“You’re going to die. Why not die well?”

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One instance of serendipity in exploring “death” as my One Word for 2026 is my retirement community’s simultaneous decision to host a 13-session, yearlong program on death and dying for our residents. The timing was ideal for me. The program provides the practical and social perspective for my emotional and spiritual probing.

I’ve been so impressed by the presenter’s sensitive and comprehensive treatment of end-of-life matters and planning that I asked if she would be willing to talk with me in depth about how she got into this line of work and what it means to her. She obliged, and after a lively hour together, I ended up with a ten-page interview transcript, which I have distilled into this blog post.

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“You’re going to die. Why not die well?”  asks the headline on the home page of Leona Oceania’s website, Die Well Death Education.

Leona Oceania

Good question. If we must die, who doesn’t want to die well? And what might dying well look like? 

If anyone can make learning about death, dying, and our options for a good death downright compelling, it’s Leona. Previous attempts to discuss human mortality in my community had been poorly attended, and the conversation shy and stilted. However, this time, from the start, Leona packed the room.

Her appeal, at least for me, and I suspect for others, is threefold: she knows her stuff and is an eloquent communicator; she’s passionate about her mission to educate; and she sets a frank and open tone that emboldens her audience to ask questions they have not previously dared ask and discuss topics they have formerly avoided.

Like many others zealous about their vocations, Leona was awakened and inspired at a young age by a deeply personal experience that set her on the path to the work she loves. Though she had always been fascinated by death and puzzled by others’ unwillingness to talk about it, her biological father’s death from lung cancer in 2003 was her wake-up call. In her words:

              “He was getting all the treatments, and it was not benefiting him in any way. I knew a little about hospice, and that it was a beneficial thing, so I suggested it and got a very negative reaction initially from the rest of the family. Ultimately, though, he did end up at home in hospice, and it was an amazing experience for everybody, though it was sad and overwhelming. He was young, only 54 when he died.

“I remember the critical moments that really set me on this path. He had a hospital bed in his living room, and his five brothers and sisters, my half-sister and I, were there. It was just the family in and out, but people were staying there and being with him. Eventually, he was unresponsive for about two or three days and was obviously getting closer to the end. It was January, and it just kind of organically happened that one of my uncles built a fire in the fireplace, which was right at the foot of his hospital bed. We all came into the room, mostly because the fire had been made, and we were sitting around. Wayne, my biological father, hadn’t been conscious for days. Suddenly he opened his eyes and looked directly at every single one of us. And then he closed his eyes, and he died. Wow. It was just amazing. It was sad, overwhelming, but also incredibly beautiful. I had never experienced that before, and it set me on the path to learning more about death. It was a pivotal experience. Once I started sharing about it and asking questions, I learned that others had similar experiences.”

Shortly after this occurrence, her grandfather, who knew of her interest in death, alerted her to the death café movement, and she began attending one in Portland, Maine. Her enthusiasm and desire to learn caught the attention of the Portland café’s founder, who, when she was moving in 2019, asked Leona to step in as facilitator. Seven years later, the café is still going strong, and Leona is still facilitating it and others in Maine. From the cafés, she learned about the End-of-Life Doula movement and signed up for online training. Things came together at the beginning of COVID in 2020 when she was laid off from her regular job and had extra time to devote to doula, home funeral guide, and life legacy training, all online. She had become a hospice volunteer just before the pandemic began, so she stayed in touch with her client through letters during the lockdown.

Once COVID lifted, she decided to dip her toe in the water to see whether a community-based death education program might be of interest. Through a colleague on the Funeral Consumers Alliance of Maine board, she contacted Portland’s West End Neighborhood Association and offered a program. It went well, so she offered another at her local library in Cape Elizabeth, then at the Scarborough Public Library, and she was on her way. After that, instead of convincing groups to host her, organizations recruited her. The Die Well Death Education brand was launched, and her programs are well received and well attended, with highly engaged participants.

Last year she presented one hundred programs, and this year she already has about 100 lined up. I asked Leona if this has become a full-time job, from which she earns a living. Her answer was halting: “Am I doing this full time? Yes, but I am still doing my regular job as well…Has this been, how do you say, lucrative? No.”

You see, Leona strongly believes the program must remain free for attendees.

“There are a couple of reasons for that. A, it’s hard enough to get people to talk about death without charging them money for it. And B, once you charge money, it seems to change the whole dynamic into something I don’t really want it to be. And then it also immediately excludes a whole bunch of people that need the information just as much as anybody else. So that’s not a very good business model. Most of the venues I present at are libraries or places already operating on a limited budget. So, even what I ask for as a fee is a stretch for them, but what I get for a fee doesn’t even scratch the surface of materials.”

Leona provides a purple folder of materials for each participant filled with information essential to preparing an end-of-life plan: advance directive, declaration of final disposition, information on wills, contact lists, financial information access, password access, death certificate, medical aid in dying (MAID), legacy work, obituaries, hospice, end-of-life doula offerings, living wakes, funerals, body disposition, and death cafés.

Some have suggested that she do away with the printed materials and direct attendees to online resources, but in her experience it’s important for folks to have the information readily at hand.

“…We live in such a death-phobic society, and nobody talks about this stuff. I come along and throw all this information at people. It’s overwhelming to begin with, but it’s also easy to be engaged with the topic and have good intentions to move forward with your end-of-life plan while you’re sitting in the room…but as soon as you go home, you lose the impetus… If you must go online and print all the documents, it’s easy to procrastinate. Whereas if you go home with the purple packet and it’s lying on your counter or someplace, and you see it, it’s easier to say to yourself, ‘I really should do that.’ So that’s the primary reason why I provide the printed material. That’s another non-negotiable for me: I think people need to walk away with information in their hands to motivate them to do the work.”

She also provides multiple flavors of delicious cake in the form of skulls, just one way she lightens the mood during the presentations.

A couple of people financially support Leona’s death education work, and she’s recently begun the application process for non-profit status. That will enable her to form an advisory board, apply for grants, seek tax-deductible donations, and perhaps eventually become a paid employee. But it’s a long road ahead and still very much a labor of love. She says, “I feel one thousand percent that this is what I am supposed to be doing.” She doesn’t know anyone else, especially in Maine, who is doing this work the way she is. Others give sporadic presentations on special topics, but she knows of no other comprehensive program. She’s always learning. When participants ask questions, she researches the answers and incorporates them into her program, which is, consequently, always evolving.

Leona has been extremely gratified by the response to her death education offerings.

