back several centuries. But he has lived for many years amidst modern society, which is rich in material assets, but whose people are confused and perplexed. In his eyes, most people misuse life and misunderstand death: "Death in fact is a great opportunity. Only when we understand death can we know how to live."

Thus, to promote a "quiet revolution" which would let people today reaffirm the meaning of life and death and go on to think about the individual's responsibilities to others and to society as a whole, he wrote The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying.

Sinorama has invited Dr. Wang Hao-wei of the Department of Psychiatric Medicine at National Taiwan University Hospital, who has clinical experience of terminal care but who is also a cultural critic, to review this book. Let us see through the eyes of a cultural worker and practitioner of modern medicine what meaning and inspiration this book may be able to bring to today's souls.

What, after all, is death?

My father's death happened two years ago; it came just as the New Year's holiday was ending.

I was with a group of university friends at a gathering that lasted several days; we were at a mountain village in Hsinyi Rural Township in Nantou County. One by one we left, scattering to the four winds. I was driving a small second-hand car, and was a little worried as it struggled to get over Lu Mountain. Finally I plunged into the flow of holiday traffic.

The pager on my belt buzzed-an urgent call from my oldest sister. We siblings had not often kept in touch, especially during those four years I was living in Hualien. Still in the mountains, it was no easy feat, but I finally found a sea-blue public telephone, and tossed in a coin. My father had been traveling in Australia; he died suddenly as he was about to enter customs before getting on the plane in Melbourne.

It is very difficult to explain my feelings at that time. I did not howl or cry, nor did I have a single thing to say. As I drove over 3000-meter-high Hohuan Mountain, I found myself hung up at Taiwan's highest point, remote from any city. As I drove along on this journey that I could not interrupt, I had lost all ability to feel. Perhaps this is what is meant by the idea of "bardo" spoken of in Tibetan Buddhism. It is not merely an intervening state between death and rebirth, it is the eternal instant of the eternal cycle of life, death, and transition.

Although at that time I was working in a Buddhist hospital, I was still very far removed from Buddhist self-cultivation or learning. Even today, I have never delved into it in depth. Like most people, I mouth platitudes about the impermanence of all things. In addition, out of personal interest or because of the requirements of clinical practice, I have read a number of previously published books on life and death. It's just that this time, with death so close, despite my outward tranquillity, in my heart it finally hit home what "impermanence" really means.

During that long drive over the northern cross-island highway, I suddenly realized that death has all along been pushing me forward, and there is no point in panicking and no way to escape.

When I first got my copy of The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, I procrastinated, making little headway. It wasn't that I had no interest in reading it, but rather was unable to get away from the constant stream of daily activities that keep me busy. Then, however, when I finally struggled through to the second chapter, I read about the idea of "active laziness." Rinpoche says: "Our lives seem to live us, to possess their own bizarre momentum, to carry us away; in the end we feel we have no choice or control over them."

So that was it: What had looked at first glance like inescapable busy-ness was in fact a form of laziness. Suddenly I could slow down the speed of the waves in my mind, and escape from my self-imposed demand for "efficiency." Thus, in this way, I began to read-ten pages some nights, fifty or sixty pages on others. It was like doing homework; and I was able to settle down, understand it at my leisure and own pace, and finally finish this book.

For a non-Buddhist reader, reading a book of such wisdom into the wee hours counts more as a form of leisure or pleasure. "The past is past, the future not yet risen, and even the present thought, as we experience it, becomes the past." What I mean by leisure is being able to set aside considerations of past and future, and understanding that the present is the only thing we truly have. Indeed, that feeling of timelessness could even be seen as being like the state of death as conceptualized in the idea of "bardo."

My father died as a result of coronary thrombosis; we had his body cremated in Melbourne. Our family gathered at the Melbourne branch of the Fokuangshan Temple to sit and listen to prayers, as well as chant some sutras we had just learned. Swirling in my head was the image of my father's body disappearing in the fires of the cremation, which took place just a short time before.

A close encounter with death can change life. Those days in Melbourne, we had the equivalent of a rare family reunion. The long discussions and recollections were like a marathon family therapy session. What was changed was not only the individual lives, but our relations-long estranged-as a family. Although we never did take the annual family trips we agreed to while in Melbourne, at least our previously uncomfortable family relations took a turn for the better.

