The twins had a fight this morning over which of them 'owns' the blue cup. We have two blue cups.
In the car I did what I've started doing on hard mornings: the loving-kindness phrases. May you be safe. May you be at peace. First for me (hardest). Then for each twin (easier, they were finally quiet). Then for the dad in the silver SUV who honked at me in the drop-off loop (hardest again, round three).
By the end I was laughing a little. He was probably late too. His kids probably also own the same cup. Nam mô A Di Đà Phật, and may we all make it through this week.
What I chant when someone asks
As a hospice nurse I don't bring my practice into patients' rooms. That's a firm line for me. Their faith, their dying, their way.
But last week a woman I'll call June asked me, around two in the morning, whether I prayed. She'd been raised Methodist, hadn't been inside a church in fifty years, and didn't want the chaplain because 'he'll want me to say things.' She wanted something with no strings attached.
So I asked if I could offer her the words I say for myself every morning, and she said yes. I sat down, rested my hand near hers on the blanket (not on it; she didn't like to be touched), and said the metta phrases very slowly:
May you be filled with loving-kindness.
May you be safe from inner and outer dangers.
May you be well in body and mind.
May you be at ease and happy.
She closed her eyes. After the third round she said, 'Do it for my son,' and gave me his name. Then her sister. Then the night nurse who'd been 'a bit sharp' with her. Then, quietly, 'And for you.'
We went around like that for maybe twenty minutes, adding people. I have sat thousands of hours on a cushion and I'm not sure I've ever practiced so well.
She died two days later, on a Thursday afternoon, with her son beside her. I wasn't on shift. When I heard, I washed the mugs in the break room slowly, the way my teacher taught me, and said the phrases one more time with her name at the front of the line.