Monthly Archives: Feb 2025

Making friends with death

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For almost at long as I can remember I have been – or tried to be – friends with death. Let me try and explain.

It’s of course a truism to say that the death is the one thing we can be absolutely sure of: we don’t know quite when we’ll die, or indeed how, but we do know that each of us will die. I knew this surprisingly young.

The year I was due to go to school I contracted bacterial meningitis, and spent some time – over Christmas and New Year! – in a coma. When I had recovered enough to talk, my mother made no attempt to conceal from me how afraid she’d been of losing me. This struck me as odd, but somehow right. The time between falling ill, which I remembered quite well, and waking up one sunny morning in the little bedroom upstairs, surrounded by my favourite soft toys, was an utter blank. Where had I been? I had no sense of anything – not blackness, not dreams; nothing. An absence of me, entirely, and of all else besides.

The idea, the concept, of not being alive any longer I don’t suppose I like any better than anyone else; but the experience of being close to death seems to be quite different. There have been times since that long childhood illness when I have been plausibly close to death, and yet I have not found myself afraid: I have found myself surprised.

Death is an old friend. To dissolve in the end into simple light, the plain isness that underlies all things and yet is no thing: what is there to fear? Death follows us, yes, but he is our own death; dear, familiar, kind, and faithful.

Perhaps it is good to make friends with death for ourselves: to greet him first thing in the morning, say goodnight; check in with him when we wake during the night. He won’t be asleep.

The motor of grief

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According to the Buddha [as recorded in the Saṃyutta Nikāya of the Pali Canon] there are seven conditions for Dharma “vicaya”—the investigative quality of mind—to arise

1. Repeatedly questioning, discussing, investigating, observing, and thinking about the nature of the mind.

2. Cleaning our possessions both internal and external. This brings clarity of mind. Clarity of mind is a condition for wisdom to arise. External cleaning means cleaning our bodies and our environment. But what is more important is cleaning the inside, which means cleaning the mind of the three poisons; greed, hatred and delusion.

3. Learning how to balance the five spiritual faculties of confidence, energy, mindfulness, stability of mind and wisdom.

4. Avoiding the company of fools.

5. Associating with the wise.

6. Contemplating wisdom and reflecting deeply.

7. Having the desire to grow in wisdom.

Sayadaw U Tejaniya

We do live in troubled times. To be honest, much of our lives are lived in times like these. My own generation lived through a Cold War that all too often threatened to heat up into nuclear conflict, the energy crisis of the 1970s, the miners’ strike of the 1980s, not to mention the Falklands War – the list goes on. Our parents lived through – and many of them, Susan’s and mine included, fought in – the Second World War. Of that appalling period of history, CS Lewis wrote at the time:

The war creates no absolutely new situation; it simply aggravates the permanent human situation so that we can no longer ignore it. Human life has always been lived on the edge of a precipice. Human culture has always had to exist under the shadow of something infinitely more important than itself. If men had postponed the search for knowledge and beauty until they were secure, the search would never have begun. We are mistaken when we compare war with “normal life.” Life has never been normal. Even those periods which we think most tranquil, like the nineteenth century, turn out, on closer inspection, to be full of crises, alarms, difficulties, emergencies. Plausible reasons have never been lacking for putting off all merely cultural activities until some imminent danger has been averted or some crying injustice put right. But humanity long ago chose to neglect those plausible reasons. They wanted knowledge and beauty now, and would not wait for the suitable moment that never comes…

Never, in peace or war, commit your virtue or your happiness to the future. Happy work is best done by the [one] who takes [their] long-term plans somewhat lightly and works from moment to moment… The present is the only time in which any duty can be done or any grace received.

Awareness of impermanence, the recognition that our lives are led in a dissolving world of ceaseless change, is not a doctrine of despair but of realism; and in that realism, hope. Somehow our very grief becomes, in extremis, a channel of grace. Sharon Salzberg:

At times, pain can reach such a powerful level that it can be devastating. In spiritual life, we might call it the dark night of the soul. In interpersonal life, we call it grief, and this intense emotional experience does not limit itself to the loss of someone who has died. It can occur as the experience of nearly any kind of deep loss.

To accept the love that is the motor of grief is to accept the role of mourners, of givers-of-thanks for what is being lost, bearers of the unbearable hope. Death always follows life; but new life follows death. Even in Chernobyl, the natural world is thriving as never before.

To accept what is, it is necessary to know what is, now. This means attention, questioning, investigation. It means practice. Human culture is not “an inexcusable frivolity on the part of creatures loaded with such awful responsibilities as we.” (Lewis, ibid.) If we have one job in times like this, it is to be bearers, through our careful grief, of love, of grace, of light even, into this present darkness.