“I have been so pleased with how much positive feedback I’ve gotten. I think people are really grateful and energized to learn they have more options than they thought. People get really engaged… It’s just been so positive, rewarding, and motivating. One woman—I love this story—raised her hand and said, ‘Why don’t we know this stuff?’”

I asked Leona if she thought some of her success could be chalked up to American society becoming more open and receptive to talking about death.

“That could be possible,” she opined. “I think COVID changed a lot of things for people. But I tend to think my approach also leads to success because I don’t tiptoe around it. I don’t use soft words; I just talk about it, and I’m upfront, and I try to bring levity to it.”

I also asked what age groups make up her audience. She says attendees tend to be on the older side, but she’s also had people in their twenties and even some teenagers.

“…when I do these programs, it’s an offering to everyone. It kind of drives me a little crazy when people want to bring me in only for an elder series. I’m fine with that, but in my head, this is for everybody. I think that the sooner you know this information, engage with your mortality, think about it, and prepare for it, the sooner you can put it aside and live your life in a freer, more meaningful way.”

Leona tries to avoid offering her personal views on death and mortality during her presentations. She sees herself as an information provider and a conversation facilitator. But there is one almost universal experience that she sometimes speaks about:

“I’ve seen it, and I’ve heard about it, consistently, the fact that people who are actively dying very often talk to or about people that have died before… And that’s consistent across cultures, religions, countries, and social groups. I’ve seen it over and over. There’s something to that, but I don’t know what it is. I’m not a religious person…I just feel that we’re made of energy, and that energy goes somewhere when we die. It brings me a lot of comfort, but I don’t know exactly what it means. So, long story short, I do not bring my own stuff to the conversation… I’m always intrigued to hear about what other people feel or think.”

What is most rewarding about this work? Leona says it’s twofold: one, getting the information into people’s hands, planting the seeds, letting them know about their options, and two, giving them tools for dealing with death at the bedside. She says,

“…if someone is bedside in a dying experience, they may remember things they can do to help the person that’s dying or themselves, to neutralize the fear of what’s happening…If you don’t know what to expect, it can look kind of scary, and it can seem like a terrible thing when it’s not.”

Of course, the overwhelmingly positive response to her program is also rewarding. “It’s all come together in a way that I never imagined. I’m doing the thing I really wanted to do.”

“What advice do you have for others interested in pursuing a career in death education?” I asked.

“There should be more of what I am doing. You can’t do it all by yourself. I don’t want a monopoly on it. I think the way I am doing it is kind of unique. Maine Death with Dignity does community presentations on medical aid in dying. There are obituary-writing workshops and legacy workshops, but I’m doing it all in one…People are so hungry for this information when it’s presented in a digestible way. I would love to see more of what I am doing.”

Talking with Leona, who is extremely well-informed about everything related to death and hungry to learn even more, was an exceedingly upbeat way to end my reflections on the Five Remembrances (see previous posts in this series). You could say she is passionate about death—well, really, about dying well and helping others make the decisions and take the actions that make that possible.

Why, Why Now, How, and So What?

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I’ve come to the end of my short essays on the Five Remembrances, though I have certainly not completed my contemplation of aging, ill health, death, impermanence, and karma.

Several of my readers have expressed concern that such an intense focus on these subjects might be mentally and emotionally unhealthy. For some, reading these reflections has been a downer; for others, it has provided an opportunity to face fears and cultural taboos and to explore new emotional territory. Some are curious about why I undertook this focus and what effect it has had on my life over the last six months. So, here are some answers.

Why do this? Why now? How?

It has been my lifelong inclination to face difficult truths about myself and the world around me, rather than avoiding or deflecting them. My fascination with death stems from a natural curiosity about a mystery that no one seems to have solved. It feels rebellious and even somewhat subversive to look directly at something that most people would rather look away from. Those who know me well are not surprised when I raise uncomfortable truths.

Several factors contributed to the decision to focus my attention on death in 2026. I have previously mentioned that for the last couple of years I have participated with several other women in an online discussion group focused on aging. This group provided an outlet and support for facing common problems as we age. However, we seemed to shy away from discussion of our mortality.

Then, last fall, my church sponsored a series of discussions about death, focusing on advance directives, end-of-life planning discussions with family, funeral arrangements, and dealing with grief. It was a good introduction but seemed to me and a few others to dance around the subject of our mortality. A smaller facilitated discussion hosted by the church this spring came closest to exploring feelings about our own deaths and our experiences with the deaths of those closest to us.

Meanwhile, my retirement community is currently hosting a program on death led by Leona Oceania, founder of Die Well Death Education, comprised of thirteen two-hour sessions conducted over thirteen months. The room is packed for every session!

This trifecta of opportunities intersected with my personal realization that my time is short. I’m 74; both parents died of pancreatic cancer at 84 and 90, so my life expectancy is about 12-15 years. That’s a relatively short time in my lifespan. It is possible, even likely, that I may experience serious pain and discomfort leading up to death. Suddenly, the questions of how I want to spend my remaining healthy years, and how I might deal with illness when it arrives, became urgent.

I asked myself how I would approach the exploration of these questions, and my Buddhist practice provided a ready suggestion. My reading had made me aware of the Five Remembrances and the practice of Maranasati, which I introduced in the first article in this series. The Remembrances would provide the structure and arc for my reflections.  

So what? What difference has it made?

Looking back on the last six months of meditating on and writing about the Remembrances, I ask myself whether this practice has affected how I live daily life. Are there practical and transformative impacts to pondering aging, ill-health, death, impermanence and karma?

For me, there have been several.

During this period, I’ve often found myself stopping in the middle of a walk with my dog or on my way to an early-morning workout, looking around me with fresh eyes, listening intently to the silence of falling snow, the sound of birds, or the rain. In those moments, I felt deeply aware of the world’s beauty and the intense joy of being alive. I recognized and experienced my place in nature. The ability to stop, tune in to the reality of the moment, and feel grateful to be alive has grown over the months.

While accepting the inevitable—whether it be wrinkles, sickness, death, change, loss, or consequences—takes a certain degree of daring, determination, and discipline, the most compelling motivation for coming to terms with all of these is this: the sages of all ages and religions have promised that doing so wakes you up to the essence of life. I still have much to see, do, and understand. I want to heighten my awareness to have the best possible chance of experiencing everything. So, it is now common for me to silently say to myself several times throughout the day, “Moriah, you are going to die? This may be the last time you see, hear, taste, smell, or feel this. Pay attention, appreciate it fully.” And, I do.

