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?

~~~~~~

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.

Change and Loss

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“All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change. There is no way to escape separation from them.”

The Fourth Remembrance would appear, at first glance, to contradict a core Buddhist principle, the concept of interbeing: the interconnectedness and interdependence of all things. The notion that we inter-are with everything seems difficult to reconcile with this remembrance’s stark prediction that we will inevitably be separated from the things and people we hold dear. 

While the Fourth Remembrance purports to be about the core Buddhist principle of impermanence, or constant change, it speaks to me of the fundamental paradox at the heart of the human experience—love and loss. We remain essentially unbreakably interconnected and interdependent despite change and separation.

The paradox becomes more accessible when viewed through the lens of letting go. The first four remembrances are all about letting go. The first three, letting go of youth, health, and life itself. The fourth, letting go of everything we hold dear and often cling to: people, relationships, situations, possessions, habits, and ideas.

So, why must we let go? Why must we suffer separation? Because everything changes, including me. For instance, relationships change. The person I met and fell in love with last year is different this year, and I don’t love him as much or at all. Or I’m different, and he doesn’t love me.

Possessions deteriorate. The house I bought six months ago has been invaded by carpenter ants and is disintegrating, the lawn has weeds now, and the basement is damp when it rains. Time to consider selling?

Circumstances evolve or devolve. The job I thought was a perfect fit for my talents has turned into a nightmare since the new supervisor arrived.

Habits intensify and may become unhealthy. The glass of wine each evening to relax has become two, then three, then four, and it is no longer helping me to relax; now I can’t sleep.

Beliefs and ideas harden and narrow our perspective. My creative idea for solving a problem in my community has become an obsession, and I can’t see the situation from any other perspective. My mind is closed. I’ve become part of the problem instead of the solution.

Letting go is difficult, often painful. Feelings of sadness and loss linger, sometimes forever. Letting go can cause or contribute to a wound that may stubbornly resist healing. Holding on, though, can also cause suffering. The choice can seem like a no-win proposition. We can feel trapped between the pain of holding on and the sadness of letting go.

If, indeed, loss is unavoidable, how do we live with that reality? Are we meant to love at all? If so, how do we love when everything we love is constantly changing? By accepting that loss is inherent in love?

The  Tao Te Ching offers some profound but practical advice.

If you open yourself to loss,

you are at one with loss,

and you can accept it completely.

(Verse 23, Stephen Mitchell translation)

To open to loss, one must open to risk—the risk of loving, valuing, or holding dear. One must be open to caring, vulnerability, and desire. These emotions are big risks. They carry the potential for getting hurt. You cannot let go of something you are not holding on to. You cannot lose something you have not gained, or at the very least desired. Holding something dear—even lightly or slightly—must inevitably lead to letting go. If it doesn’t, it will lead to suffering. The Fourth Remembrance does not recommend loving less; rather, it recommends accepting change and loss. The Tao speaks of loss as something worth opening to, worth accepting, becoming one with.

Why might that be so? Like the other remembrances, the Fourth is not a belief, but an observable or experienced truth. Change, and therefore separation or loss, happens to everyone. We know this from personal experience. Accepting it unites us with reality and with all other sentient beings. Therefore, loss is one way our interbeing, our connection to others, is revealed.

Losing or letting go also creates an opening for something new. As terrifying as this opening may appear, as sad as it may feel, it is the way forward, the only way. While letting go might provide an opportunity for something better, more importantly, it allows us to remain responsive to reality. The Fourth Remembrance does not ask us to stop loving, but to love without expecting permanence, to let what we hold dear rest in open hands, to receive what comes, accept the loss of what goes, and be fully present to what is here now.

Questions for reflection: Is the price of love loss? Can we love deeply without clinging? Does knowing something is temporary make it more or less precious? Am I being asked to let go of something or someone?

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.

Open or Shut

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In the last post, I wrote about practicing for the ultimate let go at death by letting go regularly in daily life. The notion is that we get better at letting go the more we do it. Before further exploring the wisdom of letting go, I want to explore a phenomenon that often accompanies it—the experience of shutting or closing down.

Letting go implies some degree of attachment or clinging. Releasing our hold on something is frequently a viscerally painful experience. Relinquishing our illusion of control can seem almost impossible. We think we’ve done it, but our controlling behavior insidiously creeps back in. Letting go of cherished hopes and expectations brings feelings of loss, disappointment, and grief. Setting free those we love can feel like ripping our hearts out. Letting go can provoke anxiety and fear—a sense of lostness, vulnerability, and meaninglessness. All of these feelings, I suspect, are also common as we approach death. The supreme challenge in letting go is to stay open, receptive, and hopeful instead of closing or shutting down and donning the protective armor of fantasy, cynicism, or denial.  

Let’s bring it closer to home with an example. You offer an idea to a group of your peers. It’s an idea born of years of experience and hours of careful thought about the problem you’re all trying to solve. Your group has struggled with this problem for a long time and made no progress. Your idea seems bold and a little far-fetched, perhaps intuitive rather than logical, but you can think of no other way. Not only does the group reject your suggestion without seriously considering it, but they ridicule you for offering such a risky proposal. They are sure you’re mistaken.

Okay, you think, just let it go. This suggestion is the best I have to offer; now, I must let go and let whatever happens happen. You relinquish control and wait, but not with a feeling of open anticipation and hopefulness. Instead, you shut down, you can’t stay open to the ideas of others, and you can’t entertain any new ones of your own. You may feel rejected and withdraw physically or emotionally. You close down—put on a defensive armor that blocks your participation in life’s miraculous, ever-changing flow.

Authentically staying open after genuinely letting go is one of the most elusive of human responses. Three orientations may promote this precious openness. They were suggested to me by the poet and philosopher David Whyte, the Buddhist nun Pema Chödrön, and the Christian saint Julian of Norwich. I can’t decide if these attitudes have a hierarchy of value, so I will offer them alphabetically by first name.

David Whyte. Recently, a friend told me about his book Consolations, first published in 2015 but which I had not encountered before a couple of weeks ago. It is a series of reflections on the meaning of various words. Oddly enough, his reflection on silence is the one that gives me a clue about how to stay open after letting go.

“Reality met on its own terms demands absolute presence, and absolute giving away…a rested giving in and giving up; another identity braver, more generous and more here than the one looking hungrily for the easy, unearned answer.” [Page 116]

“…braver, more generous, and more here.” The ability to remain bravely and generously present in the reality of each moment brings about the stance of openness. It is much easier, perhaps only ever possible, to welcome what is happening here and now.

Julian of Norwich. An anchoress in the Middle Ages, Julian famously wrote in her Revelations of Divine Love, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” The phrase expresses a generalized hope that everything will ultimately turn out not only okay but well and beautifully. Specific hope for a particular outcome may be doomed to disappointment, but general hope in the goodness of life and death enables one to stay open after letting go.

Pema Chödrön. One of Chödrön’s prevailing themes across all her writing is learning to be comfortable with the natural human condition of groundlessness—accepting and familiarizing oneself with uncertainty and feeling safe amid constant change. Buddhists call it impermanence, one of the Three Universal Truths of Buddhist philosophy—safety without control.

So, as I write and we think together about letting go without shutting down or closing up, can we draw on the wisdom of these three guides and remain open in the here and now, with a sense of cosmic hope and ultimate safety? Let our imagination peel back the layers of our chests and gently open our hearts to the miraculous mystery that letting go will reveal.