The Caretaker’s Assistant

Compassion was never my strong suit. During my Jukai ceremony in which I publicly took refuge in the Three Treasures of the Buddha, Bernie gave me my Dharma name, “Tetsuji.” There is a lot of story there, only a piece of which is relevant today. “‘Tetsuji,’” he said means "totally penetrating compassion.’” And then he added, “That’s a goal, not a description.” It certainly was not a description of me.

That was thirty years ago, and my progress toward compassion has been sporadic. Real compassion, as Bernie taught, is not caring for others. I was a social worker, a psychotherapist, and by the time of my Jukai, I'd been a manager of social workers and other care givers in the State mental health system. Taking care of others was my livelihood.

In real compassion, there are no others. There is only the Oneness of Life, what Bernie called the One Body. Compassion happens when the separation between self and other falls away. As we built our Staten Island network of charter schools, there were times of no separation from parents and students, but my more sustained experience of no separation was with our team. We were a family, and I cared for team members as if we were Bernie’s One Body. Whether folks were struggling with their jobs – learning to teach can be  painful and challenging – or with the world beyond their jobs, everything – the death of a parent or spouse, the birth of a child, an aging parent, an illness – I found myself responding with whatever I had to offer in the situation. Everyone is different. Everyone has different needs.

I didn’t think about the rules, although as our school network grew – by the time I retired, we had 350 team members – rules were required: my job, as I saw it, was to keep the rules from interfering with caring, for doing what was needed to support each other. I cherish that experience, but compassion is still not my moment-to-moment, go-to place.  Still so often it is the “other” who needs help, and I don’t want to. I had other plans.

Early in my second retirement, Dee got me a dark blue t-shirt. Printed in in bright, white letters on the chest in four lines is the inscription, “Sorry. Can’t. Writing. Bye.” It’s funny. I laugh. People seeing me wearing it, stop me to ask what I write. Some tell me what they write. Most ask where I got the shirt. I have to admit it, that’s who I am. Most of the time.

So different from Dee. Dee is a caretaker first. I’m jealous. Not that she’s compassionate and I’m busy. I wish that was what I felt. I’m jealous because I was looking forward to our hanging out, and she’s running to someone who in that moment needs her more than I do.

Dee is teaching me. Kind of in the way that Bernie taught me. I learned from Bernie by following him onto the Street and to Auschwitz, by following the example of his social entrepreneurship. Dee, even in retirement, has more caretaking to do than she has time for, and I’m helping out. I’m taking the plunge. Well, I’m sticking my toe in the water. I’m taking on – where I can – I’m still hedging – some of Dee’s caretaking tasks. I’m the caretaker’s assistant. It’s a big shift for me, and it feels good.