Contemplation of death has revealed what I truly fear: pain, disfigurement, suffocation, cold, hunger, sleeplessness, and shame. Recognizing and naming those fears is the first step in relaxing their grip. It has been revelatory that death is not one of them.

Rather than fearing death, I’ve come to realize that contemplating it brings a deep feeling of sadness and loss—sadness at the loss of my most precious possession, my consciousness, my awareness. I wonder if mourning this loss now is a facet of my personal death work.

Contemplating impermanence has made me more conscious of the things I cling to. So, I have become more aware of the ordinary things I am challenged to let go of—my desire to see a situation resolved, my need for my contribution to be recognized, my wish to remain in a friend’s good graces, my plan for the day. The frequency with which I am required to let go convinces me of how much I am holding onto. Though intellectually, I recognize that control is an illusion, practically, I’m still operating in control mode. I have more work to do.

A powerful “letting go” metaphor emerged recently in a vivid dream. I stood beside a sheer cliff with the ocean at its base. I was aware of an intense desire to reach a destination beyond the cliff, one that felt like home. The only way to get there was to climb along the almost smooth rock, clinging to the few tiny hand and foot holds carved into it. Crossing without falling seemed impossible. But I had no other choice, so I began the climb, gripping each crevice with all my strength and concentration. About halfway across, I looked ahead and saw that there were no more cracks to cling to; the surface was completely smooth. I could not proceed. I knew I had two choices: to go back or to let go. I let go. And then I woke up.

Life in a retirement community surrounds me with the realities of aging and death daily. It’s impossible to avoid them. Death comes often to my friends and neighbors, and because it is such a frequent occurrence, it is always top of mind. This, for me, is a plus, enabling me to learn from my peers how to age and die gracefully and peacefully, and how to cope with separation from those we love. Observation is an excellent teacher.

Also, I have recently wrapped up a five-year stint as a hospice volunteer and had the privilege of accompanying many clients on their end-of-life journeys. Being near folks who are dying, especially sitting at their bedsides for long hours in the middle of the night, has familiarized me with the signs and stages of dying. It has formed my understanding of the work of dying, the solitariness of the process, and the range of death experiences. All of this has encouraged me to consider my own last wishes and prepare the appropriate associated documents.

The last of the Five Remembrances has prompted me to ponder the importance of the energy I emit into the world, the footprint I make and will leave behind, the things I can and cannot change, and the healing power of forgiveness.

So, I’ve begun to consider the next decade as my end-of-life journey, and 2026 as the first steps on that path.

A spiritual companion suggested the image of a threshold to mark the transition into this journey. I used it in meditation, imagining myself approaching, contemplating, leaving behind the old, stepping through, and hovering just inside the threshold of this new season of life. I created a slideshow of photographs I’ve taken over the years that suggest the crossing of thresholds—movement through an opening, leading towards something new—set it to music and meditated on the photos as they cycled through their sequence. This became a ritual marking the transition to a new reality, one where I embrace death as the culmination rather than the end of life.

I will wrap up with a koan from the Tao Te Ching, Chapter 33, Stephen Mitchell’s translation.

“If you stay in the center and embrace death with your whole heart, you will endure forever.”

A koan is a paradoxical anecdote or riddle without a solution, used in Zen Buddhism to demonstrate the inadequacy of logical reasoning and provoke enlightenment. Koans are meant to be repeated, pondered, forgotten, remembered, abandoned, despaired of, and rediscovered until their meaning is written in the heart, not the head.

As I step into this new season of life, I find myself opening to the koan’s invitation: to stay in the center, to meet death wholeheartedly as a profound teacher. The Remembrances have challenged me to stay at the center of awareness, tenderness, and the intent to live fully in the time that remains. If accepting impermanence softens our grip on what cannot be held, it may also enhance our appreciation for what is passing through right now. So, I offer these reflections not as conclusions but as invitations to step across the threshold into the next season of your life, and ultimately, into forever.

Questions for Reflection:

  • How does acknowledging my mortality change the way I move through an ordinary day?
  • What fears arise when I imagine the end of my life, and what happens when I name them honestly?
  • In what moments do I feel most vividly alive, and how might awareness of impermanence sharpen those moments?
  • How do I want to show up in the final season of my life, and what small practices today might prepare me for that?
  • Where do I sense a threshold in my own life, and what might it mean to step through it with intention?

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I mentioned that I have been taking a death education course from Die Well Death Education. A few weeks ago, I interviewed the founder of this organization, Leona Oceania, intending to introduce her and her work as the final article in this series on death and the other Remembrances. She is a kindred spirit in her fascination with and respect for death, and I hope that her story will add some perspective to my own. Look for that in my next blog post. Then I will move on to other topics, though I can’t promise I will not return to death before 2026 is over.

The Butterfly Effect

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The Fifth Remembrance: “I inherit the results of my actions of body, speech, and mind. My actions are my continuation.”

How do I inherit the results of my actions, and how do those results become my continuation after I die? My reflections on the Fifth Remembrance led me to explore two concepts: karma and continuation.

The notion of karma found in religions such as Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, Sikhism, and certain schools of Taoism expresses the rather ominous idea that our intentions, words, and actions have consequences. Once they are thought, spoken, or performed, their consequences can’t be reversed.   Eastern religions are not the only ones to stress the effects of what we think, say, and do. Christianity, Judaism, and Islam also emphasize that God rewards good deeds and that they lead to a pleasant afterlife, and bad ones earn a negative payback.

However, as the Fifth Remembrance solemnly reminds us that we will reap what we sow, it also introduces the more affirmative notion of our legacy, or, as the last brief sentence says, our continuation after death.

First, consequences. What we think, say, and do creates lasting consequences. It’s easiest to see them in speech and physical actions, but our thoughts are the source of our words and actions. So, even our secret, unexpressed thoughts, the ones we keep to ourselves or share with only our closest confidants, create karma or outcomes. The thoughts we entertain or ruminate on eventually shape our character, and our character determines our choices. So, our thinking is important even if it doesn’t directly result in specific actions.

I like to think of thoughts as generating invisible energy. Every tiny bit of energy we emit subtly changes the world. The effects of our ideas, speech, and actions influence other beings and, in turn, give rise to further actions and effects. Like molecules, these collide and bounce in unintended and unpredictable directions. On and on it goes.

