Pure Land Buddhism - anyone?
Anyone here with an interest in Pure Land Buddhism...aka Shin Buddhism?
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Finally, a poem written by a lady of the Pure Land faith who was facing life living with a loved one descending into dementia...
Assumptions and expectations
Of what I can and should do
Must be erased from my mind.
An inner voice reminds me,
"Be more sensitive and understanding."
His trousers, T-shirt and long-sleeved flannel shirt
Are placed side by side on top of the bed.
He turns them around and around,
Examining them closely.
Not knowing the difference
Between front and back,
He wears his T-shirt reversed,
And inside out at times.
When buttoning his flannel shirt
The buttons are not in alignment
With the button holes.
While cooking breakfast,
I look towards the hallway.
He has walked out of the bedroom
Through the hallway to the dining room.
He is standing beside the chair
Wearing the shirts and boxer shorts only,
Thinking he is properly dressed
To sit at the table to eat his meal.
He looks like a little boy.
His innocence is so revealing
It warms my heart.
I smile and tell him
What he has forgotten to wear;
He looks at my face and chuckles
As a glimmer of awareness dawns.
Together, we put on his khaki trousers,
Embraced in the centerless circle
Of Boundless Life.
I may give a few autobiographical details of my own experience with my own mother, who also descended into dementia. But not now.
Assumptions and expectations
Of what I can and should do
Must be erased from my mind.
An inner voice reminds me,
"Be more sensitive and understanding."
His trousers, T-shirt and long-sleeved flannel shirt
Are placed side by side on top of the bed.
He turns them around and around,
Examining them closely.
Not knowing the difference
Between front and back,
He wears his T-shirt reversed,
And inside out at times.
When buttoning his flannel shirt
The buttons are not in alignment
With the button holes.
While cooking breakfast,
I look towards the hallway.
He has walked out of the bedroom
Through the hallway to the dining room.
He is standing beside the chair
Wearing the shirts and boxer shorts only,
Thinking he is properly dressed
To sit at the table to eat his meal.
He looks like a little boy.
His innocence is so revealing
It warms my heart.
I smile and tell him
What he has forgotten to wear;
He looks at my face and chuckles
As a glimmer of awareness dawns.
Together, we put on his khaki trousers,
Embraced in the centerless circle
Of Boundless Life.
I may give a few autobiographical details of my own experience with my own mother, who also descended into dementia. But not now.
