This is the extended transcript of Charlotte Young's interview with Seikan Cech. The shortened version (indicated in blue) is in our Winter issue.

Please can you explain about your work and what it is that you do.

You mean with the Melbourne Zen Hospice (MZH)? Well, the organisation is in its infancy now, you might say like a baby or toddler. It may have been nice to stop everything else and just be able to devote myself full-time to raising MZH, but this hasn’t been possible. So currently I also work part-time as a therapist and group leader for the Gawler Foundation, which is mostly work with cancer patients and as such very important and rewarding. And I also do some work with, well, people at different crossroads or in situations that require change—drug dependence, chronic anxiety or depression, ways of coping with chronic pain. So I suppose I am involved in different things, but you could also say that it’s actually one thing. Presently I’m able to use about half of my time for MZH, and over the next few years, I look forward to being able to just do MZH work. It’s a gradual process of transition.

So what is it that MZH does? Well, we’re an organisation working with people who are dying, and this also includes their carers and families. Perhaps more accurately, our approach is less about working with the dying and more about just being with them, which necessarily means also just being with ourselves. The realm of death and dying is often most appropriately one of being, rather than doing, but it’s easy to forget this because we’re so used to “fixing” things.

Being a very young organisation, at this stage we specialize in visiting patients at home or in hospitals. In other words, so far we offer outreach support only. Setting up a residential service, a physical hospice, is a medium-term vision for MZH, something that we hope to realize within the next two to three years, depending on how soon we can raise the money. For now, we see patients in their homes, in hospices, and hospitals around Melbourne. Our catchment presently includes the city and something like a 10km radius around it. There’s some flexibility there, but because we’re providing outreach, and having to do so on the smell of an oily rag, we do have to take into account travel costs and travel time. As much as we’d like to be able to reach out to the outer suburbs as well, at this stage it is not yet practicable. This is likely to change over time, as we keep growing and our volunteer network expands.

Basically my role within MZH has been as its first volunteer, and I’m still a volunteer, and I’m also the director, which brings additional responsibilities. My professional background and experience as a therapist and clinician has obviously been useful in many ways. Nevertheless, my main point of reference in my involvement with MZH is as a Zen monk, that is, the path of it and my commitment to that path. I don’t mean this in a religious way, because Zen is not necessarily a very religious pursuit, at least not in terms of what’s normally associated with religions. It’s really a practice of discovering the present, and of becoming more fully at one with it. As such, it’s a practice of not ‘knowing’. For example, there’s no motivation of converting people to some kind of new idea or belief. Just being in the present moment is fine. And with it, some of our experience of suffering, discontent, or restlessness becomes a little lighter. Certainly the role of a Zen monk is not other-worldly, but rather here and now.

MZH receives referrals from various sources—word of mouth, other palliative care services, more of which are now becoming aware of us. Referrals can also be made via our website, which happens from time to time. Basically we are open to receiving referrals from anyone and anywhere. Having said that, our purpose is of course to support people who’ve been diagnosed as nearing the end of their life, and so that’s obviously one of the main referral criteria. Also, we normally require that patients have adequate medical support, which will usually be through one of the medical palliative care services. We see our role as complementary palliative care providers, partly in the sense that we do not provide medical care, at least not at this stage. And we are very conscious of the duty of care aspect, so if someone basically doesn’t want to have anything to do with the medical system, which does happen very occasionally, then it makes it a little more difficult for us to negotiate the terms of our involvement—obviously we want patients to be safe and looked after in the best possible ways.

For the initial visit, depending on the circumstances, it may be just me visiting, or another volunteer may come along. At first it can be quite threatening, or challenging, for a family experiencing the dying process to just let a stranger come into their home. So the first visit is basically just to settle, and to clarify what the expectations of the patient and family might be, and also what we can offer. They might say, ’I’m interested in having reiki, and I understand that you’re offering that, and can I have that?’ But mostly people don’t really know, and don’t approach things that way. Dying is a new experience. There’s a lot of fear and apprehension around it, sometimes denial. The expectation is mostly on us to explain what it is that we do and what we can offer, which seems very reasonable. And so we do that, we say what we can and can’t do. For example, we are not able to provide primary care. Usually we suggest starting out with weekly appointments, and we let the patient and family know that we’re happy to just sit and talk, or do gentle massages, respite for the carer, or even do some shopping or cooking. We might also mention what we’re not able to do, say move house for them or remove toxic chemicals from their backyard, which obviously is to protect our volunteers and to clarify the nature of our service.

