Death

The other night my toddler put his on jammies by himself for the first time. And the next evening he read me a book all on his own. Who is this kid, some sort of teenager?! Throughout this time of intense togetherness I feel like I’ve watched him transform from toddler to little boy. There’s a part of me that longs for the days when he’d cuddle into my arms, the little squidge of a baby. And at the same time, I’m so happy for each of us to have some independence from each other.

You may be wondering why I’m starting a piece entitled “Death” with a story about my toddler. I share it mostly because it feels like a much more palatable way to explore our relationship to death. The helpless infant, the babbling baby, and the cheeky toddler have all died in a sense, in order to give way, make space and make possible the child I see before me today. While I may always catch glimpses of my little baby depending on his mood or the angle of light, I’ll never get to experience those beautifully tortuous first weeks and months of our lives together when none of us slept and we were always covered in spit up. For better or worse, those moments are done, the baby I knew like my own heart beat is now a mysterious, independent child, living free of the weight of his past and without a concern about the future.

Not only is a four year old a perfect teacher for me about death, he’s also showing me how best to live.

While we’ve been staying at home, countless fears and worries bounce around my thoughts throughout the day. Most of them have something to do with the thought of someone I know getting sick and dying. Death feels so much more in my face, and if I hadn’t spent the last 15 years of my meditation practice preparing for it in some way, I think my own death would feel so much scarier. It certainly still has an anxiety producing quality about it, but with practice, it’s become far less unfathomable. What is it about life that makes us think we’ll be here forever, or that we’ll at least live to see our grandchildren? The only guarantee we have is that one day we’ll die. And while the death of someone before their time feels so painful and incomprehensible, it doesn’t make it any less natural a phenomenon. Phenomena arise, exist, and pass on. That is the nature of existence. Even when someone dies ‘unnaturally’ their deaths are still very much part of the fabric of life.

In meditation we’re constantly practicing letting our past be in the past and our future be in the future. When we come back to fully experience THIS BREATH, we are invariably setting down any illusions of how the last breath was or how the next one should be. And this type of letting be, of resting in the moment, this is an ideal way to practice and prepare for our own deaths. Resisting the inevitability of our next breath won’t stop it from coming, just like death will meet all of us eventually - no matter how much we may resist it. Similarly, clinging to the previous inhale or exhale is a fool’s errand, just as is the longing for our younger days or times when we had more vitality.

Coming to terms with the inescapability of death’s grip helps to keep us from trying to escape it.

When I see that the world around me is in a constant state of dying and rebirth, the death part feels less scary to me. Becoming less afraid of death doesn’t mean I’m going to take a bunch of ridiculous risks, but rather I can remember and recognize the preciousness of this opportunity to be alive. Instead of spending my days worrying about when or how I’ll die, I can spend my days fully living my life.

How much avoidable suffering do we cause ourselves trying to ignore and escape the inevitable? How much money do we spend to eke out a few more moments of youthful glow? What would happen if we fully embraced the reality of our impending deaths? Maybe instead of living in fear, we could begin to truly live.

Remembering and recognizing that each moment represents another death of what WAS, allows me the space to welcome what IS. When I cling to the memories of the two year-old, I lose sight of the four year-old in front of me. The two year old is still there inside of him, it’s what made him possible. When I lament the fact that one day he’ll die, I miss out on the magical unfolding of his life. One day neither of us will be on this physical plane. What comes next I do not claim to know; but I am certain that our imprint and memory will persist in the present moment experiences of those who come after us. The love we create today will continue to ripple out long after we are gone.

The pandemic has offered us all the opportunity to get a little comfier with the reality of our deaths. The world we knew before, full of carefree, large, mask-less gatherings is dead. What awaits us is a mystery with the potential to be something glorious — so long as we are present enough to face it.

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