We have been separated by death for a decade.
I try not to miss you,
But how could I forget you?
Your lonely tomb is a thousand miles away.
To whom should I share my sadness and loneliness?

This poem was written nine hundred years ago by the famous Chinese poet Su Tung-po in memory of his wife. It perfectly describes his sorrow over the loss of his wife in his middle age. Life passes quickly. This is especially true when a gray-haired couple step into the twilight of their lives.

After her husband of over forty years passed away, Mrs. Tu Yao-chen felt lost for a long time. Every time she saw her husband's favorite snacks or his old golf clubs, she would become despondent.

Bereaved

At the age of seventy-three, her eyes remain bright and her skin is clear. The perpetual smile on her face is like sunshine in winter. She is so amiable that everyone around her loves and respects her. Everybody in Tzu Chi calls her "Mama Tu."

Life was hard for her when her husband, Dr. Tu Shih-mien, the first superintendent of Tzu Chi General Hospital, died of liver cancer about ten years ago. The old, Japanese-style bungalow they had inhabited for over forty years was still the same, but the mate she had lived with for most of her life had been transformed into a black-and-white memorial photo on the wall and repressed into the depths of her memory. She could only meet his image in the things he had left behind, such as his clothes, books and medals. But every encounter broke her heart.

"Not long after he passed away, I twice got lost in a pedestrian underpass which I had often walked through on my way home. I went this way and that way, but I got completely disoriented and couldn't find the right exit." Helplessly unable to handle her daily matters, Mama Tu hoped that her husband could come back soon to take her with him to the other world. While her husband was dying, he said nothing to her, but he talked a lot about the affairs of Tzu Chi Hospital to his successors. He must have known that she would be unable to live by herself, and that he could come back to pick her up in no time.

"For over forty years after I married my husband, I had a trouble-free life by depending on him. He was like a supporting pillar to me. Once that pillar collapsed, I fell down too." Like most traditional Chinese women, she had always made her husband and family the center of her life. Once her husband was dead, it was natural for Mama Tu to lose all sense of meaning in life and the desire to survive. She could hardly wait to be reunited with her husband in heaven. However, she was wrong. Ten years passed by, and as lonesome as she was she still lived on. She had plenty of time to experience and ponder over the essence of love, life and death. Eventually, she left these subjects to literature.

Living bravely

"People used to think that love should be like that of Romeo and Juliet--'If you die, I'll die with you.' I used to think that way too. But now I think that even though Dr. Tu has died, I have to live a full life and even do things that he used to be responsible for." Having gone through her grief, she has learned that the meaning of true love is to let go of affection and take up responsibility.

In early 1998, Mama Tu's nephew was severely injured in a car accident. He was kept alive on life-support machines in the ICU. Mama Tu's sister-in-law, who had always been so weak and dependent, suddenly found the courage to whisper in her son's ear that he should let go without any worry. "Don't worry about Mom and Dad. We will take care of ourselves and your fiancee too." The brave mother would rather let her son go peacefully than let him live like a vegetable with the help of machines.

Mama Tu also experienced this kind of parting ten years ago, but she had no courage at all to accept the fact of her husband's disease and death. A few days after they were given the bad news of Dr. Tu's liver cancer, they took their usual walk around the neighborhood. She grasped her husband’s hands and begged, "Please don't leave me behind. I'll be lost without you." He just smiled without saying anything.

"Shame on me! I must have really upset him during the first year after he died." She blushed and kept saying to me, "Perhaps Master Cheng Yen knew what a miserable life I led at that time. She often invited me to stay for a while in the Abode of Still Thoughts. After a few times, I gradually felt better." The commissioners would tease her when she came to Hualien, where Dr. Tu was buried, for memorial services. "Hey, here you are for another date with him! Don't bother him too often or he won't be able to sleep well!" Now the occasional joke doesn't bother her any more.

Lost no more

For years, Mama Tu and her eldest daughter have lived in their Japanese-style bungalow surrounded by modern buildings. Welcoming me with a warm smile, Mama Tu shut down the computer in her study and then made tea for me. She said, "Recently, I have been busy translating articles for the Japanese Tzu Chi Monthly and the book The Master Tells Stories." Walking on the wooden floor and looking around her house, I found its interior old but clean and neat, simple but elegant. A slight scent of burning sandalwood incense floated out from the small Buddhist shrine. In the living room, there was a black-and-white memorial photo of Dr. Tu, his diploma and various kinds of awards.

Mama Tu leads a simple life. She gets up at five in the morning and goes to bed at ten every night. After she gets up, she does a few chores and then goes to the park to exercise. Afterwards, she returns home to water flowers, pull weeds and watch Tzu Chi programs on television. Most of her day is occupied in translating for the Japanese Tzu Chi Monthly. After an hour or two of work, she takes a break and watches Japanese soap operas or news reports to keep up on modern Japanese usage.

