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January / Chicago

When I was a newspaper reporter, I covered a horrific multi-vehicle crash on the Interstate. It was a chain-reaction crash caused by a truck driver who was driving too fast and not paying attention to the road in front of him. When traffic had suddenly slowed in front of him because of a lane closure, the truck driver was unable to stop his heavily-loaded rig before it plowed into the back end of another truck. He was killed in the crash, his body severed in two.

As I and the photographer stood by the scene watching the activity, it eventually became clear to both of us what had happened. We both watched as the emergency crews removed one half of the driver’s body, then the other. One of the crew members quickly turned his head away as the first portion of body was removed. The photographer was in shock, stunned by the notion of someone being cut in half during this crash. I just watched. The photographer noticed my lack of any emotional response to the scene and asked me, “Doesn’t that bother you? How awful that must be to have died that way.”

“It’s just a body,” I said. “The driver is gone. That’s not him anymore. It’s just a body.”

I was going to title this post “Death as a teacher,” but then I realized I had already written a post by that same name. No wonder that when Tanya McGinnity of Full Contact Enlightenment offered the topic of death as a subject for the third blog swap I readily embraced it, particularly when Tanya revealed that she was unaware that Theravada has a tremendous body of material – no pun intended – within the Tipitika regarding death. In fact, when I first began attending the dhammasala in Michigan where I lived previously, the monk there frequently talked about how important the contemplation of death was to one’s meditation practice.

He would tell us of how monks in Thailand would frequently do “death meditations” in graveyards in the middle of the night. A graveyard was also a good place for contemplating fear. It was an important meditative practice clearly expounded by the Buddha, particularly in the Satipatthana Sutta (MN 10) and the Maha-satipatthana Sutta (DN 22).  These suttas guide the practitioner with the “frames of reference” to use during meditation, beginning with the breath, but then moving on to contemplation of the body as body. An integral part of this contemplation is to visualize the breaking up of the body upon death.

“Furthermore, as if he were to see a corpse cast away in a charnel ground — one day, two days, three days dead — bloated, livid, & festering, he applies it to this very body, ‘This body, too: Such is its nature, such is its future, such its unavoidable fate’…

“Or again, as if he were to see a corpse cast away in a charnel ground, picked at by crows, vultures, & hawks, by dogs, hyenas, & various other creatures… a skeleton smeared with flesh & blood, connected with tendons… a fleshless skeleton smeared with blood, connected with tendons… a skeleton without flesh or blood, connected with tendons… bones detached from their tendons, scattered in all directions — here a hand bone, there a foot bone, here a shin bone, there a thigh bone, here a hip bone, there a back bone, here a rib, there a breast bone, here a shoulder bone, there a neck bone, here a jaw bone, there a tooth, here a skull… the bones whitened, somewhat like the color of shells… piled up, more than a year old… decomposed into a powder: He applies it to this very body, ‘This body, too: Such is its nature, such is its future, such its unavoidable fate.’”

It is through the contemplation of death that we arrive at an understanding of kamma. Unless we are fully aware that we will die and that death could come for us at any moment, we have no motivation to closely examine how our actions are connected to the results we experience. When we seriously investigate death and its cause, we must also investigate kamma, and in particular, our own kamma.

As V.F. Gunaratna discusses in “Buddhist Reflections on Death,” we can begin simply enough with our investigation of death by tracing its origin to its simplest biological terms. Death comes when the heart stops beating; the heart stops beating because of some disease or trauma to the body; the disease is introduced to the body via an outside mechanism, trauma also by a force outside of the body; etc. But wait a moment. Some new questions begin to arise. How is it that two people can be infected with the same bacteria, but only one dies, the other recovers? How is it that three people can slip on an identical patch of ice and one falls and hits the back of his head, but is merely dazed; the second falls and hits the back of his head and slips into a coma for 10 days and when he awakens, has lost his memory; and the third slips and falls, striking his head and dies instantly.

This is when the tricky element of kamma comes in, because it is kamma that makes one person die and another live despite experiencing identical traumas.

