The rain clouds receded, and the October sun finally broke through as I was practicing walking meditation on a deck overlooking a small pond—my favorite place to walk during the seven-day retreat at Cloud Mountain Retreat Center. Red and gold leaves blanketed the ground, and a few floated on the pond. As I walked slowly back and forth, I enjoyed seeing the reflected clouds and trees shimmering on the water’s surface, yet I couldn’t see the bottom of the pond beneath the reflection.
It occurred to me then that life and death are also like that. We can see what’s right before us, the ever-changing mosaic of sights, sounds, thoughts, and feelings that are all part of being alive on this planet. But death—the other side of life—is shrouded. As I walked back and forth, this refrain from the Diamond Sutra kept coming to mind:
So you should view this fleeting world—
a star at dawn, a bubble in a stream,
a flash of lightning in a summer cloud,
a flickering lamp, a phantom, and a dream.
Most religions are based, at least in part, on offering insights into the afterlife. Many people seek reassurance from an authority beyond their understanding to help them unlock perhaps the greatest mystery of all. What happens after death? Where will I go? Will something of me live on and be reborn? Will I transition to a better, more peaceful place or live in a realm of deities or monsters? Will I evanesce to dust?
Some people glimpse what appears to be the afterlife during near-death experiences, and their encounters are remarkably similar. Perhaps these accounts truly provide a taste of the next world. But do they fully eradicate the mystery? One Zen master, when asked what happens after death, replied, “I don’t know; I’m not dead yet.” That’s a pretty accurate reflection of my approach, but I’ve also found that deep inquiry can reveal hidden beliefs and disbeliefs, which open me to the often unexamined aspects of this shrouded part of life.
Investigating our inevitable mortality naturally arouses curiosity about what is hidden behind death’s door. If we hold this question with openness and a sense of mystery, we may uncover our own limited or fixed beliefs about this life and the afterlife. We may cross the threshold from a binary view of life and death to something more spacious and freer from conception. This allows us to engage more fully with death contemplation as something dynamic and alive in this moment.
In Buddhist practice, investigation is the second factor of enlightenment. Combined with meditative absorption and concentration, investigation is a potent doorway into insight. These insights help us see how conditions arise and pass away—without being hampered by the usual projections, reactions, and ingrained patterns that obscure reality. When we do investigate skillfully, the sense of “I” and “mine” suspends long enough that we can see beyond our usual personal constructs and gain access to a greater circumference of information and wisdom.
For years I believed in reincarnation, convinced my painful childhood circumstances were a punishment based on past life misdeeds. This was a tidy way to explain something far beyond my understanding. When this explanation failed to alleviate my suffering or explain why unthinkable horrors occur, such as the Holocaust and slavery, I shifted to the side of doubt.
I decided “not knowing” was what held the truth. Subtly, without even seeing it, I became attached to my disbeliefs! I knew that I didn’t know, and that was it. This unconscious rigidity blocked out the possibility of seeing or accepting new information that didn’t adhere to my understanding of life and death.
During the weeklong retreat at Cloud Mountain, my deep, concentration-based inquiry began to shatter my rigid disbelief. As I walked back and forth by the pond, I repeatedly inquired into the mystery of life and death in this moment. I wasn’t looking to the past or future for insight or information, only what I could directly encounter now. Through this inquiry, I saw experientially that life and death are two sides of a coin. The pond reflected only the visible elements above the surface; the murky inner world in the depths remained hidden. Yet the two were inseparable. The visible wasn’t true at the expense of the invisible, nor did it take away from its presence. Life and death are present in every moment, since what is born always dies. If death isn’t right here, where else is it?
This inquiry, which wasn’t an intellectual exercise but an open question directed toward this mystery, helped me see how life and death are always together, not divided by time. The more I investigated, the closer I felt to the nonseparate presence of life and death. I found myself dissolving into this paradox, letting go of anything I thought I knew, but also, whatever I disbelieved. The inquiry itself was fulfilling, even with no answers. Walking by the pond allowed my heart to settle deeply like all the rocks and detritus resting at the bottom of that pond.
My mind became fluid, deeply absorbed and also equanimous, at ease. One evening near the end of the retreat, something happened that further turned my beliefs and nonbeliefs upside down. As I sat in deep meditative absorption (samadhi), I suddenly entered immense, limitless consciousness. Although I was fully present and alert, I felt as though, within this vastness, disembodied beings were hovering around me. They seemed neither dead nor alive, they weren’t threatening, and I didn’t hear voices. I just felt their presence as reciprocal awareness.
This otherworldly experience was completely outside my realm of experience. Put simply, I did not believe in this kind of thing. Yet it felt completely natural and real at that moment, and I experienced a deep sense of freedom.
I never discerned who or what the disembodied beings were. In my subsequent studies and practices of the jhanas (deep meditative absorption states), I discovered that in the sixth jhana, this type of experience can happen.
Most importantly, this weeklong inquiry revealed how I’d made an identity out of my skepticism; this otherworldly experience turned it upside down. I began to re-entertain the possibility that reincarnation was legitimate. I also read a book about Dipa Ma, a Buddhist teacher from India who was said to have great supernatural powers such as walking through walls. While I initially found that claim far-fetched, I was able to let go of my skepticism enough to accept that her powers may have been real. I could hold the possibility in an open and fluid “don’t-know mind.” Something in me had loosened enough to create room for new ideas and experiences to enter. This unlocked a dimension of insight into death that I didn’t realize was possible.
