Learning to Stay

I was 17 when I began reading Carlos Castenada’s stories describing his experiences with the sorcerer Don Juan Matus, and 21 when I read Journey to Ixtlan, the third in a long series of adventures within the backdrop of the Sonoran desert, replete with rich encounters with shamans, sorcerers, and Toltec wisdom carriers. There is a great deal of controversy over whether or not Castenada’s stories were truthful or pure fantasy, but nevertheless, the teachings and experiences presented set me on a path that influences me to this day.

In his third book, I read this: “Death is the only wise advisor that we have. Whenever you feel, as you always do, that everything is going wrong and you're about to be annihilated, turn to your death and ask if that is so. Your death will tell you that you're wrong; that nothing really matters outside its touch.”

Now, as a child and young adult who had experienced significant loss, this was a frightening thought to consider - “Let death be your advisor”. But it stayed with me, and steered me towards trying to truly understand what really mattered in life, and how I might come to terms with grief.

Over the years I had to uncover how my young experiences of loss had impacted me, and in particular, I had to unearth some of the core beliefs and fears I had formed as a result. What I knew about loss and grieving was this - It is an inevitable human experience, none of us is exempt, and that we are each infinitely worthy of coming to terms with the cycles of life and death on this earth. Today, in this time of pandemic, death is the uninvited guest in our midst.

Regardless of our individual belief systems, death is an inescapable fact of life. In the Buddhist tradition, impermanence permeates all life, even in inanimate objects, and thus is a constant reminder of our ultimate powerlessness. It can serve as our greatest teacher. Inherently we know that life will bring both suffering and joy. “This too shall pass”, is an ancient Persian phrase, and there is a biblical reference to King Solomon saying “This too will pass away”. In his deeply reasoned way, philosopher Alan Watts says, “Without birth and death, and without the perpetual transmutation of all the forms of life, the world would be static, rhythm-less, undancing, mummified.”

But how can we apply the learnings and experience of meditation, mindful yoga, and breath work to helping us navigate this life on earth, particularly when loss and grieving feel like they can overwhelm us? Avoidance eventually fails, resistance only increases the pain.

As we observe our bodily sensations, our breath, our thoughts and emotions, we see the transitory nature of it all. We fall asleep, oblivious to our previous waking hours, alive in our dreamtime. The breath, our most intimate exchange with the world around us, inexorably moves in and out, every exhale a letting go. The body ages. Thoughts arise and disappear. Emotions ebb and flow. Seasons come and go. Ice melts, stars burn out, deserts appear. Rain falls and the blazing sun scorches the earth once again. Seeds sprout, yield fruit, and then return to the earth.

With mindfulness practice we can begin to internalize the concept that birth and death are a revolving cycle, no beginning, no end. We can also cultivate an inner strength that includes the expansion of acceptance, patience, and compassion for ourselves, and others. We can ‘stay’ with our emotions and allow ourselves to feel them, and yet trust their impermanence as well. We can recognize and accept the waves of grief as they come, knowing that we can't change the ebb and flow of the tides, but letting ourselves ride the wave, landing on a shore in which gratitude and happy memories lay waiting like seashells and bits of seaweed to be collected and then washed with that great ocean in which all of life and death is experienced.

Impermanence is everywhere. So practices like really being present with nature, sitting in peace without expectation, contemplating life, laughing in deep appreciation, expressing gratitude, practicing mindfulness, singing, dancing, moving, loving, creating, working hard, helping others,….all can be vehicles to a kind of transformation that eventually smooths the jagged edges of our deepest sorrows. And while the edges of our grief may soften and the surfaces mellow, we begin to accept that this is our life as it is, right here, right now, and that the pain of loss has woven itself into the tapestry of our being, uninvited, but like someone seeking shelter from a storm, worthy of our care.