Second, continuation. If the first four remembrances are about change, impermanence, and therefore the need to let go of whatever we cling to, the fifth is about what lasts, what continues. Therefore, it points to our responsibility for the world in which we live. If you will, it reminds us of our interbeing with everything.

I have been captivated by the story of the Butterfly Effect, a metaphor of a butterfly flapping its wings in Brazil and setting off a tornado in Texas. The metaphor originated with Edward Lorenz, a meteorologist and mathematician, in the 1960s and describes how subtle changes in conditions in one area of the world might affect weather patterns in distant regions. It has become a central idea in chaos theory and is now applied widely beyond meteorology. It reminds us that in complex, interconnected systems, such as our families, workplaces, towns, cities, and countries, small actions can have large, unintended, and unforeseeable consequences.

For instance, a stranger honks at me in traffic. “What an idiot,” I think. “Obviously, I can’t move.” I stew over his disrespect all the way to the grocery store, and become impatient and out of sorts, so when the cashier is slow to scan my items, I snap at her. She remains silent but rolls her eyes at the bagger. He’s a teenager on his first summer job and thinks what a rude old woman I am. He worries about the next senior-citizen customer’s possible negative attitude as he continues to ruminate on my discourtesy, so when she checks out, he throws her purchases into her bags without paying attention. When she gets home, the peaches are bruised, and the tomato he threw on the bottom is squashed. She remembers that a high school kid packed her purchases and vows the next time she shops there she’ll avoid baggers under twenty-five. She files a complaint with the store, and the manager calls all the teenage employees into his office, accusing them of poor job performance. On and on it goes.

The Fifth Remembrance asks us to live as if every moment and how we use it matters. It advises self-awareness and other-awareness. Each of us has a unique effect on the world, a unique contribution to make. As your mind hums with thoughts, your tongue flaps with words, and your hands busily build and tear down, what energy is being transmitted to the next person, the next town, state, country, planet, and universe?

Think about it. When you are dead, and your body has disintegrated, what energy will you leave behind? The Fifth Remembrance reminds us that we continue to impact our complex interconnected world even after death. Small actions ripple outward even beyond our lifetime. My metaphorical wings may create a tornado or a cooling summer breeze, war or peace, hatred or love.

Questions for reflection: What energy am I putting out into the world? How do I want to continue after I die?

Alive with Death

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Here’s the paradox: awareness of death clarifies life.

In my introduction to this series on The Five Remembrances, I mentioned the Buddhist practice of Maranasati or mindfulness of death and its benefits in fostering appreciation for life. In practicing Maranasati, I’m discovering that death is one of life’s foremost teachers.

So, I find it helpful to ask myself how the awareness of my inevitable death clarifies each area of my life:  my close relationships, the decisions and commitments I make, my interactions with acquaintances and strangers, how I use my time, how I use my money, what I think, say, and do. Pick any one of these and look at it in the light of your death. When I do so, I find that I have a clearer view of what is vitally important in each situation, what I can let go of, and what I most deeply desire. 

Yes, it makes a difference whether death is imminent or far off, but we don’t know, do we, when we will die. What would you change about how you live now if you fully accepted your death and the uncertainty of the time you have left? You are going to die, that is certain. When you will die is uncertain. How will you live today, knowing those truths?

Someone recommended that I consider how I would choose to live if I knew I had one year left, one month, one week, one day, one hour. So, I made a list.

Moriah, if you had one year left to live, who would you want to be and how would you want to use your time? First, I would want to spend no time trying to change the things I cannot change, which is just about everything except myself and how I choose to live. I would seek every opportunity to love, give generously, be present, and celebrate life. Of course, high on my list of how to use my time would be finishing end-of-life planning tasks for the sake of those left behind. I’d dispose of all my possessions except the essentials for the same reason. I’d hope to finish my novel and memoir because they are a kind of legacy. I’d spend as much time as possible in nature, and I’d want to write goodbye letters or have conversations with those to whom I have something particular to say. (Amusing that I think they might be more likely to listen if I am dying!)

And if you had one month of life left, Moriah? I suspect my energy would be waning, I would be sleeping more, turning inward, and disengaging from events and people. Still, if anything remains unresolved, I would like to try to resolve it, while understanding that it might be beyond my power. I’d like to flow with the process of letting go.

With one week left, I’ll be too weak to do anything but look at what’s around me; I’d like it to be nature. I’ll want to sleep and keep letting go.

One day? Love.

One hour? Love.

If these activities and attitudes become most important when my lifetime is short, are they not crucial for me in this moment as well, when my life expectancy is unknown?

Contemplating death causes me to ponder the meaning of my life. As hard as I have tried to change the world, the difference I’ve made is minuscule.

Still, every breath I take, every move I make has had an unfathomable effect, an irreversible impact. I will never know all my karma. So, while I can consciously change so very little, I am constantly changing everything. I want to do good, promote justice, relieve pain, and make peace, but I find myself with so little power to do so. However, my slightest movement, even my smallest thought, alters the world forever. What an enormous responsibility. What a paradox.

I am going to die. I don’t know when, but I want to be ready. I want, at the very least, to have my arms open to embrace death. I’d prefer for my life to be tidy, organized, complete, and meaningful, at least in my own eyes. It may be, but it may not. If death comes today, there will still be loose ends for sure.

Perhaps this year of focus on death is meant merely to clear the path, to let go of distractions so that the real work can begin. Perhaps this year is the first step, the step close in, as the poet David Whyte would say, the first step in preparation for whatever follows.

This year, I’m meeting monthly with a spiritual companion to discuss my reflections on death. I’m taking a Death Education Course and preparing all the appropriate legal and legacy documents. I’m trying to pare down my material belongings and my organizational commitments to open space and free up time for the essential. I hope to practice letting go of pet beliefs, projects, and habits in myriad situations every day.

I’ve been a Gandhi fan since early adulthood, especially attracted to his principle of the unity of means and ends: “the means are the ends, the path is the destination.” If the means are the ends, then living well is not separate from preparing to die. If the path is the destination, every attentive moment, every time I let go, every act of love foreshadows the way I will die.

Death is not only in store for me at the end of life; it is showing me, here and now, how to live.

Questions for Reflection: If you knew you had one year left to live, what would you stop doing? What would you begin? If you had only one day left, what would matter most? If you had only one hour?

Third Remembrance: Inconceivable Certainty

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Moriah, you are going to die.

No, really. Seriously. You are going to die.

This is the one thing you can be certain of.