I think one of the main points about what we offer is that we don’t have an agenda. We’re not providing medical care. We have a lot of time so we don’t arrive rushing and time stressed. Sometimes these things don’t even need to be said; one can just kind of feel them. Our approach is caring and empathetic yet we’re not part of any family dynamics that might be there. With loved ones, there’s obviously grief, which can become quite complicated as a person is dying. It can be very comforting just to have an outsider who’s non-judgmental, compassionate and who’s just sitting there with very little expectation. And, over time, people start looking forward to it, funnily enough.

As the relationship is established and as the patient’s physical condition deteriorates and as carers become comfortable with us, there’s often a request for more frequent visits. So once a week may become twice a week, and then every other day, and in the last weeks it might even be daily. Usually we visit for an hour or two at a time and once there’s a sense of trust, the carers in particular are often very happy to just let us in, and they can go for a walk or whatever. It’s important for carers to take some regular time out, especially if the dying process is a protracted one.

With most patients, we do guided meditations which add to a sense of peace and comfort, including where there’s physical pain. It’s actually very effective for pain management.

For me, in being with the dying, I’ve developed a special interest in a role that I call ‘midwifery to dying’. Much like birthing, the dying process is in the medical system now, and the medical system of course works on an illness model, so that there are interventions and so forth. But from a certain point onwards it’s less useful to think of dying as an illness at all. Birth and death are perfectly natural processes that involve an act of letting go, and courage to merge with something larger, like drops in the ocean.

So I’ve taken a strong interest in developing specific techniques—voice meditation and tactile methods—which assist, particularly once a dying person enters the stage of being only partly conscious. Using the voice and touch in specific ways can be a very good means to connect; to ease their transition, to help them let go and reduce suffering.

I know when I was birthing my children, the shadow of death, it’s like a coin; there’s birth and I felt very strongly the shadow of death there as well and I wondered if, I’ve never been around anyone who’s dying, but whether you have that feeling of birth, that...

I see. The shadow...like the flip side of it? The connectedness.

Yeah.

What I’ve witnessed many times is that the ‘body-mind’ seems to shut off in stages, and actually I think that that’s very meaningful because there is an adjustment process that needs to happen; one which allows for gradual changes. Now what I’ve observed is that a sort of timelessness sets in. A timeless expression, say, appears in the face. People can be quite emaciated, depending on the condition, and have lost a lot of weight, but a wonderful transparency and a kind of essence state of being emerges; you’d be really hard pressed from a certain point onwards to even tell the age. It’s like age itself dissolves and we move towards some original sate where the differentiations which exist in our lives are no longer real.

In a way, there may be a parallel with babies where it’s kind of the opposite ... If you think of a baby in the womb there is no sense of a separation or of a separate self. Essentially it’s an undifferentiated experience for them. Then from something quite undifferentiated, differentiation happens. I’ve had the chance to attend several births, having worked as an acupuncturist in the past—and I was present at my daughter’s birth—and actually just being present with birth, there’s a sense of a continuum beyond words, or time. This would be one way of putting it; birth and death are features of the same coin, as you say, the same continuum.

In Zen, one of the main figures is a circle. Actually this constitutes the very practice of Zen. Formlessness and form. The circle is our connection, birth and death—and also no-birth and no-death.

Is there a common feeling or sense that you have after somebody’s died?

I actually tend to feel quite uplifted. I don’t think I could do this work if I had a really strong grief response to the deaths. When I sit with people I feel like we are in the same boat, very much so. There isn’t this sense of, ‘Here’s this person and they’re really in a sorry state and I’m healthy and fine and I wish I could make them better’. I feel that somehow we’re sharing it; our chronology and individual experiences might be not in synch, but essentially we’re in the same boat. We are human.

