Death is an opportunity. When we
witness death, whether face to face or our of the corner of our eye, we can
start to let go of the belief that anything is permanent or substantial.
Before we come in contact with
the Dharma, we may identify death with the passing away of the body; I
certainly did, and to some extent, still do. I find our hamster in his little
house, bound up with cotton wool; no longer asleep, but unmoving. Or a
grandparent, one day baking us fresh bread, the next in hospital, and then
gone. Perhaps we’ve contemplated our own deaths; written wills, talked to
loved ones about our wishes. Or perhaps we’ve put all this off because we know
it will happen a long, long way in the future.
When my husband Tom’s parents
died within three and a half years of each other, death moved to the forefront
of my experience. I watched his father shrink and fade over weeks; I saw his
mother laid out in the Chapel of Rest without warning. The sadness in the
faces of bodies of Tom and his brother sinks deep into my own heart. But
amongst this sadness, because of this loss, there is great beauty.
Death is beautiful to the extent
that we can turn towards it. And so death is synonymous with honesty.
Meditating besides David in his last days, and sitting beside the bed in which
Bridget died after she was gone, I leaned towards this opening in reality
their death had torn. I mostly practised the Metta Bhavana, as I do in my
daily practice, and the layers that I often rely on to divide myself, my body,
my emotions, from others, started to fade and slip away. As I recall Bridget,
I wonder to ‘what’ I am contacting metta in relation to? Where ‘she’ may be?
Her body is gone but I still sense her, in my memories and in those she
touched. These questions dissolve as the veils between things become very
thin. I’m left with a bare witnessing of a richness and beauty, and a gratitude to them for this
glimpse of the experience I will have one day.
Since coming into contact
with the Dharma, I also bring my contemplation of
death into my everyday life; it becomes spiritual death. Most strongly I
experience this in relation to my ethical practise, which more and more I
understand is inextricably linked with my emotions. My emotions, those of my
heart or my heart-mind, are what cue me to look at my actions of body, speech,
and mind. That slight constriction of the chest; a furrowing of the forehead;
an uneasiness in my gut; all these help me navigate through my reflection on
my actions and their impact on others. The humiliation, fear, and uncertainty
that arise guide me towards the precepts, and allow me to approach others
candidly, with a bare heart. When I am met with the same openness, from my
Going for Refuge group, my friends in the Order, my fellow wayfarers training
for ordination, my husband, and my family, then I can allow my preconceived
notion of what I hold onto or what I am drop away. When I start from a place
of metta, a longing to be in line with reality, then I can move through these
transitions with confidence. I die and what is reborn is different: less tight
and fixed. If I continue to open up to life from this place of confidence and
love, then I can meet the death of my habits, my notions and my body without
fear. For what is necessary for true spiritual death is great
love.