Death is inconceivable, unimaginable, yet certain. That is the paradox: something that happens to every one of us—something we have known about since our minds became capable of self-awareness—remains fundamentally unknowable.

How do we respond to such inconceivable certainty?

First, by contemplating it as little as possible. Conventional wisdom encourages us to avoid thinking about death, to live as though we will continue indefinitely. Several readers have told me that my posts on aging and death are too much, too intense to dwell upon. They feel compelled to look away.

I understand. The temptation to look away is powerful.

Yet I am convinced that death, the one certainty, deserves a sustained and respectful gaze.

Real-life encounters with death may be frightening, ugly, mundane, or occasionally peaceful, but they reveal little about what dying actually feels like. Death is always happening to someone else, and we cannot enter another person’s experience.

For several years, I served as a hospice volunteer and kept vigil at many deathbeds. During long hours, often in the middle of the night, I watched the work of dying. I hoped these experiences would grant me insight into its mystery, but death remains incomprehensible. What I carried away instead was another paradoxical truth: death is both my unique work and completely beyond my control.

Some people seek understanding through stories of near-death experiences, many of which describe light, warmth, joy, and the presence of loved ones. One friend found comfort in the belief that her beloved grandmother and several cherished pets would greet her when she died. Yet just before her final breath, she became conscious, looked around, and asked, “Where is everyone? I thought they would have come for me?”

Rather than confronting death directly, we often surround it with metaphors. These images may comfort us, but they are necessarily imperfect because we do not know what they point to. Common metaphors include journeys (“walking each other home”), sleep and rest (“every falling asleep is a little death”), transformations (“passing away”), thresholds (the pearly gates), personifications (death as a thief), and natural cycles (winter as the season of death). While intellectually interesting, they all seem like attempts to describe what ultimately resists description.

Despite all the pain, sadness, disappointment, and failure I have experienced—along with joy, of course—I do not want life to end. I want this awareness, this self I call me, to continue in some form. Though I am tired and will become more so as I age, I cannot truly conceive of my own nonexistence. Some people speak of death as peace or rest. I worry instead that it might resemble a never-ending anxiety dream—something with which I am intimately familiar—when I would much prefer it to resemble the complete blankness of sedation for a medical procedure.

This raises a knotty question: Moriah, are you afraid of death?

Not exactly.

I am afraid of pain, disfigurement, suffocation, cold, hunger, sleeplessness, and shame. But death itself? How can I fear something I cannot imagine?

Over time, I have replaced fear with curiosity and experimented with different theories about what death might be.

I once believed in heaven and hell. For a while, those ideas fit comfortably. Eventually, however, they lost their hold on me as I came to see many religious traditions as attempts to understand the divine through human images and characteristics.

As I explored Buddhism and Taoism, other possibilities became more compelling. At present, two concepts compete for my allegiance.

The first is death as nothingness: a vast, dark void. The metaphor for this theory is outer space. I imagine myself floating endlessly in a 1980s-style spacesuit through silent, sightless, senseless emptiness. Yet even here, some faint awareness remains—not awareness of anything, but awareness of nothingness itself.

The second theory is inspired by the law of conservation of energy. In this view, the consciousness I now experience as Moriah does not simply end but transforms into something entirely new and unrecognizable, even to itself. My physical remains return to the earth or ocean, nourishing other forms of life, while whatever energetic essence animates me returns to the source from which all things arise.

I am not especially a fan of The Black Eyed Peas, but the opening track on their 2009 album The E.N.D. has captured my imagination. The lyrics begin:

“Welcome, welcome to the E.N.D. Do not panic. There is nothing to fear. Everything around you is changing. Nothing stays the same … The energy never dies.”

The Buddhist teaching of “no birth, no death” offers a similar perspective. Life and death are not singular events but aspects of an ongoing process of transformation. The concentrated energy that is presently me will disperse and perhaps reassemble into something that will no longer be identifiable as Moriah. Yet it will not disappear.

In that sense, I am infinite.

These theories satisfy my longing for connection with the source of life. They also address my incomprehension of annihilation by allowing for some form of continuation, whether formed or formless.

So I have looked death in the face—there is another metaphor—as best I can for now. I have acknowledged its certainty and its mystery. I have admitted my worry, sadness, and sense of loss when contemplating the end of my life. I have indulged my curiosity. Yet every attempt to explain death through language, metaphor, or imagination ultimately falls short.

I know I will die.

I cannot imagine what death is.

And I cannot look away from it.

What does all this contemplation of death mean for how I live today? Does it shape my daily choices and attitudes?

I will explore those questions in the next post: Alive with Death.

Questions for Reflection: How do we live with absolute certainty about something we cannot imagine? What is your own theory about what happens at death, and what emotional need does that theory satisfy?

No Escape-Only a Path

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The Second Remembrance: I am of the nature to have ill health. There is no way to escape ill health.

Ill-health is part of life—one that challenges our illusions of control, inviting us into deeper acceptance, compassion, and understanding.

.        .        .

What, exactly, is “ill-health”?

Something in the body is not functioning as it should. The result may be pain, nausea, fatigue, or an inability to perform basic functions such as walking, breathing, digesting, or eliminating. Ill-health may or may not take the form of a disease like diabetes, multiple sclerosis, or cancer, but it causes a sense of dis-ease.

Why does ill-health happen? The causes may be many, and are often beyond my control: genetics, environment, toxic exposure, or accident. Or, as discussed in the previous post, my body may be wearing out with age. Sometimes there is no discernible cause for ill-health. For those of us used to seeking answers at the tip of our fingers, this can be the most disturbing kind of dis-ease. Though we like to think that if we use our bodies well and carefully, we can avoid ill-health, discipline and preventative action can only take us so far, they do not create an impervious protective shield.

Why do we resist ill-health? We are a control-prone culture. Lack of control can provoke reactions from mild discomfort to intense fear, so we collude with one another to perpetuate the illusion of control. Faced with loss of control over our bodies, we will go to almost any length to reassert it.

Modern Western medicine focuses on control: identify the cause, intervene, cure if possible, and if not, manage symptoms. We tend to consider health our birthright, even as we refuse to recognize health care as a basic human right.  When a cure is possible, we pursue it intensely, sometimes indiscriminately, if we have the financial means. If a cure is not possible, or we can’t afford it, we rebel and rail against our misfortune.  Only as a last resort, we reluctantly accept our ill-health and turn to palliative care—to relieve instead of fix.