Certainly, death can be a painful experience for those who are losing a loved one. But at the same time, our encounter with death also heals, opens us up to what is timeless and connecting. When people die, they’ve often suffered, physically and mentally, for quite some time (just coming to terms with it), so on that level—and a lot of carers and family remark on this too—there are positive dimensions.

For me, death and dying is like an affirmation of life beyond the person dying, and also beyond my own personal ideas about myself being there. So it is an inspiration; an ongoing practice in letting go. All of our volunteers are very conscious of this, that it’s not us reaching out and just helping and being the good guys but that it’s very much a two way process.

Yes, yeah I can understand that.

Interestingly, children—in my experience—have such a natural capacity to be with dying. So it seems ironic how we adults try to shield them because it is us who tend to be more uncomfortable with it. When we feel uncomfortable with something, we tend to push it aside, often ostensibly on behalf of others. Collectively, we choose to avoid the reality of death as much as possible. So instead of, say, taking children on regular hospice visits as part of their school curriculum, we effectively pass our own discomfort to them. For a long time, children weren’t even allowed to go to funerals. My sense is that children may approach things differently but can cope very well. For example, when someone dies at home and the body is not removed immediately, most children will engage with the dead body many times. They balance this with times for play, homework, or whatever; this balancing is actually very normal. Children seem to process their grief very naturally, intuitively, as they do with all emotions. All that’s needed for this to happen is basically just to allow it and to create a safe and positive frame around it. It would be great to be able to support this both at home and in schools.

Talking of childhood, what was yours like and what qualities did your parents have that engendered...

Pause.

Well maybe they didn’t, I don’t know but you’re in a very caring role now, a very giving role. Do you think there are aspects of your childhood that influenced you?

That’s an interesting question which I haven’t thought about in those terms. My childhood was in many ways about dislocation. I was born in Prague, then we lived in Germany, and other places. Probably, for me, it was an overload of the new, at times, and a lack of stability. My parents did provide some level of stability, but not necessarily emotional stability. They did the best they could, but yes there was definitely a sense of dislocation for me through that time. I can recall some moments in primary school when I kind of stepped back from myself, and just noticed myself, this life that we’re in. It held a sense of despair for me, but at the same time an overarching sense of acceptance, in a positive way. Not long ago, I was told that I apparently said, as a toddler, that I’d marry a Japanese woman when I grow up—it’s amusing (laughs), but I don’t recall it and have no idea where that came from. Anyway, I’d say I still have a fair deal of growing up to do, and so it’s Japanese Zen that’s kindly adopted me as a stray.

And yes, what I’m involved in does connect me as much with my own healing, as I hope it supports those that we see and work with. I feel that caring for others and caring for oneself are deeply interconnected, and inseparably so. Our ability to be in control over what we encounter and what’s around us is clearly limited, and so it is through how we give of ourselves that we can make choices. And although we can’t really know each other’s experience, we can acknowledge it and respect it, and in that way have empathy with all there is. For the patients that I see, I’d have to say I feel love for them, which of course is its own reward. We’re here together very lightly. And in some way it creates a deep sense of connection with life itself, including childhood.

Thank you.

You just mentioned respect, empathy, and love. With the natural disaster that has happened, with the fires, I witnessed a lot of people dipping much more easily into that heart space. Why do you think it takes a natural disaster for most of us to reach that?

Hmm, well I guess we all lead regular lives. There’s a routine and regularity, and I think that’s not at all a bad thing—it’s what keeps us going, and if we don’t have regularity, outcomes aren’t very good. But regularity and routine can also become ways of shielding ourselves from our connectedness, from the more heartfelt aspects, from compassion. You know, we sometimes use the routine of our lives, say that we’re on our way to work, as a way of disconnecting, not stopping for someone who may be lying in the gutter. We just keep going. But then when a big disaster strikes—whether it’s the fires, or a plane crash, terrorist attacks, or whatever—our routine is temporarily blown away, and in a sense this frees us. We realise that our connectedness is there all along, and momentarily we live that way. But we tend to over-compensate, so that usually there will be a very very strong collective response of grief and helpfulness and this and that, but this lasts only for a short time, and then we settle back into our old routine. So it’s like a short-term release, and the spike of our overreaction then allows us to back into our sleep routine. It might be more useful to have a more measured reaction, but sustain it over time.

