The Snowfield – I

Reflections on dying from the relative safety of middle age.

The Snowfield

I imagine myself passing away in a wood and bamboo room at a mountain-top monastery. I’m not sure how or when I get up there, but something significant will have to happen and fairly soon because the years are starting to click by now. Anyhow, it’s all very cinematic. Very Eastern.

In my ever so simple mountain monastery room, I leave behind nothing but a neat parcel of my belongings wrapped up in rice paper and scratchy brown twine. My monk’s robe is folded into a perfect square and placed in front of my empty teacup – a simple wooden teacup that I insist on cleaning myself even into my final hours. The teacup should be positioned exactly in front of the little square futon where I once answered my visitors’ questions. You can put a flower, like an iris or something, across the top unless it looks too staged or bulky on the teacup.

Outside my window I’d like to see the ancient Kirosawa Cherry Tree, grief stripping its petals in an April breeze. A ten-year-old should be abl…