I’ve been fortunate. None of my conditions of ill-health is immediately life-threatening, and most are at least partially treatable. Still, since my mid-forties, ill-health has been my reality, and I, too, have struggled before reaching a measure of acceptance.  I inherited Restless Leg Syndrome (RLS) from my mother. Peripheral neuropathy followed on its heels, producing numbness, tingling, and pain in my hands and feet. A couple of years ago, a cardiologist informed me I have lived with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy all my life, but I only recently became symptomatic, experiencing shortness of breath, chest tightness, pain, and fatigue.  I’ve dipped my toe into cancer, skin cancer to be exact, with a melanoma in situ on the right side of my face and squamous cell cancer on my arm. My family has a history of colon and pancreatic cancer, so I have some anxiety about developing these. Add the chronic conditions: GERD (Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease), osteoporosis, and sleep apnea, and the picture of my ill-health is complete. Naming these conditions is, in a roundabout way, part of my attempt to both control and accept them.

I‘ve patched together my own brand of palliative care, combining medications, diet, and exercise. These interventions help me exert as much control as possible; the rest I must accept, because I am of the nature to have ill-health, and more of it as I age.  

But does ill-health bring only negatives and losses, or does it, like aging, also offer opportunities and graces?  What can I learn from ill-health? Are there any up sides?  

At a basic level, ill-health may provide an opportunity to loosen control and soften into self-compassion and empathy with others who share my conditions. It may enable me to touch into my vulnerability, reveal interdependence, and offer a chance to receive care from others.  Or, with a more active approach, I can study my condition, support research financially, or participate in trials that may lead to a treatment or a cure. In this way, I may help others who share my form of ill-health.

I live in a retirement community where most of us are seventy or older. We are all experiencing some form of ill-health, and we are famous for reciting our ailments and their treatments; it’s one of our common pastimes. Even this can have its benefits. Sometimes my ill-health forges a bond with others—an understanding that can, in itself, be palliative.

The Second Remembrance is not only a caution, but also a summons. Like everything else, ill-health may provide an occasion for growth and transformation. Is this not what the Five Remembrances as a whole teach us? What cannot be avoided can be met with curiosity, awareness, acceptance, and perhaps even wonder. So, we face into ill-health, looking for the opening along with the closing, looking for the way through rather than the way out. There is no escape, but there may be a path, otherwise overlooked, toward unanticipated freedom and unexpected meaning.

Before closing this brief essay on the second of the Five Remembrances, let me remind you that my reflections arise, not from formal study, but from meditation and observation—from my attempt to grapple with the choice to intervene or accept, to discern whether to flow with or swim against the inescapable tide.

Questions for Reflection: Is ill-health as inevitable as aging and death? How do I meet ill-health—with resistance, acceptance, or both?  Do I seek to escape ill-health more than aging?  Why?

There is no escape

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The Five Remembrances (Plum Village Version, Thich Nhat Hanh)

  • I am of the nature to grow old. There is no way to escape growing old.
  • I am of the nature to have ill health. There is no way to escape ill health.
  • I am of the nature to die. There is no way to escape death.
  • All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change. There is no way to escape being separated from them.
  • My actions are my only true belongings. I cannot escape the consequences of my actions.

For the past five or six years, every January, I have chosen—or been chosen by—a single word as a linchpin for the year ahead.  It’s called the One-Word practice.  The chosen word becomes the subject of intense reflection, aspiration, and intention.  My One-Words have included: slowly, rest, flow, love, write, and Wu Wei (non-forcing).

My word for 2026 is Death.

“Why do you want to focus so intensely on death?” a friend asked.  I responded that in Buddhist practice, meditation on death is recommended to foster the fullest possible experience of life.  Maranasati, or “mindfulness of death,” reminds us that life is transient and precious and we must live with intention and purpose.

My time is limited, I explained, and I want to live as fully and consciously as possible. My friend and I both admire Mary Oliver, and, particularly, her poem “When Death Comes.”

When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

Like Mary Oliver, I don’t want to just pass through life as a visitor.  I want to embrace and inhabit it with amazement.

One way I am practicing mindfulness of death this year is by meditating daily on The Five Remembrances, Buddhist contemplations that acknowledge the inevitability of aging, illness, and death, the reality of impermanence, and the consequences of every action (karma).

I’ve been doing so since the beginning of January: reciting the words of each remembrance, looking deeply into their meaning, reflecting on my experience of each, and writing those reflections in my journal.  The following series of brief articles is based on those journal entries. These posts are not a scholarly exploration of Buddhist philosophy. They are personal and experiential.  I offer them in the hope that they will resonate with others—especially those who are no longer young and are approaching “The Big Let Go,” Death.

Stillness, Silence, and Solitude II

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Continued

Solitude

At home, I am not solitary. I live with my spouse, my dog, and two cats, in a vibrant retirement community in a college town where intellectual work, art, theater, and music flourish. Tourists stroll the streets in summer. I am always meeting people I know well—or not at all. This social identity feels so natural, so me, that it is hard to believe it is constructed or conditioned.

Entering solitude, for me, is like going home. Though I am far from my physical home, I feel more at home here. Alone, I am more aware of my feelings, more curious, open, at ease, and forgiving. In the quiet of this cold winter morning, I ask: Who is my essential self? Is it distinct from my conditioned self? Does my essence emerge in solitude, or in relationship with others, or somehow in both? The witness self—the continuous, conscious observer—appears more readily for me in solitude.

Still, I must be careful. I am convinced that truth lies in balance rather than extremes. Perhaps I value solitude so deeply because I have so little of it.

Stillness

I arrived with the hope that my days alone would be unstructured, guided by the heart’s promptings. I imagined staying in my pajamas all day, doing nothing at all. That fantasy dissolved when I decided to bring the dog. I have meandered from one activity to another, discovering that it is far easier to imagine being still than to be still.

What do I want from stillness? The word that arises first is settling. I long for the persistent sense of inner agitation to give way to calm. Through meditation, I have learned that this happens when I sit still for long periods. Buddhist teachings liken the mind to a muddy pond: when left undisturbed, the sediment slowly settles, and the water clears. In my own experience, my body settles first, then my mind, and finally my emotions; clarity emerges.

With clarity, my actions become more intentional. This week, in my efforts to be still, I have taken special care to cook nourishing food and arrange it beautifully in the mismatched bowls and plates I found in the cupboards. I eat slowly—and, of course, silently—savoring each mouthful, noticing flavors and textures, surprised and grateful. No conversation distracts me from chewing thoroughly, to the relief of my delicate digestive system.