Yeah, we’re not very good at chronic care are we? We’re good at acute care....

That’s exactly right. Being with dying people you see a lot of people visiting, friends and so on, and they have very strong and acute emotional responses. And I often wish that people had a little more time to stay, maybe for a day or two, you know, for those emotions just to be there and have a chance to settle. But it’s generally only short visits. It’s like this burst of awareness, where we become connected with pain and fear, emotions we keep at bay most of the time. And so we respond acutely and then switch off again as fast as we can, which is a problem because it kind of keeps us stuck and unavailable, if that makes sense.

Yes it does.

So I think that it’s good to have regularity, as opposed to just one-off reactions, but it’s good to be wise about what regularity one adopts. I am basically talking about balance. Most of our routines are about doing things, so it’s wise also to allocate time, say half an hour or one hour a day, to doing nothing—without distractions, without television. In effect it would be a way of attending to our emotions in a real sense, but few of us take the time to do so. Or with dying friends, rather than just dropping by and a quick reaction, actually staying put and just feeling the fear and helplessness, just being there, and discovering that it’s not the end of the world.

Yeah.

How do you nurture yourself?

Through living itself. As I said, for me, being with dying people is very much a part of it. I know we like to separate work and recreation, but in my experience there’s very little difference. But then I’ve also never been able to see the difference between a flower garden and a garden of weeds (laughs). As a Zen monk, my regular practice is to sit on my backside, and it’s rather nurturing. Nowadays I do it for an hour in the morning and an hour at night, which is not very much sitting compared to the life of the monastery in Japan where I was ordained. But in any case, the point of this sitting practice—or Zazen as it’s referred to in the Japanese Zen tradition—is not to shut the door on things. Rather it’s a kind of core practice of living, and of life itself. So in that sense, I just trust that I’m also practising my tradition by visiting the dying and being with them.

How old were you when you decided to become a monk?

I first became aware of a wish to be ordained ten years ago, and I became ordained in 2004, so that’s five years ago. It is true that I could very easily do the work that I’m doing without having become a monk, including obviously practising Zen itself. So why have I become a monk? The best way I can answer this is that it was the realization, or fulfilment, of what had already been there—it was a way of making it real externally. And it was also about making a formal commitment to it.

Was it the ceremony itself? I don’t really know what’s involved in becoming a Zen monk but was it the ceremony or are there certain things that you have to do now that you’re ordained?

Well, the ordination ceremony itself is long and formal, and significant. And yes, at the core of it are certain vows, or commitments. Basically they are about acknowledging the reality of interdependence, including our own interconnectedness, and taking a role, whatever that role might be, which may be consistent with that and contribute to the relief of suffering in some way. Suffering here does not necessarily mean that we are in pain, it can be simply an underlying sense of discontent, or restlessness.

The precepts of a Zen monk, such as no killing, no stealing, no intoxication, are not really external rules, in the way that the ten commandments seem to be understood as external rules, but simply observations of what a life presents like when it’s attuned to the reality of our interconnectedness. So these aren’t moral dogmas, but more like pointers and reference points. Zen in particular is not very dogmatic, which some Buddhists may view as slackness. For example, Japanese Zen monks have no prohibition on marriage. Most will drink alcohol at social occasions or celebrations. So different ways are compartmentalised, but pretty much nothing is shut out—including some of our delusions (laughs). You could say enlightenment is within this life of delusions as it is, rather than somewhere else that’s pure and untouched. Zen, being part of the so-called Mahayana tradition of Buddhism, also called the ‘Greater Vehicle’, recognises that by virtue of life’s profound interdependence there is little sense in striving for something or for oneself while trying to exclude the rest. So it’s not quite black and white.

Since you started on your own spiritual path, have you ever lost your faith?

Yes, that’s a good question. But I don’t know that Zen practice is so much about faith. There is probably a component of faith, but that can also involve the occasional loss of faith. Mostly it is about letting go of ideas and becoming more at one with the present as it is. So if I’m presently experiencing pain or grief, then my path of Zen is to be in that pain. If doubt arises, that’s okay too. Being human, we all have certain preferences and desires, and more or less attachments to them, so doubt and disappointment do arise from time to time. They come and go. Actually great faith and great doubt are not so different. So rather than try and work them out, or try to make them stay or go away, it’s okay to let go and not worry too much.