Mama Tu is a good example of the old adage that one is never too old to learn. She started learning to type in Japanese when she was seventy years old. At first, only two volunteers in the translation team knew how to work on a Japanese computer, and they were having a hard time keeping up with the work. Regardless of her old age and deteriorating memory, she asked her daughter to teach her to use the computer.

Every Tuesday morning, Mama Tu goes to the Tzu Chi Taipei branch office to meet with other volunteer translators and discuss the work. "It is better to do translation work, help receive Japanese visitors, and make friends with others outside than just stay at home. This way, my life is much more fulfilling and rewarding."

After her husband passed away, some old acquaintances invited her for dinner from time to time. Busy doing volunteer work for Tzu Chi, she rejected their invitations several times and they finally stopped inviting her. Without this kind of social intercourse, she had more free time to get in touch with people in all levels of society through her volunteer work. She now leads a happy, fulfilling life.

Mama Tu was born in Taiwan during the Japanese occupation [1895-1945], so she speaks Japanese as fluently as a native. Because of this, she is responsible for receiving Japanese visitors to Tzu Chi, organizing Tzu Chi tours to Japan, and so forth.

As a tour guide, Mama Tu is seldom absent-minded and rarely loses her way. She not only personally contacts the places they are going to visit, but also accurately estimates the time it takes to get from one place to another by taking the rapid transit system. The Japanese are particular about punctuality, and she does not want to violate their etiquette. Today Mama Tu is quite different from the wife ten years ago who begged her husband not to leave her behind because she was afraid of getting lost.

Mama Tu learned to drive when she was thirty-eight years old. From then on, she drove her husband to the hospital every day and helped him to entertain his guests until he died. Her skills have been revived since she began to participate in Tzu Chi missions.

Gathering her courage, Mama Tu finally stepped out of the small circle of a housewife's life after her husband's death. While talking about her personal growth the last few years, she smiled with charming maturity.

Experiencing impermanence

In addition to serving as a volunteer in Tzu Chi, Mama Tu also serves in the palliative care ward of National Taiwan University Hospital. "By facing the life and death of another person, I learn to face my own," said Mama Tu. For example, there was a fifty-year-old male patient who was afraid of dying. Every time his nurse or visitors left him, even if just for a minute, he had to have a volunteer stay with him. Then there was a forty-year-old woman who was tortured by her terminal disease. She still wore a smile on her face all the time, and she seemed to face the coming of death in peace. "These instances were like mirrors reflecting the variety of life and death. They helped me understand what 'impermanence' means in Buddhism."

Mama Tu felt in pretty good shape when she was in her sixties, but she feels physically weaker in her seventies. She is no longer as strong as she used to be. Therefore, she has a more profound realization of the impermanence of life. She hopes to do more while she is still capable of walking steadily and thinking clearly.

"As I get older, I find it more urgent to do things in time or it will be too late," Mama Tu smiled. "Every day, I start to deal with my own business only after I finish what others ask me to do." One time her youngest daughter, who married a Japanese man, came back to Taiwan to visit her. She was surprised to find how busy her mother was and she asked, "Mom, why do you have such a tight schedule?" Mama Tu answered frankly, "Because I don't have much time left."

Through the pain and solitude she suffered after her husband's passing, she got closer to Buddhism and became more aware of how meaningful Buddhism was for her. She has been translating for the Japanese Tzu Chi Monthly for six years or so. When she finds phrases that she does not understand, she looks them up in a Buddhist dictionary, which greatly helps her to understand and absorb the Buddhist teachings. Her oldest daughter is also her teacher. They often discuss the Buddhist doctrines and share their own experiences with each other. Religion has been the greatest support of her later years.

Peace and serenity

Recalling the period of time right after her husband died, Mama Tu was perplexed by the impermanence of life and confined herself to her love for her husband. But now she has understood well the truth of impermanence and death. She is no longer so concerned about her husband, and she can face the coming of her own death calmly.

Su Tung-po's poem continues:

Even if we meet in the underworld one day,
We will probably not recognize each other,
For my face has been weather-beaten
And my hairs have turned gray.
Last night in my dreams I returned to our hometown,
And I saw you at the window, combing your long hair.
We looked at each other silently, shedding tears.
You must know that I have grieved deeply
At your tomb illuminated by the soft moonlight.

However, Mama Tu does not think the same way as the poet. With her belief in reincarnation, she figures that her husband is probably now a primary school student somewhere!

Mama Tu is grateful for what she had and content with what she has. If you ask her what the happiest moment in her life has been, she will tell you without a second thought, "The present moment!"