I read slowly, reflecting on what I read, appreciating the symmetry and beauty of language, and letting words sink into my consciousness, hoping they will water the seeds of my own writing.

Slowness, I tell myself, is the first step toward stillness, as the dog and I head out on our thrice-daily walks. Snow, ice, and mud slow us down, and we accept and adapt to them all. He stops often to sniff each new scent. I stop too—standing still, looking around, breathing, inhabiting the moment.

Fast and slow, motion and stillness, cannot exist without each other. Neither is inherently good or bad; each has its season, even if I have my preferences.

Silence

It almost goes without saying that outer silence supports inner silence. Alone and still, silence becomes tangible. I soak it in, treasuring it. I resent the heater kicking on with its low hum, the sound of the upstairs neighbor’s truck pulling into the driveway, his boots pounding up the stairs, the clicking of my keyboard as I type. When these sounds subside, I sink into the silence and luxuriate in its nothingness. It wraps around me like the heat in an empty sauna.

For a moment, I imagine never speaking again, never hearing another word. I contemplate the silent emptiness of death, and while I imagine it, I notice a quiet gratitude arise. Then the heater kicks on once more, and I feel my body tense—just slightly—reminding me how much stress accumulates when we are constantly bombarded by sound. How restorative silence feels, with its sisters, solitude and stillness.

And yet, silence is not the same for everyone. If I could not hear, would I long for sound? My partner is functionally deaf. Without her hearing aids, she hears nothing at all. Deaf since early childhood, her experience of silence is marked by alienation, misunderstanding, and disconnection. For her, sound can be orienting and connecting—or overwhelming. She reminds me that silence, like solitude, is not inherently sacred; its meaning depends entirely on context.

As I bring these reflections to a close, I search my OneDrive for a poem I wrote some time ago and read it carefully, recalling the feelings behind the words.

THREE MAGI

Stillness
Silence
Solitude

Three Magi, wise and noble,
Enticed
By intuition,
A common secret dream.
Set off to find the source of all that Is—
of love,
of hope,
of truth.

Stillness ambles imperceptibly.
Motionless, she travels far—
deeper,
nearer,
clearer.

Silence speaks no words,
Adds nothing to the frantic roar
of hate,
despair,
and lies.

Solitude bears destiny as she strides forth.
Knows birth and death and all between alone. Her heart
a pulsing,
throbbing,
longing.

Three Magi,
seeking their soul’s star,
walk home.

What is the soul’s star I seek during this week of stillness, silence, and solitude? As I ponder the question, my witness-self watches thought-clouds drift across the sky of my mind: essential, real, true, authentic, love, compassion, home. Any of these could be my soul’s star. And these three wise magi—Stillness, Silence, and Solitude—are my companions and guides as I walk home.

I rise from the computer and walk slowly to the kitchen to boil more water for tea. The kettle whistles, breaking the silence. The dog stirs, stretches, and hops down from his chair to follow me. I look out the window at the fresh snowfall, still undisturbed. I remember that I have a few more days alone before rejoining those whose lives are bound to mine. I give thanks.

I give thanks.

Author’s Note

This essay grew out of a week-long solitary retreat in central Maine in 2023, and reflects my ongoing spiritual inquiry into stillness, silence, and solitude. Written as contemplative nonfiction, it blends my lived experience with reflective practice. My intention is not to idealize the three s’s, but to examine what they offer when approached with curiosity, humility, and balance.

Okay: Part Two

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Though I am categorizing this as a story, it is creative nonfiction — based on real events. Names have been changed to protect privacy. Each of us approaches and responds to death uniquely. I want to honor that particularity.

Over the last three years, I visited Sarah about every couple of months.  I’d call or email a day or so in advance, and we’d agree on a time in the early afternoon.  Sarah didn’t see well or move quickly, so I would ring the doorbell, peek in the window to see her sitting in her usual chair awaiting my arrival, and then I’d open the unlocked door and announce myself.  “It’s Moriah.”

“Come in, come in.” 

I’d settle in the chair opposite her, and she’d ask how I was.  I’d tell her exactly what was on my mind at that moment, no matter how personal or difficult it was to admit or express.  Her head shook, and her voice quavered more and more as the months passed, but I listened closely to every word she said in response. I had come to rely on her utter sincerity and genuine concern. I was convinced Sarah, who had only recently become my friend, understood and cared deeply about me.  When I was finished opening my heart, I’d ask about her, and she would tell me—honestly but without drama—the health problems and every day difficulties she was experiencing; not in a complaining fashion, but matter-of-factly, always ending with gratefulness for the simple gifts in her life that brought her happiness.

I learned that Sarah was a Buddhist of Tibetan lineage and that she meditated regularly.  I meditate too, so that created a bond between us.  She told me about her teacher and some of the practices she had learned.  She joined me several times to meditate with a local mindfulness group. She always asked me about my writing and insisted on buying my novel when it was published.  I don’t know if she was able to get someone to read it to her. Her near blindness prevented her from doing so herself.

Sarah was so quiet and undemanding that people may have forgotten she lived in the neighborhood.  She would tell me she felt lonely and she was hungry for news about the neighbors and the goings-on in our retirement community.

She found workarounds for her limitations, though.  A personal assistant helped her with email, bill-paying, and the ubiquitous paperwork that inundates us all. Her daughter, Riley, came every evening to have dinner with her and help with anything that Sarah could not do on her own.

About a month ago, we noticed more traffic in and out of Sarah’s driveway. Riley began coming during the day, as well as in the evenings. Then she started staying overnight also.  I stopped in for a short visit to learn that Sarah was on hospice and declining rapidly.  Riley led me to Sarah’s room, where she was stretched out in a recliner with a cool cloth on her forehead.  She clasped my hand, told me how much I meant to her, and thanked me for our friendship.  She knew her time was short and was ready for death. We were both aware that this was, perhaps, goodbye. 

But it was not. She lived for another week or so, and I saw her a few more times.  The last one was the evening of her death. She was unconscious, breathing very lightly and gently.  While her daughter took a short break, I played a Buddhist chant, hoping that Sarah could hear and understand the reassuring words.  In the early morning, while I slept, a text came in that she was gone.  I saw it as soon as I awoke and rushed to her house in my pajamas to see her one last time, standing by her bed, kissing her smooth forehead and gazing at her peaceful face.

