Robin Williams died this week at the age of 63.
He was the supernova of comedians, and a brilliant actor and humanitarian. He seemed to do life very well, a home in Tiburon, friends on every continent, and compassionate enough that when an acquaintance's daughter who didn't have a parent available to go to Career Day asked if he could come, he showed. He had a wife. A family. Specials on HBO. Stellar and memorable roles in some of my favorite movies. He changed the face of America in many ways.
He died of his own choosing, at his own time. Looking in from the outside, it is hard to believe that the things we strive for as Regular People -- money, acceptance, comfort, purpose, and a lasting legacy -- weren't enough.
Well, maybe enough of the outward trappings of success and not enough of the things many of us take in stride: being comfortable in our own skin, moving through life with a sense of peace and contentment, knowing God, and that no matter what, we are part of a divine plan and never utterly alone.
I turn from the overabundance of articles and news programs about the gruesome details of his death because it is None Of My Business. Knowing them won't make him any more or less dead. I want to process his life so I can understand what happens inside a successful and talented, humanistic man to bring him to an unimaginable moment where the only option left is death. I want to learn the lesson he was trying to teach.
Peter Coyote, also an actor and a good friend of Robin, wrote this essay which I saw this morning. It lit up the sky for me, and I hope for you, too. RIP, Robin.
-Nanci
Robin William’s Last Gift
Robin and I were friends. Not intimate, because he was very shy when he was not performing. Still, I spent many birthdays and holidays... at his home with Marsha and the children, and he showed up at my 70th birthday to say “Hello” and wound up mesmerizing my relatives with a fifteen minute set that pulverized the audience.
When I heard that he had died, I put my own sorrow aside for a later time. I’m a Zen Buddhist priest and my vows instruct me to try to help others. So this little letter is meant in that spirit.
Normally when you are gifted with a huge talent of some kind, it’s like having a magnificent bicep. People will say, “Wow, that’s fantastic” and they tell you, truthfully, that it can change your life, take you to unimaginable realms. It can and often does.
The Zen perspective is a little different. We might say, “Well, that’s a great bicep, you don’t have to do anything to it. Let’s work at bringing the rest of your body up to that level.”
Robin’s gift could be likened to fastest thoroughbred race-horse on earth. It had unbeatable endurance, nimbleness, and a huge heart. However, it had never been fully trained. Sometimes Robin would ride it like a kayaker tearing down white-water, skimming on the edge of control. We would marvel at his courage, his daring, and his brilliance. But at other times, the horse went where he wanted, and Robin could only hang on for dear life.
In the final analysis, what failed Robin was his greatest gift---his imagination. Clutching the horse he could no longer think of a single thing to do to change his life or make himself feel better, and he stepped off the edge of the saddle. Had the horse been trained, it might have reminded him that there is always something we can do. We can take a walk until the feeling passes. We can find someone else suffering and help them, taking the attention off our own.
Or, finally, we can learn to muster our courage and simply sit still with what we are thinking are insoluble problems, becoming as intimate with them as we can, facing them until we get over our fear. They may even be insoluble, but that does not mean that there is nothing we can do.
Our great-hearted friend will be back as the rain, as the cry of a Raven as the wind. He, you and I have never for one moment not been a part of all it.
But we would be doing his life and memory a dis-service if we did not extract some wisdom from his choice, which, if we ponder deeply enough, will turn out to be his last gift. He would beg us to pay attention if he could.
