What can you say about a groundhog who dies?

That she was a diva? A hero? That she loved bananas and nipped the mayor?

All of the above.

MANCHESTER — In her three short years at the Lutz Children’s Museum, Molly the groundhog lived like a diva: bananas twice a day, in-season vegetables, and weekly deliveries of fresh fruit from Highland Park Market.

“She was pretty spoiled,” said Lutz Animal Program Coordinator Sarah Wilby, who was one of only a few curators who the groundhog would allow to hold her. “She wanted things when she wanted them in her own way.”

(The Journal Inquirer)

The art of the news obit, no matter who -- or what -- it's about, is to capture the full spectrum of the being. And while it's an assignment that most reporters dislike --- even less so when it's for an animal -- it's an opportunity to paint a larger picture than an average news story, to be a little freer with language. Could a reporter have called Chuckles a diva when she was the state's official groundhog?

I edited the paid obituaries for a while. It became a meditation practice on the buddhanature of all beings. Everyone has enlightened aspects and confused aspects in their lives -- they loved the Red Sox; they name the cats but not the grandkids; they pay to say that they liked to watch "Animal Planet"; they knit sweaters for the kindergartners; they were known for their kielbasa; they loved Frank Sinatra. They touched the patch of world where they walked, even if they never made it out of Stafford. They touched my heart.

Everyone is a walking obituary. Everyone on the street, in the store, in the stadium, has people and things they love, hobbies and quirks, those who predeceased them.

This body will be a corpse. This person is already dead.

This ephermal existence is not to be wasted. Everyone who is born will die. My death is certain; the exact time is unknown. Knowing this, what is most important?

How do you talk to a hungry ghost?

One of things that books and teachers will tell you about Buddhism is that meditation makes you less judgmental. That's not really what happens, though. You never stop making judgments. But when you meditate, you don't attach as much weight to them. They're just more thoughts, more ephemeral, effervescent brain bubbles. They are no more urgent or important than the bubbles that say "my nose itches" or "the room is blue."

By observing your brain at work and play, you become more aware of judgments bubbling up. And when you are aware of them, you can choose whether to act on them. You can question them -- really, is he an idiot? is that word hate speech? what is my intention in pointing out their error? is it really important to make a correction? -- or investigate them, find out whether they are arising from some old injury that's bubbling away slowly like the tar pits or from some giddy, advertising-culture standard.

There is always the chance that the judgments are the voice of wisdom, that they represent clear-seeing, or discernment. Sometimes that voice says, this is not how people should be treated. These are not appropriate words. This attitude spreads hate; it is not of benefit.

The question for me is, what is the wise response?

A lot of people have the misconception that Buddhists "accept" what is. This is how it is now. But again, that's a misperception. We try, constantly, endlessly, to see what is, without imposing our preconceptions on the situation. Seeing what is allows us to make real change. Seeing clearly that a relationship is abusive does not mean accepting that is how it is and will be. It means you can stop denying or excusing or dramatizing or lingering and do something.

I've been following reports all week about Rush Limbaugh's comments about a young woman who testified in favor of requiring insurance plans to pay for birth control. I feel compassion -- he's a sad man, a hungry ghost who can't get enough attention, affirmation, strokes, no matter how much he gets. A hell-realm dweller for sure. He's miles away from seeing his own inherent compassionate nature, let alone anyone else's.

But what he said is not acceptable. It's mean. It contributes to a culture of meanness.

My first reaction is to strike back, to meet nasty words with nasty words (not that my words reach a fraction of a percent of his). But as I sit with it, I lose my desire to do that. This is where I arrive: I don't want any particular result for Rush Limbaugh. But I do want to say that how he chooses to talk is hurtful and unacceptable. If I don't say that, I am part of it. But I can say that, to his advertisers, without attacking him.

I don't want to add to the meanness in the world. I don't want to contribute to building a culture where meanness and ridicule is how we communicate.

There's a saying in recovery: Say what you mean, but don't say it mean.

Or, as I said to my kids during their contentious years, I don't talk to you like that, so you don't get to talk to me like that.

Golden rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

With a Buddhist coda: Because they are you.