Just as Sogyal Rinpoche says, it is only through the change brought by death that one can understand one's own nature. It is paradoxical that it is only because there is death that one can have the feeling of living. Yet, isn't everything like this? Though the cleverness of logic is fascinating and amusing, it contains the seeds of confusion. Reading The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying is in fact a series of paradoxical tests, continuously smashing egocentric linear logic, and continually undermining self-obsession.

To a certain extent, I am familiar with this mode of thought. While practicing in the specialty of psychotherapy, I have been strongly influenced by the idea of "paradox" raised by the British psychoanalyst D.W. Winnicott and also by that of "counter-paradox" proposed by the Italian family therapist Palazoli. Both of these are deeply tinted with Eastern thinking. However, Rinpoche gets his points across in a much more accessible and easy-going style.

My reading of this book became self-analysis, especially given the death of my father. Some chapters-for example, chapters six ("Evolution, Karma, and Rebirth") and 20 ("The Near-Death Experience")-caused me difficulties. However, much more was instructive and gave me new insights.

In the hospital, we teach young residents techniques for relaxation, including self-suggestion and biofeedback. Just recently immersed in the world of science, these young minds search for knowledge and logic, so they do not easily grasp the skills for this kind of "action," especially for paradoxes like "relaxation equals efficiency." I advise them to read The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, though I do not much mind if they blow it off; after all, when I was younger, I was confident just like they are now.

In his last chapter, Rinpoche describes his purpose in writing the book. "I want every human being not to be afraid of death, or of life; I want every human being to die at peace, and surrounded by the wisest, clearest, and most tender care, and to find the ultimate happiness that can only come from an understanding of the nature of mind and of reality."

So how much of Rinpoche's teaching have I personally comprehended?

Carrying my father's ashes, we boarded the plane to return home from that distant land. The flight was a long one. Although we had been exhausted by the few days of grief and frenetic activity, it was not easy to sleep. Half-asleep, I thought I heard the pilot making an emergency call asking any medical personnel on board to report to a certain row and seat of the plane.

At that instant, I thought I must have been dreaming of my father, and I hesitated a moment to respond. But when I heard the emergency announcement again, I hurried up. A tall, heavy-set Italian man was turning blue, unable to breathe. Also on the plane was an anesthesiologist who had emigrated from Hong Kong to Australia and happened to be going back to take care of some matters. The two of us quickly set to work.

It had been a long time since my training in emergency medicine, and many procedures were now unfamiliar to me. But, with my clinical experience, it was rapidly apparent that the man was suffering from a life-threatening coronary thrombosis. Since anesthesiologists are well versed in emergency procedures, I followed the lead of the other doctor-Dr. Tsai was her name-and called up long-forgotten information in my mind; together we patiently applied CPR.

The flight seemed to last an especially long time, and I felt like my arms were about to give out when we finally reached Kai Tak airport in Hong Kong. Though I never heard what happened to the patient, from the urgency of those in the aviation medicine center at the airport as they took the victim off the plane, it was clear that there was little chance of survival.

I returned to my seat and prepared to go with my family to pick up our luggage and get our connecting flight. Only then did I realize my face was covered with salty water; I don't know if it was sweat or tears. Given all my clinical experience, I knew there was little hope of that man surviving. Yet I continued to massage the man's heart. It was as if I were there at Melbourne airport, working urgently to not let my father go.

My mother, who was traveling with my father in Melbourne when it happened, told us of the dedication of the airport medical personnel. Though they could not revive my father, they were fast and efficient. When I heard my mother describing the situation, I felt regret that, with all my medical training, I wasn't there to do anything for him. Yet, on the return flight, the situation came up again.

What, after all, is death? And what is life all about? Though I do not now understand much more than I did before, I do know that there is still a great deal that I don't understand.

p.126

(photo by Hsueh Chi-kuang)

Title: The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying

Author: Sogyal Rimpoche

Translator (into Chinese): Cheng Chen-huang

Publisher: Living Psychology Publishing

Price: NT$350

Pages: 519

p.128

Is Taiwan in a period of soul-searching? When Sogyal Rimpoche came to visit, he was surrounded by crowds everywhere he went. (photo by Vincent Chang)