And that process of letting go, is that just being with it first and witnessing it...

Yes. Being with it, and also letting go. Basically the meditation process is about awareness, not about achieving something, not about creating an empty mind. Even when meditating for fifteen hours a day, which is the way of life at some Zen monasteries, thoughts and doubts and emotions arise from time to time. But there is no need to engage with them at length. The practice is about being aware, but letting go. It’s sort of like noticing the clouds in the sky, and just letting them float by, which is what clouds do. Our thinking mind loves to hold on to things, or push them away, and meditation practice is to notice and let go. Without falling asleep (laughs).

In our society, letting go is of course often regarded as a cop-out, and most of us prefer to fix things, including our emotions. But in Buddhism and Zen, in the practice of meditation, there is a direct awareness of things coming and going, especially our feelings. And there is also awareness of how our thinking mind grasps and labels things, to construct some sense of permanence for ourselves, even something like ‘I am a vegetarian’, or ‘I am a Zen monk’ ... Oh really? (laughs). Our bodies are impermanent, but actually they’re more reliable than our minds. In Zen, the body is very much a teacher, and we sit with it.

Who was your greatest teacher?

Well, I was ordained in Japan and I go back there on a yearly basis. As part of the Zen tradition, there is a particularly strong relationship between my master and me as the monk disciple, because actually there is very little formal study. So the relationship is really important, and not necessarily easy. I am not in a position to describe my teacher as a great teacher, it would be conceited. But my teacher says that a monk’s path is to follow his imperfect teacher perfectly. Actually I’d say that in life we don’t ever know our greatest teachers because the knowing would kind of preclude any genuine teaching. So I don’t know. In my teacher’s particular lineage, which I suppose I’ve become part of through the ordination, it is said that the practice of Zazen, or ‘just sitting’, is the true teacher. The role of the highly charismatic teacher, or guru, which seems very strong in some other spiritual traditions, is less emphasised in my tradition.

As a society or a culture, how do you think we could become more accepting of death or less afraid? ...And of emotion as well?

I think a fear of death is hard wired into us, and that’s not a bad thing. Without it we probably wouldn’t be here now, even as a species. If we suddenly saw a wild lion out here, we’d probably run away as fast as we could, and the energy for it would arise somewhere from that core fear.

Yet some cultures before us have clearly had a much more open and accepting relationship with the fact that we’re mortal. To a large part this was probably because they didn’t have the means to make death as invisible as our culture has managed to make it. In my view that’s where the answer lies. To become more accepting and more open to the reality of death and dying is a function of allowing a more reasonable level of exposure to it. I mean people amidst us are dying all the time, but you wouldn’t know it, because collectively we choose not to see it.

It is quite similar to the mechanism behind other problem issues, say racism. The best antidote to racism is simply to foster positive regular interaction between people of different racial backgrounds—not through special events, but through everyday interaction and relationships. Racism too is essentially about fear, another form of fear.

So the best antidote to a problematic fear and denial of death would be simply to stop shielding ourselves from it. At first there might be some discomfort—feeling our fear. But this would settle over time. I’d say it takes far more effort over time, and at a far greater cost, to try and deny reality, than to witness it.

That’s why I would suggest that schools and parents might like to take kids on visits to hospices, as opposed to just more museums and theme parks . From my own experience, by virtue of spending regular times sitting with the dying, I can say it need not be a realm of fear at all. I have no doubt that it could be that way for most of us if there was simply more exposure. But you tell me—how many of our dinner party conversations, TV programs, and other activities ever go there? There’s really almost nothing among our regular activities that helps in normalising our fear of death. There are only funerals, for which we dress up, and sometimes cry, but unfortunately there’s no everyday engagement.

What’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do?

Yes...

It’s a big question.