What we can’t say

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We can’t say what or why this is, only that it is. No conceptual formulation can capture this living reality. We habitually search for certainty and something to grasp. But in holding on to nothing at all, there is immense openness and freedom…

Thought conceptually divides, labels, categorizes, interprets and seemingly concretizes the flow of experience, creating the illusory sense of apparently separate, independent, persisting things, including bodies, minds, the world, and a self that is supposedly authoring our thoughts and making our choices.

But if we give open attention to direct experiencing, we may discover that all apparently formed things, including people, are like waves in the ocean—ever-changing and inseparable movements of the whole. There is no substantial boundary between inside and outside, nor any findable center to experience.

Our urges, desires, impulses, interests, preferences, abilities, thoughts, emotions and actions are all a movement of the whole. Nothing could be other than exactly how it is in this moment. Realizing this is the freedom to be as we are and for everything to be as it is, including our apparent abilities or inabilities to change, heal or correct things.

Joan Tollifson, from the introduction to her website.

Simply to sit still, making no effort – not even to concentrate, not even to not think – just quietly, inwardly watching, listening: that’s all there is. Open awareness is the freedom we always looked for, fought for, dreamed of; only it was here all the time. We just hadn’t noticed, being too caught up in the chase.

There’s nothing to be, apart from this immediate occurrence. Nothing else exists. There’s nothing to create. We are created in each moment. We are this movement, moving spontaneously, automatically. There is no “self” directing this. Any urge that arises is not our creation.

Why look for truth in fantasies of name and form, when it is so easily felt in the flowing of this moment? …

You don’t have to observe this moment or cultivate any special awareness. It already feels like this happening is happening, so merely sit down, or lie down, and rest, making no effort at all, and let this happening present whatever it presents.

Darryl Bailey, A Summary of Existence: the sense of here and now

The freshness that comes in this stillness is the freshness of first light, almost literal dawning – “the mind revealing itself to itself”* – the sense of relief is beyond describing, like the last day of school! It’s all over. There’s nothing to look for any more. Everything is given, just as it is – there is nothing to strive for any more. Only be still.

We search for gurus, for ideal states, for enlightenment, a better life, a more perfect self. We analyze, we think, we strain to finally, totally “get it,” to know the answer, to do the right thing. And in the end—in sleep, or death, or waking up—it all dissolves into silence.

Joan Tollifson, Bare-Bones Meditation: Waking Up from the Story of My Life

*Major Briggs to his son Bobby, Twin Peaks, Season 2

Second best?

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Occasionally I find myself wondering if living the contemplative life outside of a community, be that a monastic community of some kind, or merely a community of faith – a sangha, or a eucharistic community of some kind – is somehow second best; if, in effect, I am missing out on a vital component of the spiritual life. After all, one is continually reminded in every other email newsletter that the sangha is the third of the Three Jewels, or that “there is no such thing as a freelance Christian.”

But for some time now I have been convinced that, for me at least, however reassuring a framework formal religion can provide for contemplative practice, the stifling effects of  dogma and the scriptural imperative can seem to weigh on the spirit like a heavy woollen hood. Of course there is always the strong, and conventionally approved, temptation to declare oneself a member of some religion or other, and even of some tradition within that religion, but AC Grayling uncannily nails my own experience when he describes the humanist as one escaping to “cool waters and green groves.”

As I recently quoted from Rodney Smith (in an excellent article in Tricycle Magazine a few years back):

For a few people, a full lifetime as a monastic or living many years on retreat is a wise direction. Each of us has a unique spiritual design that pulls us toward freedom. The problem arises when we listen to others for our direction, or think we “should” do something because others have done it in the past. Spiritual growth is a fine-tuning of our ear to the needs of our heart.

Hardening of the oughteries – the sense that one life, one’s actions, are never enough, that one “must try harder” in the words of the old school reports – is a well-known occupational illness in the spiritual life. To truly pay attention in practice will, sooner or later, reveal our own iteration of Smith’s “unique spiritual design”; and open awareness will lay bare the treacherous thoughts of inadequacy and weakness that give rise to the oughteries, and they can be left be the roadside like any other thoughts.

It sounds easy; it isn’t. Millennia of conformity and obedience, centuries of misdirected authority vested in the structures of religion, stand in our way, muttering of heresy and disobedience, exclusion and damnation. Who are we to question such “thrones and dominions”? Each of us must find the path our own feet were built for; but the way of the “cat who walks by himself” is an ancient and honourable way, whatever the guardians of the faiths may say. As I said once before here, I think perhaps we should recognise the Einzelgänger or Einzelgängerin as a distinct and proper calling in themselves. I don’t mean by this literal loners, nor hermits in either the religious or the colloquial sense; but contemplatives who find that they are temperamentally unsuited either for formal membership of some church or meeting, or for the particular relationship of personal discipleship; those, in fact, who can only thus be true to their “unique spiritual design”.