After that, Riley came and went from the house, handling the tasks one does after death: taking care of property, family, and financial matters with the help of Sarah’s personal assistant.  When I was finally able to catch her alone one evening, just before Christmas, she showed me the memorial altar she had lovingly and sensitively created around Sarah’s colorful tree. In the center sat her urn, carved with a Tree of Life.  Surrounding it were photographs and mementos from her life, several that I recognized, and one, a Buddha card I had given her a while back.  The altar was characteristically Sarah—unpretentious and beautiful. 

Sarah told me she was okay after Joe’s death, and I am okay after hers.  Each morning for the forty-nine days of her journey through the bardo or transitional state, I am ringing a bell and saying this gatha in her honor: “Body speech and mind in perfect oneness, I send my heart along with the sound of this bell.  May all who hear it (especially Sarah) be awakened from forgetfulness and transcend all anxiety and sorrow.”  Because everything is impermanent, I am letting Sarah go, along with the bell’s vibrations, into the universe on her journey home to the Source of Life.

The End

Okay: Part One

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Though I am categorizing this as a story, it is creative nonfiction — based on real events. Names have been changed to protect privacy. Each of us approaches and responds to death uniquely. I want to honor that particularity.

I was away when Sarah’s husband died. A neighbor sent me a staccato email, “Joe died this morning. Been over with food support.” We all expected Joe’s death. He had been on hospice for about a week and was declining rapidly. A couple of days before I left on my trip, when no hospice volunteers or caregivers were available, I sat by his bedside for a few hours one evening while Sarah rested. He talked deliriously for most of the time, the large-screen TV just feet from the end of his bed, blinking incessantly with wild-animal videos from the San Diego Zoo. I found the flashing images distracting and asked if I should turn them off. He said no, he liked the creatures, so I put down the remote and repositioned my chair so my eyes would not stray to the screen. I muted the sound, but the colors still danced on the wall behind his bed.

I had not talked with Joe for a while. Before COVID struck, we went out for coffee a few times. He told me about his life, work, and some of his unusual adventures. I mostly listened, except when asked a specific question, but the conversation always floated back to whatever was on his mind. He’d had a challenging career as an engineer, a happy family life, and enjoyed travel and living abroad. I relished getting to know him, and as a bonus, he introduced me to an excellent local café.

Now, as I sat beside his bed, he told me that he was content with the way things were ending. His children had taken good care of him during the last months, and he knew they would be there for Sarah after he was gone. He had completed everything he felt he needed to do and was ready to die. Even his garage workshop, where he had repaired all sorts of electrical and mechanical gadgets for folks in the neighborhood, was in order, thanks to his son’s help.

I moistened his cracked lips and dry mouth. I said I was happy to sit with him, that he needn’t talk, that he could close his eyes and rest, and he did so for about five minutes. Then the phone rang—his son was calling to say goodnight. I held the receiver up to his ear. After the call, there was no stopping his flow of words. As I hung up the phone, he launched into tale after tale about his life, much of it incoherent, with occasional dramatic bursts of clarity. He kept this up for nearly two hours until Sarah came into his room from her nap, and I rose to go home. I said goodnight and told him I was glad we had spent some time together. Indeed, I was grateful to have the opportunity to say goodbye to this gentle and kind nonagenarian. However, I didn’t know if I was saying goodbye for the night or forever. The next day, I left for a week’s vacation.

When the email announcing his death came, I decided to give it a day before calling Sarah. I know a lot of details must be settled immediately after death, and she and the children would be occupied. So, when I called, I just said I had heard, asked how she was, and told her I would come for a visit when I got home. She was grateful, and I found the call easier than expected. She seemed poised and peaceful, and that eased my shy discomfort. 

A day after I arrived home from my trip, I went into my garden and picked a few autumn flowers—some dahlias, some ferns, and tiny sunflower blossoms. I placed them in a vase and, taking a deep breath, called Sarah to ask if I could come over. She said a visit then would be fine. It took her a while to push her walker to the door, but it finally opened, and she warmly welcomed me. I offered the flowers, and she led me to a table along the dining room wall where she had put pictures of Joe, a copy of his death notice, and another small bouquet. Finally, she added my little offering to the display, invited me to sit, and suggested tea.

“Thank you, but no, I’ve just had my morning coffee. How are you?”

“Well, I’m okay, really,” she replied. I smiled and nodded, my eyes inviting her to say more. It seemed clear to me that she was, indeed, okay.

“Things went well at the end,” she continued. “He had finished everything he wanted to complete, made all the necessary legal and financial arrangements. He said goodbye to the children. Once he stopped eating and drinking, things went pretty quickly. I was sitting with him when he died, and he was peaceful. After that, my daughter came, and we just sat there for a couple of hours, looking at him, saying our goodbyes, and quietly talking until we were ready to call the funeral home. Of course, I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept much in the last month, but I’m relieved that it all went so smoothly. We had wonderful help from hospice and the children. I couldn’t have asked for it to go any better.”

I told Sarah about the few hours I spent with Joe the week before—that he had expressed gratitude for his life and peacefulness about death. I wanted to validate her sense that his end had been good. She smiled and thanked me for being there for Joe and here, now for her.

“Do you have the support you need right now?”

“I do. I’ve never lived alone in my entire life, and my health is still good enough that I think I can do that for a while. I’d like to see what it’s like to be on my own. So many people have been in and out of here, all his caregivers, hospice nurses, people bringing food, family. I’m enjoying the quiet and getting some rest. Yes, I think I will be fine, and I know the kids will help when I need it. And I’m fortunate that I can afford to stay here. Very fortunate.”

I asked a few more practical questions, to which she had ready answers, delivered calmly and confidently. She said that hospice had offered her grief counseling, and she might consider it. She thanked me for the few hours I spent with Joe before his death, and I expressed my gratitude for them. I said I sensed that she would, indeed, be okay.

As I got up to go, she remembered something she wanted to tell me. On the day of Joe’s death, an appliance technician had arrived in the morning to install a new dishwasher. Unfortunately, theirs had broken down, and the one ordered a couple of weeks ago had just come in. She explained to the fellow that Joe was dying and suggested perhaps he could come back another day. “I’ll be quiet,” the technician replied, so she let him go ahead with the installation.   

I chuckled and thought that Joe, an engineer and consummate handyman, would have appreciated that life goes on and dishwashers get hooked up, even while one is dying. Neither Sarah nor I put our thoughts about the peculiar irony of Joe’s final morning into words, but Sarah had a twinkle in her eye as she waved goodbye from behind the screen door. I walked home smiling and feeling okay, too.

Continued in Part Two