Remembering Our Mizuko

It has been three months since Kai left this world and rejoined that great ocean of life. To mark this day in advance, my husband  and I went to "A Ceremony for Children Who have Died" held last Sunday at the heart of a redwood forest. The place is called Green Gulch and is run by the San Francisco Zen Center.

My midwife, Tenaya, gave me information about this ceremony just a few weeks after I gave birth to Kai. I didn't pay much attention to it during that time since my grief and pain were still raw and unyielding. After a month, I found other baby loss moms who talked about the ceremony. And more recently, some comments on Glow in the Woods. So I revisited Tenaya's email and immediately placed it in my calendar of musts. These days, my calendar is filled with ceremonies and rituals I want to go to or do in remembrance of Kai.

[And this just crossed my mind: if an ordinary mother happen to look at my calendar, she'll feel very morbid about it. Why? Because instead of pediatrician appointments, I have remembrance ceremonies and butterfly releases on there. Unfortunately, I'm not like her. I'm a mother to an angel, or more in keeping with the Buddhist notion, a mizuko or a 'water baby'. But I digress.]

I've never attended such a service before so I googled it. I found interesting tidbits here and there about the ceremony being of Japanese origin called mizuko kuyo. I came across articles online that said mizuko kuyo's purpose in Japan is actually to appease the angry souls of babies who have been aborted. But most stories welcomed the ritual as a way of remembrance and collective healing for mothers (and fathers) who have lost their babies through miscarriage, stillbirth, abortion, early infant death, SIDs. The ceremony also include children who died in accidents, of illnesses or by suicide.

"This is to acknowledge and mourn the death of children - those born and unborn. We will make offerings and say goodbye in a ceremony of remembrance and letting go, with the intention of nurturing and tending both the beings who have died and beings who continue to live. We will make offerings for the altar as well as prayer sticks to tie on the cherry tree in the memorial garden at Green Gulch," stated the flyer I printed out. I made copies of it and distributed them to other moms in our support group last month.

We arrived at Green Gulch around 1:45pm. We were glad we made it before the ceremony started, considering it was a long drive for us (about 2 hours or so). The weather changed drastically - from a sun-soaked day at the coast to a somewhat grey and cold climate at the gulch. My husband immediately smelled eucalyptus in the air, while I surveyed the scenery. Dark clouds up above, muted greens below. What a fitting atmosphere for a memorial ritual.

We trekked to the cabin where the ceremony would be held. We were greeted by women Zen practitioners at the door. They offered us organic tea and coffee while we wait for others to arrive. My husband drank something with rosemary and honey while I opted for chamomile. I saw a young mother I met in our support group. We exchanged pleasantries and I told her I'm glad she was able to make it. She came with her boyfriend and his parents.

The cabin slowly filled with people. Men, women, young and old alike. We formed a big circle - a community of mourners and babyloss parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. "The whole ceremony will be conducted in silence," said the Zen teachers gently so as not to disturb the invisible 'wounds' we carry. I didn't make eye contact with anyone for fear that we, the contact-er and contact-ee, would both break down and cry right there and then.

Instead, I focused my attention on the cabin we were in. There is a table with a Jizo statue by the entrance where we lighted candles. On the other side of the room, there is a small, old fashioned fireplace, providing much-needed warmth. There is also an altar filled with several statues from different religious traditions - Catholic saints I recognize but can't remember the names of, a picture of the Virgin Mary, tribal icons from Asia, Africa and South America, Buddhas, and Jizos. [Btw, you can read more about Jizo here.]

In the middle of the room was a red mat filled with pieces of red cloths, needles, threads, pens and markers, handmade paper and flowers. The teachers instructed us to use these materials to make handmade offerings for the altar. The offerings could be a traditional hat or bib, or they could be purses, banners, necklaces, scarves, etc. We were also reminded to make a prayer stick for the child we lost so we could hang it on the cherry tree in the Jizo garden later on.

"Everything is red," I observed. "The color red symbolizes our hearts," said one of the teachers as if in answer to what was on my mind. The teachers didn't go into lengthy explanation of the ceremony's history or origin. In true Zen fashion, they simply stated, "This is open to all religious persuasion. It is a service that aims to acknowledge the death of children and those who are mourning for them. It is intended to remember these children as beings who existed, even if briefly, in this life."

We were given an hour to make our offerings. I laid out a new, blue sewing kit, my own pieces of red felt cloth, Kai's name and my message for him on the Chat Noir notepad, photocopies of my favorite ultrasound picture of him and a couple of seashells on the floor. I didn't know what to make really. My husband, on the other hand, was already quietly sewing a heart. I suck at sewing and was secretly berating myself for not buying fabric glue. Meanwhile, I could see other people working away on their own projects out of the corner of my eye. I knew I was horribly stuck.