Recovering the sacred

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Each of us has a unique spiritual design that pulls us toward freedom. The problem arises when we listen to others for our direction, or think we “should” do something because others have done it in the past. Spiritual growth is a fine-tuning of our ear to the needs of our heart.

What obscures this understanding in many of us is the belief that the silent retreat is a priority over other expressions of life. When we believe we are not where we need to be for spiritual growth, we relegate our daily life to a secondary tier. We energetically pull out of our spiritual life and wait for the appropriate secluded moment in order to fully engage. Leaning toward or away from any experience creates an anticipation of fulfillment in the future, and the sacred that exists here and now is lost. Discovering the sacred within all moments is the hallmark of awakening…

The lay Buddhist begins to recover the sacred in the most remote areas of life, in the midst of difficulty and dissatisfaction, loneliness and despair. The reality of problems is challenged and investigated, and life begins to thrive free of circumstances and conditions. The heart takes over and is resurrected from the conditioned habits of mind.

Rodney Smith, Tricycle Magazine Summer 2010

Smith has put his finger here on an issue that has long troubled me. There is that in me, if not in all of us, that so easily divides life into partitions: sacred/profane; spiritual/material; worthy/unworthy. Even the concept of lay Buddhism has for me too religious a connotation, tending to one side of the old religious/secular dichotomy. As I wrote last year,

So many of our practices find their roots in one religion or another – most often Buddhism – that they bring with them sticky remnants of their original religious context. Buddhist practices frequently imply a background acceptance of the concepts of karma and rebirth, for instance; and practices with Christian roots may come with background assumptions regarding the role of the Holy Spirit in the contemplative life.

…these things can be a problem. It is impossible to talk about, even to think about, the spiritual life without using words; and these kinds of words so often – especially for those of us with a past involvement in the formal contemplative life – help maintain an unconscious religious atmosphere that clings to the mere fact of practice itself, and can easily act like a tinted lens that colours our experience, and the ways we communicate it, even to ourselves.

If I were to adopt a label, I suppose it would have to be simply Humanist; a humanist of a particularly contemplative bent, perhaps, but a humanist nonetheless. If we are truly to recover the sacred – the “actually loved and known” (David Jones) – to be, after all, the bits and pieces of an ordinary life – all those things so often dismissed as merely “quotidian” – then it seems to me we need to flee these traces of formal religious language. It is so easy to lose the sacred among the habits and assumptions of our daily lives that to add these ancient designations to the mix seems unhelpful to say the least. As Rodney Smith generously concludes his article:

The lay Buddhist harbors no defense, seeks no shelter, and avoids no conflict for the resolution of wholeness. It is here in the middle of our total involvement [with daily life] that this alchemy of spirit can best be engaged. Our life becomes focused around this transformation as our primary intention for living. We find everything we need immediately before us within the circumstances and conditions we long begrudged ourselves. Spiritual growth becomes abundantly available and is no longer associated exclusively with any particular presentation of form.

A mystery

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The fact that you are you, the fact that you exist in this moment is a miracle of sorts. There’s something fundamentally inexplicable about it. There’s no amount of knowledge that seems adequate to dispel the mystery of our appearance here. And whatever you know, whatever you believe, whatever you have done or hope to do, you have this moment of conscious life to contemplate. You have this minute, this hour, this day. And it will never come again.

Sam Harris

When I think of this mystery that Harris describes, my immediate reaction, quite unsought, is grief. The first time this occurred to me was in my early twenties, at a time in my life when I was feeling exceptionally fortunate. I was finding that I was at last able to do many of the things I had longed to do, I was in a happy relationship, I had no obvious material lack. One morning I was sitting on the sofa in the sun, reading, when – literally – out of a clear blue sky this mystery fell on me like a crystal shroud. In a instant I could see the long arc of geological time that had led up to this moment, and the numbing abyss of time ahead, in which not only would I no longer live, but all I loved and lived for would utterly perish, vanished forever in an interminable future I would never see. I thought my heart might burst, there on the warm sofa on that sunny morning, with the early summer breeze coming in through the open window.

Looking back, I can see that I had for a brief flicker of time glimpsed what Harris points out here – that this moment is utterly unique, utterly precious; and it will not come again. A little later in the same piece, Sam Harris says, “We confront the mystery of being in every moment, but we don’t notice it because this mystery is tiled over with concepts.” Perhaps for me the tiling had for a few minutes come adrift; certainly when I then attempted to write down what I had seen, I found I swiftly tiled it over again with concepts that were, on that morning, immeasurably reassuring.