Death Contemplation
In Buddhism, death contemplation is called maranasati, mindfulness of death. The Buddha encouraged us to contemplate death to help us deepen our connection to life and awaken to its fleeting and precious nature. Ultimately, the Buddha said that death contemplation will lead us to “the deathless,” that is, nirvana or liberation from the endless cycle of birth and death. While our human minds usually function in the realm of duality—rooted in pairs of opposites—deep contemplation on death can open the doorway to the absolute, where death and life are no longer opposed to each other. Normally we see our physical bodies as the barrier to death, but it is ultimately our minds that create this separation. If we face our fears about our physical death, we can more easily let go and “die” while still alive and get a taste of freedom from this cycle of birth and death.
Death contemplation differs from overthinking and preoccupation aroused by fear and conditioned patterns. When you contemplate death, you are consciously meeting the gap of not knowing, which is the essence of spiritual practice. This is why it’s important to identify and let go of any rigid or preconceived beliefs of the afterlife. As you get the hang of it, you may find that your concentration is deeper, and the mind settles more quickly. With time, in the face of your impermanent nature, everyday irritants, concerns, desires, and aversions may dissipate.
You can use the five remembrances as a basis for this contemplation in your meditation practice. The remembrances are from the Upajjhatthana Sutta. The Buddha encourages us to recite them every day. You may wish to recite them at the beginning of your meditation practice, which helps concentrate the mind on the present. You can also write them out and put them in a prominent place, such as your altar or somewhere in your house where you’ll see them.
Take your time with these remembrances, allowing the meaning of each to sink in with every breath. You may find that some of these phrases are easier to accept than others:
I am of the nature to grow old. I cannot escape old age.
I am of the nature to get sick. I cannot escape sickness.
I am of the nature to die. I cannot escape death.
All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change.
I inherit the results of my actions of body, speech, and mind.
You can dive even deeper into the practice of death reflection with the nine contemplations created by the eleventh-century Buddhist sage Atisha Dipankara Shrijnana. After each one, I’ve added brief commentary in brackets to help make the contemplations applicable to everyday experience.
1. Death is inevitable. No one is exempt.
(Aware of this, I take nothing for granted.)2. Our lifespan is ever-decreasing. Each breath brings us closer to death.
(Aware of this, I remember that this moment is the only moment.)3. Death will indeed come, whether or not we are prepared.
(Aware of this, I acknowledge that this day may be my last.)4. Human life expectancy is uncertain. Death can come at any time.
(Aware of this, I reflect that each year, I unknowingly pass the date of my death, though it remains hidden from me.)5. There are many causes of death—even habits, desires, and accidents are precipitants.
(Aware of this, I embrace the unknown.)6. The human body is fragile and vulnerable. Our life hangs by a breath.
(Aware of this, I take refuge in every breath.)7. At the time of death, material resources are of no use to us.
(Aware of this, I cultivate generosity and letting go.)8. Our loved ones cannot keep us from death. There is no delaying its advent.
(Aware of this, I recognize that my breath is my closest companion until the moment of my last exhale.)9. Our body cannot help us at the time of death. It too will be lost at that moment.
(Aware of this, I appreciate that my body is a precious gift, but one I can’t hold onto.)
Begin by settling into your meditation and breathe consciously until you start to feel settled. Notice how you are feeling—relaxed, anxious, curious?
When you’re ready, recite the first contemplation, allowing the words to sink into your body. Note your response, not with judgment but with kind awareness. Then move to the next. Take the practice slowly and don’t force it. Some of these contemplations may be upsetting to you at first. In fact, when you imagine your death, you may initially feel fear or sadness. Stay open to the emotions that arise, if you’re able, and let them be held with kindness. Allowing these emotions is an important part of death contemplation, as they’re often the barrier we must cross or the gate we must pass through to find equanimity in the face of our inevitable death.
If you start to feel disconnected or overly anxious, or if reciting these phrases burdens your heart, it’s fine to stop. Listen deeply, gauge your inner capacity, and learn to titrate if you wish to continue, taking these contemplations in small chunks. Over time, they will lose some of their sting, without losing their profundity, and become more integrated into your awareness.
As you complete the practice, remember to settle back into mindfulness of your inner and outer world for a few minutes, letting go of the contemplations and connecting to what is alive for you in this moment. It may be the breath itself, the sound of a bird singing or a dog barking, or the warmth of your hands resting on your lap.
Death contemplation can enhance and deepen our meditation by reminding us that nothing is fixed, not even our bodies, minds, and identities. In fact, meditation practice itself is a continuous process of letting go, “dying” to the moment again and again. As we do this, the often knotted and solid sense of self simply dissolves into the present. Separation falls away and “suchness” emerges—the essence of the way things are in this moment, beyond our projections, conditioning, and stress. This form of present-moment dying frees us from clinging. The more we learn to let go and die to the moment, the greater our chances of finding peace and acceptance about our inevitable death and whatever may lie beyond.