"Come on, Jennifer. What does your heart want to create?" I asked myself. I usually do this whenever I'm hit with a creative block. It helps to keep me focused and to simplify the impossible grand scheme that my crazy brain tends to conjure every time I'm under pressure to create. "Where does your heart lie?" I asked again. I fingered the ultrasound picture of my son. "With him," I said. And slowly, I gathered my materials together and sewed the picture, a handmade paper and a felt cloth together. I chose another red cloth with a star pattern and sewed the layered photo of Kai on it. I sewed a small seashell on top of the photo. I realized I won't have time to sew the tails and handle on my banner so I just used pins, lots of them.

I looked at my handiwork and felt proud. I realized I was probably the only one who used a photo of her dead child on the offering. For a second there I felt embarrassed. But I quickly took it back. Why would I be embarrassed? I want the group to know and to see the being that I'm grieving for. That he was my precious son. I also want Jizo to know what he looks like so he could protect him and keep him safe with our ancestors - deceased great grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins.

I could hear stifled sobs and sniffles when I was working on my offering. I felt them deeply and sewed them in with my own grief and loss. I looked at my husband's work, he had sewn Kai's name on his heart offering. I marveled at his sewing skills and gave him a quiet low five in approval. If Kai had lived, I would most likely ask his father to sew his name on the tags of all his clothes.

We wrote Kai's name on our prayer sticks. The night before, I wrote a list of all the babies of fellow baby loss mamas I met here in blogland on the Chat Noir pad. I made a separate prayer stick for them and then another one for ALL the lost babies, whose mamas I haven't met or will never meet. My message on their prayer sticks: "You are all loved and remembered. Forever."

After we were done making our offerings, we formed a big circle and began the ceremony. One of the teachers gave us a lighted incense to offer at the altar and we were to place our handmade offering on any of the icons on the table. I placed my banner on the big Jizo at the center and requested him to protect Kai and that if he's in any trouble, to please rescue him and bring him back to our ancestors' care.

Then after the offering, we were each given a chant: "Gate, Gate, Paragate, Parasamgate, Bodhi, Svaha. Gone, Gone, Gone Beyond, Gone Completely Beyond, Awakened Spirit." It's a way of saying goodbye and sending our children off peacefully in the afterlife through the care of Baby Jesus, Virgin Mary, Buddha or Jizo, said our teachers.

The mood inside the cabin was somber punctuated only by our murmured chants. I looked at each person and his or her offering lovingly cradled in his or her hands. I don't know their circumstances but I grieved for them and their dead child or grandchild or nephew or niece. I wish the outside world could feel the heaviness of our mourning. I'm sure it will stop them on their tracks and make them realize their own mortality.

As the last offering was placed, we stepped out of the cabin and followed one of the teachers. She's this small, elderly lady dressed in black monk robes, with closely cropped hair framing her delicate, tiny face. She led us silently and purposely to the center's Jizo garden. A silent procession of parents and grandparents. Our shoe-d feet stomping on stones and pebbles. It reminded me a lot like a procession of saints in my homeland during Lenten season. Not one soul talked but I could feel everyone was present in that moment.

The garden is tucked away in a corner behind dwarfed apple trees and tall sunflowers. It's surrounded on one side by black bamboo trees. There is a cherry tree in the middle where several paper and sticks hang from its branches. The teacher instructed us to tie our prayer sticks on any branch to memorialize our children. I made sure to tie mine securely. I wanted them to be on the tree through the changing of the seasons. I wanted them to still be there when I come back to that place for a visit. After a month, six months or a year, perhaps.

When everyone was done. We were encouraged to linger in the garden or to just walk around and admire the blooming flowers. We were told that we could bring our offerings home with us but I decided to leave it. The teacher said the offerings will be placed in another private Jizo garden, not at Green Gulch, where there are more Jizo statues. As long as they don't throw my offering away, I'm happy with leaving it in their care.

We packed our things and decided to visit the garden one more time. I wanted to take proper pictures of the tree and the Jizo statues. I also had a grand time photographing the different flowers blooming in the other parts of the garden. The place was so peaceful and serene. We took another minute to just sit on a bench and stare up on the cherry tree. We saw Kai's name on our prayer sticks hanging from its branches and smiled. Our grieving hearts were momentarily at peace that day.

"Unable are the loved to die. For love is immortality."~Emily Dickinson 
We love you, Kai. And we will never forget. [Also, don't give Jizo a hard time okay. :)]