Yes. Probably it is the process of letting go of myself, letting go of some of my ideas of who I am. It is not a one-off event, but an ongoing process, and always incomplete. I mean, as a monk I shave my head over and over again, and that’s because the hair keeps on growing back. No matter how long and committed someone’s practise, I’d suspect that the question of attachment to the self needs answering not just once, but again and again. Every new day our ideas may find new ways of telling us why we shouldn’t let go. For instance, at the monastery we’d sometimes be so sleep deprived, all that seemed of interest to me was to sleep—more sleep for myself. Then, at one stage, my knee became quite badly inflamed from all the endless cross-legged sitting. Of course I went to my teacher for help and mercy (laughs). But he said ‘So what. If you’re just worried about your leg, then maybe you shouldn’t be here.’ While this may sound harsh, it is just part of the training which confronts us again and again with the same question: How much am I really prepared to let go? That’s the very point of the practice. It’s not about finding oneself, but about letting go of it. The 13thCentury founder of the Japanese Soto Zen tradition, Dogen Zenji, expressed it by saying: ‘To study the Way is to study the self. To study the self is to forget the self. To forget the self is to be enlightened by all things of the universe.’

So the monastery life could be pretty tough physically, but what a relief it was in another sense. We would harvest rice by hand, with snakes right there, and of course at the start I’d be very scared of being bitten, so again and again one had to make a choice between packing one’s bag and calling it quits, or staying and letting go.

Maybe that’s where faith does come in, I guess, otherwise the instinctive thing in response to the various dangers would have been to pack my bags and leave. But maybe the fear around leaving was greater than the fear of any dangers that were there. I am not masochistic. But somehow running away then was not an option, and I mean it was quite clear that my fears would have come with me anyway. In that sense there was never any real choice, other than to stay and face the snakes and other fears. Similarly in the work that I do, I feel that I’ve actually no other choice but to do it. So I choose it happily, but without being able to take any credit for it. It’s like a seed or direction that must have been in me, and now I’m simply living it out.

So if it was in you as a seed, do you remember was there one moment that you woke up and realised it, or was it a gradual process?

I first volunteered to work with the dying fifteen years ago. Up until then I was an architect, and although that was going very well for me as a career path, within myself I was much more interested in being with people and working with people. So that was the making of a somewhat long and winding journey, which has got me to this point. Often it’s the seeming impasses or detours which can turn out to be the main events. Being put into a tight space where there’s no more choices to deviate. I guess not unlike when people grow plants from seeds, and at some point they tie the plant to some pole to make sure it grows in a particular way. Well maybe our lives are all plants like that. We may feel we’d rather have swapped and become a different plant (laughs)—had I had the option myself I’d have swapped for sure—but I found nobody willing to swap with me (laughing again).

What do you do in your spare time?

I very much love the water, and I love my daughter, and even her mother sometimes even though we are separated (laughs). So I spend time with my daughter. And I love swimming, actually anything to do with water. I’m a bad swimmer, but I feel like a fish in the water, and it’s a real joy for me. I do sit regularly. I enjoy many simple things.

But, if it’s okay, I wanted to say a little more about MZH, and our plan for a physical hospice. Originally there was a five year plan to operate a physical hospice by 2012. I’ve invested money very speculatively, but in my view very well, which should in part help to realise the MZH vision. I also trust that there will be benefactors who will help to make it happen. We are finding that people are very generous, and we’ve been able to make ends meet in terms of our running expenses. But in terms of setting up and operating a physical hospice, obviously that’s another dimension altogether. I am confident it will happen, partly because the project has its calling now and there is an actual need for it.

Then, a few months ago, we decided that it will be good to stage the project, and use stepping stones. So the first stage will now be to set up a small hospice in rented premises in the next twelve to eighteen months. The initial plan is for just a four bed hospice, and so long as we can raise sufficient funds to cover the property rental, which I think is very feasible, everything else we should be able to be manage from our own resources. Obviously it won’t be a medical hospice, but rather a facility concentrating on the very best of simple care: focusing on people, good food, emotional support, complementary therapies, positive ambience, and meaningful engagement—for respite and/or final care. It will be for people who have a ‘no resuscitation order’, are not, or no longer, requiring intensive medical care—which includes most MZH patient to date.

Don’t they want to die at home though or would it be that they can’t?

