The Incomplete Life – 21/4/2005
"In the true teaching of Lord Buddha, Complete Enlightenment is made of incomplete enlightenments. This means that in the heart of your daily mindful actions, thoughts, and speech, Complete Enlightenment is already there—you should not strive to look for it anywhere else."
— Thich Nhat Hanh, Foreword to "Complete Enlightenment" by Chan Master Sheng Yen
I have come to realize that my life has always been a series of incompletions. During my college years, I was constantly reminded of this by my mentor and instructor, the late Bill Prevetti of the UWGB Art Faculty. Even my final diploma still carries one or two incompletes that cost me my grade point average.
I’m not proud of these lapses—they feel like character flaws that have shadowed me for years. I often feel haunted by an inability to see things through. Projects, promises, even dreams—they all seem to taper off before they reach their full bloom. It's like a curse I can’t seem to shake.
Now that I’m older—old and, as the saying goes, “ugly enough to know better,”—I have made it my practice to pursue completion. Even if Complete Enlightenment is indeed already present in the small, incomplete enlightenments of our everyday words, thoughts, and actions, still, I believe there’s merit in touching the essence of that wholeness, even if only at the level of a fleeting satori.
The Buddha is said to have declared that we are already enlightened—enlightened even before we were conceived in our mothers’ wombs. But we have forgotten. We've fallen prey to greed, hatred, and ignorance. In the tumble of life—from birth to breathless ambition—we gather more weight than light. We forget how to be charitable, compassionate, and wise. And many of us don’t begin to reclaim these virtues until it’s far too late, when the damage is already done and the die already cast.
Then we spend our remaining days regretting. Fretting. Replaying all the could-haves, should-haves, and ought-to-haves. In the Buddhist realm of rebirth, we return not as enlightened beings, but as cats and dogs, still chasing our tails.
In the Judeo-Christian-Islamic traditions, heaven and hell are the final destinations—our reward or punishment. Yet we’re offered redemption. Our Compassionate Creator is always ready to forgive if we sincerely repent. Our afterlife depends on what we plant in this life, and how deeply we regret the seeds of harm we’ve sown. We are constantly observed by angels, recording every act, good or bad. And Islam, in particular, gives us the mercy of five daily prayers—a rhythm that keeps us grounded, reminding us to give thanks, to seek forgiveness, to realign ourselves again and again with the Divine. It helps us reduce the chances of repeating our mistakes by reminding us of our fragility and our impermanence.
This morning, as I sat facing the rising sun over the horizon of the South China Sea, I found myself reciting a new koan, or zikr:
"Inna Lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un" — From Him I come, and to Him I return.
As the blazing light pierced my forehead between my eyes, I imagined committing suicide—not of the body, but of the thinking mind. The mind that constantly harasses me with its discursive chatter, its regrets, its endless justifications. This mind, wrapped in layers of ignorance. I envisioned the sunlight burning away this nagging idiot, this monkey mind, while I softly repeated the sacred phrase.
Did it work?
Hell, no.
I’m still here. Still writing. Still justifying every thought and action, still trying to make sense out of nonsense—creating more waste atop accumulated garbage, as if there’s no end.
In Islam, this zikr is traditionally recited upon hearing of someone’s death. "From Him you came, and to Him you return." It’s a way to remember our origin, our destination, and everything fragile in between. It reminds us that we are not invincible. That in the end, all of us—no matter how enlightened or incomplete—will be laid to rest six feet under, food for worms and silence.
If we are even slightly spiritually awake, that alone should be enough to bring us down to earth.
To pause and smell the roses—before we no longer can.
To check the ego, which lives like there’s no end to anything.
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