by Charley Cropley
(editorials@boulderweekly.com)

I am going to die. So are my children, family and beloved friends, all animals, plants, this building, our nation. I and every living thing is going to grow old, stiff and ugly, degenerate and rot, and there is nothing—not a thing—I can do about it.

How will I die? Will I be burned to death, or perhaps frozen, crushed, starved, drowned, fall from a height, suffocate, be stabbed, beaten, tortured, buried alive, infection, cancer, Alzheimer's? Aaaaiiiyaahh! My preference holds no more power than my preference about when or if spring comes.

My body, like yours, will grow cold, stiff with death's pale gray hue. It will putrefy and stink. Fluids will run from every orifice, and insects and maggots will infest it, assuming rats and dogs don't chew off our fingers and faces first. Yes, our baby daughters, kittens, spring flowers, our sons in their prime and our beloved spouses. It is the way of all that lives.

I will not be here to experience the repulsive degeneration of my own body, so that will only ever bother me in imagination, not reality. The degeneration of others' bodies I will experience. What is it that causes me suffering about this? Sure, I dislike the foul odors and appearance of decomposing flesh, but such sensory experiences are not the causes of my horror. My anguish grows in proportion to the love I have for the person. To the degree I have loved them, their corpse stimulates memories of them when they were young, beautiful, strong, alive and here with me. And I am tortured by the thought that I will never, ever see them again. Why? Why is it this way? Who made this up?

Death is the one absolute certainty of living. Yet because we become mightily anxious and afraid when we contemplate the inevitability of our death, we try not to think about it. What would happen if we did? What would happen if, instead of fleeing the reality of death, we deliberately moved closer to it?

In Hinduism, the Lord Shiva spends his nights dancing in graveyards while holding skulls in his hands. Yogananda taught that death, disease, old age, famine and war are part of God's greater plan designed to drive us to seek Him, i.e. to seek more deeply for a more authentic, stable happiness not dependent upon the fickle changes of fortune. Epictetus advised that every time we hug a loved one we say to ourselves, "This may be the last time I ever see you again." Buddha strongly advised us to reflect frequently and deeply on the certainty of our death and the absolute uncertainty of the time of our death. He taught meditations in which we visualize every detail of our own body's death and degeneration, as well as those of our loved ones and enemies.

Each of these masters knew and taught that the unflinching perception of death transforms our living like nothing else. It is difficult to take another for granted when we apprehend the enlivening truth that this may be the last time we get to touch them or hear their voice.

My Peruvian teacher, who seems to live with no fear of death or anything else, tells me that if we die fearlessly open to what actually occurs at the moment of our death, we will discover that, in fact, we do not die. Only our body falls away. He likens it to taking off a sweater. We pull our head out and after a moment in darkness, we emerge to look anew upon our world. If we fear death, then we must die again and again until we learn how to die, and therefore live, fearlessly. His mature relationship with death makes him both extraordinarily compassionate and infectiously humorous. He finds it absurd how seriously we mortals take our lives. He also refuses to squander his life in the pursuit of the wealth, fame or position he knows death will steal.

Once when my daughter was 6, she had been playing outdoors in a wilderness area, and when I went to look for her, I could not find her. After searching the unfamiliar area without success, I began to feel the fear that I might never find her, or if I did she might be dead. Grief gripped my soul. God, how I love you, Jenna. Please be safe! Please. An eternity later I found her playing peacefully with a friend. I could not hold her or kiss her enough. My love and joy were uncontainable.

Afterwards at home, our dinner and normal school-night activities filled me with unprecedented happiness and gratitude. Dishes, homework and brushing teeth were transformed into precious privileges. The mere possibility of death left no more room for boredom, peevishness or anger. Events that ordinarily would have upset me now only made me happier. No event had the power to dissuade me from enjoying this night, this absolutely ordinary night with her.

I find that the fearful scent of death enriches my life. Its repugnant flavor stimulates my hunger and delight for the incomparable banquet of Life. The nightmare of death awakens me from wallowing in unreal dreams to the living miracle I am and inhabit. I can kiss the earth. Drink her water. Hold my daughter. Make love to my woman. Fight for freedom. I am alive!

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