In one sense the grief remains. It is at the centre of old and kind Buddhist practices like metta and tonglen; it sweetly – bittersweetly – informs the sense of the infinite preciousness of each moment, each perception. But not only are we impermanent dwellers in impermanence; we are not what we seem. The little self that is so lost in this tragic mystery is not: it is an illusion. There never was an atom of self adrift in eternity. There only ever is the moment itself. We are ourselves what is, nothing more. To actually realise this in immediate experience is the safest place; in every moment everything is, like the reflected world within a raindrop, only wholly present as itself. There is nothing to lose. Nothing means anything; everything is meaning.

[See also my own recent post Attention]

Lathe biōsas

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Epicurus promoted an innovative theory of justice as a social contract. Justice, Epicurus said, is an agreement neither to harm nor be harmed, and we need to have such a contract in order to enjoy fully the benefits of living together in a well-ordered society. Laws and punishments are needed to keep misguided fools in line who would otherwise break the contract. But the wise person sees the usefulness of justice, and because of his limited desires, he has no need to engage in the conduct prohibited by the laws in any case. Laws that are useful for promoting happiness are just, but those that are not useful are not just…

Epicurus discouraged participation in politics, as doing so leads to perturbation and status seeking. He instead advocated not drawing attention to oneself. This principle is epitomised by the phrase lathe biōsas (λάθε βιώσας), meaning “live in obscurity”, “get through life without drawing attention to yourself”, i.e., live without pursuing glory or wealth or power, but anonymously, enjoying little things like food, the company of friends, etc.

Wikipedia

I have written here before about the benefits of living a quiet life. I am not necessarily prescribing this as a universal panacea, of course, but I am saying that it is necessary to me. I have come to realise increasingly clearly that Epicurus’ “live in obscurity” is exactly the dictum for me. The tiny daily accidents of life, the passing sounds and impressions observed during practice and after, are infinitely precious and worth attention. Birdsong, the particular exhaust note of a motorcycle on the road at the end of the garden, the half-unconscious inflection in one’s partner’s voice – all of them perfect just as they are in their crystalline presence. Things like this are simply not accessible to one who is on a mission, busy making a name for themselves.

Silence and stillness are quite different from “perturbation and status seeking”; which goes a long way to explain my own reluctance to engage with social media, with activism and campaigning, with banging and shouting in all their increasingly prevalent forms. However good the cause, anger seems only to beget anger, and violence, violence. Unkindness of whatever sort is never the way to an increase in kindness.

For myself, there is no other way than to keep still, to remain alert to the smallest things: to the leaves and the snails, to the minute changes in the weather, the slight ticking you hear as the thermostat balances the warmth of the room. Practice is no more than a way to awareness itself, to the limitless ground. Be quiet. Be still. Nothing else will do.

Attention

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[E]very moment in life is absolute in itself. That’s all there is. There is nothing other than this present moment; there is no past, there is no future; there is nothing but this. So when we don’t pay attention to each little this, we miss the whole thing. And the contents of this can be anything. This can be straightening our sitting mats, chopping an onion, visiting someone we don’t want to visit. It doesn’t matter what the contents of the moment are; each moment is absolute. That’s all there is, and all there ever will be. If we could totally pay attention, we would never be upset. If we’re upset, it’s axiomatic that we’re not paying attention. If we miss not just one moment, but one moment after another, we’re in trouble.

Suppose I’m condemned to have my head chopped off in a guillotine. Now I’m being marched up the steps onto the platform. Can I maintain attention to the moment? Can I be aware of each step, step by step? Can I place my head in the guillotine carefully so that I serve the executioner well? If I am able to live and die in this way, no problem arises.

Charlotte Joko Beck, Tricycle Magazine, Fall 1993

If you get used to paying attention in your sitting, moment by moment, breath by breath, thought by random thought as they arise, then you may find that, without even having to turn your mind to it, your attention will hold whatever it it you are doing – shaving, walking, waiting for the lift, fastening your shoes – and you will discover that it is unimaginably delicious, just as it is. A jackdaw looking in the grass by the verge of the road for things to eat among the grass stems, the sound of a bus pulling away into traffic – priceless things, lovely and complete in themselves, simply because they are.

There is something even stranger, too. The sting of the little cut on my thumb where I was in too much of a hurry chopping the shallots for lunch, the twinge in my knee that reminds me that I am going to die – sooner, now, rather than later, since I am an old man these days. These too are precious, particular things, lovely just as they are, just since they are.

Occasionally I do find myself reminding myself to pay attention – and so (as a bonus) reminding myself that there is no stable self to remind – but generally, you know, it’s just something that happens. When I practice, when I am faithful to regular sitting, it happens, more and more as time goes by. Just to be here is the loveliest thing, wherever it is I am at this moment; and all I have to do is notice that. Whatever is is precious because it is, not for what it means, nor for what it might lead to, but only because it is. In every moment of isness everything is, like the reflected world within a raindrop, only wholly present as itself. There is nothing to lose. The instant of death is as lovely, and as necessary, as the moment of birth. Nothing means anything; everything is meaning.