Well for people who do want to die at home, and are able to do so, that’s great. But for many it may not be possible because, or only for a limited time, mainly for reasons of practical support. Sometimes carers get too exhausted, physically or emotionally, to continue. So rather than offering a clinical place, we are planning to establish a very pleasant homely place, a home away from home, clean, safe, comfortable, and decidedly non-institutional. I can think of several people who really would have loved to have taken up such an option, but it was not available and so they died in hospital hospices.

The other point is that people who are dying actually have a lot to offer. They have lived a whole life, and just because they are dying, doesn’t mean that all of that is gone. Most medical facilities are not set up to treat people in any way other than as medical patients. So what we are envisaging is to engage dying patients in ways that affirms them as still alive. For example, patients who may have had a special area of interest or expertise, or have played music or done art, will be invited to give a short talk, or to invite their family and friends and play for them, or have a film night. In other words, our hospice will be as much about living as about dying—it will be about living with dying. It seems nicer to find ways of marking and celebrating lives while we are still alive, rather than just be waiting for the funeral. So if a person has been drawing all their life, why not turn the whole hospice into a temporary exhibition space for that person?!

The plan is also to pioneer much more of an interface between the public and people who are dying. Certainly eventually, in a larger place, there will be daily meditation on offer to the public, and wonderful food, and we will encourage the public to come and be there as well. So that’s our vision—not just care for the dying, but also people coming in and enjoying a meal, realising that living and dying are a mix, for all of us. I think there are many opportunities here. The realm of dying really holds so much wisdom for all of us who are alive.

Sounds beautiful.

Recently we’ve recently completed a new MZH volunteer intake and training, which is really wonderful. Our volunteers are really amazing. We will of course continue to offer our outreach support into patients’ homes and hospitals, but it will be very good for MZH to have its own physical home, as a kind of core and inner centre. I do believe that’s very important. So that’s where we are at, and right now I’m involved in laying the groundwork to make the plan happen.

Great. Good luck!

(laughs) Thank you.

It’s great, it sounds really good.

I should also say that MZH is not me. I mean, I am not using it, nor holding it—it has its own path, and its own luck, and my own sense is that it is very lucky. So for me it’s a bit like having another child, and looking after it in such a way that it may grow and prosper and just be itself. I am very committed to doing that because I believe that MZH will provide benefit to many, many people. So ultimately, as with any child, MZH is not a vehicle for me, I am a vehicle to it.

Are there any other such children in other parts of the world?

Yes there are similar models and projects in various parts of the world. For example, here in Australia, there is the Karuna Hospice in Brisbane, and in New Zealand there is the Amitabha Hospice in Auckland. Both are linked with the Tibetan Buddhist tradition, and as such there are slightly different emphases compared to MZH. Also, both are now very large services within their cities. MZH presents a somewhat different and new vision in Australia, and certainly within Melbourne. Probably our main inspiration and model would be the Zen Hospice in San Francisco, now called the ZEN Hospice project and active across different sites in California. They too are now a very large and well established organisation, like a much much bigger brother, but our roots are probably much the same.

Of course, as we continue to grow, there will no doubt be pressures to change our vision somewhat, and the risk of becoming fairly institutionalised along the way. It will be an interesting journey, and interesting to see how MZH will negotiate those challenges as it grows. At this stage, we’re still small enough not to have to worry about that. Nevertheless we are very clear that there’s excellent established palliative care already available throughout Melbourne. So there’d be no point in us just replicating that and ending up being another mainstream palliative care service. We exist to support palliative care patients, but we feel that in doing so MZH also has a broader role and responsibility of advocating for a slightly different approach to how we care for the dying.

As a footnote, as the baby boomer generation is now entering old age, I think our time may be ripe for quite radical changes in how we collectively approach death and dying. The baby boomer generation has had a record of setting our collective agenda for over the last fifty years. They were the flower power folk of the ‘60s, the power suits of the ‘80s, the investors behind the shares boom of the last two decades. And now, approaching their own mortality, it may well again be the baby boomers who at this time will expect, and quite reasonably, new approaches to living with dying. I certainly think there’s going to be a lot more public interest in death and dying over the next few years.

 

For more information about Melbourne Zen Hospice, other palliative care services, or to find out more about Zen please go to:

www.zen.org.au

 

Taken from Winter 2009 issue