Gunaratna writes: “Kamma sees to it that each man gets in life just what he deserves, not more, nor less. Each man’s condition in life with its particular share of joys and sorrows is nothing more nor less than the result of his own past actions, good and bad. Thus we see that Kamma is a strict accountant. Each man weaves his own web of fate. Each man is the architect of his own fortune. As the Buddha said in the Anguttara Nikaya, ‘Beings are the owners of their deeds. Their deeds are the womb from which they spring. With their deeds they are bound up. Their deeds are their refuge. Whatever deeds they do, good or evil, of such they will be heirs.’ As actions are various, reactions also are various. Hence the varying causes of death to various persons under various situations. Every cause has its particular effect. Every action has its particular reaction. This is the unfailing law.”

By contemplating death, two important but seemingly contradictory events take place. On one hand, we lose our fear of death because we come to recognize it not as an end, but merely a transition. And yet, when we become fully aware of death’s inevitable occurrence, we develop a new urgency of intent to pay closer attention to all our actions, because it is through our actions our kamma is created, and how and when we die is determined by our kamma. The Buddha also taught that we make kamma moment to moment, that our kamma is flexible, which means we always have an opportunity in the present moment to undo or diminish the kamma created by past, unskillful actions.

The Visuddhi magga, which is part of the Abhidhamma Pitika, has many sections that deal with the correct, or skillful, contemplation of death. As Gunaratna points out: “For example, suppose a young disciple fails to realize keenly that death can come upon him at any moment, and regards it as something that will occur in old age in the distant future; his contemplation of death will be lacking strength and clarity, so much so that it will run on lines which are not conducive to success.”

The skillful contemplation of death can yield these results:

“The disciple who devotes himself to this contemplation of death is always vigilant, takes no delight in any form of existence, gives up hankering after life, censures evil doing, is free from craving as regards the requisites of life, his perception of impermanence becomes established, he realizes the painful and soulless nature of existence and at the moment of death he is devoid of fear, and remains mindful and self-possessed. Finally, if in this present life he fails to attain to Nibbana, upon the dissolution of the body he is bound for a happy destiny.”

Returning to the vignette at the beginning of this post, I didn’t magically develop this sense of dispassion toward corpses. There was a necessity: I was a police reporter and I frequently encountered death either through fatal traffic crashes, fires, or homicides. Initially, my reaction was to numb myself, a sort of dissociation to protect myself from the overwhelming emotion I felt and which truly frightened me. But after listening to my first teacher talk about the various ways to meditate on death, I started to practice these methods in perhaps somewhat alternative ways. I had a text book on homicide investigations that was very useful because it explained how good police investigations were conducted. That helped me as a reporter because I could then ask the right questions for my stories.

There was a section of photographs of crime scenes within this book, some including mutilated corpses. Some of the photos were in color. They showed everything. I honestly could not look at the photos without having huge waves of emotion covering me, everything from fear to intense sorrow. But when I began to include contemplation of the body in my meditation practice, I was eventually able to look at these photos and see them for what they really were: photos of bodies, photos of flesh, blood, bone, body fluids, hair, etc. Bodies are not people. These were not photos of dead people, they were photos of bodies. And once I was able to see that, my mind didn’t slip into morbid thoughts of pity or anger or fear.

Death is a wonderful subject for contemplation, and the Buddha urged his followers to seriously contemplate their own death. To successfully contemplate one’s own death is a powerful instruction and motivator to develop the skillful awareness necessary to find peace and happiness.

Late in the summer, I was working on a wedding guest list and I added a person on my list who I had participated in a “One Year to Live” study group with a few years ago. She is/was well into her 80′s and I adored chatting with her on our trips home from our sessions as she was so very engaging and present. I sensed that she didn’t have a large social network so I really made it a point to call and check in on her often. Occasionally, we’d meet up and my goofus of a dog would entertain her with his antics.

I gave her a call and a strange voice answered. I didn’t get much help from the voice at the other end of the line as to the whereabouts of my friend. I called back as the thought that she’s died passed through my mind. Same voice except a bit more terse. No additional information for me. I then contacted the facilitator of the course as she also maintained contact with my friend and she had the same thought as I did. She gave me a number of someone who was very close to my friend who I could contact to see if she had heard from her, so I gave this lady a call.

It took me back to when my first pet, a striped cat was too much to take care of and my folks didn’t want to break my heart and say that they gave him away to the neighbors, so they told me he went to a better place. My interpretation was quite advanced at that age to think that he died, when in fact, he had merely switched to a more cat-hospitable home with tastier vittles.

The voice at the end of the line told me that my friend was on a “spiritual journey” and I wasn’t able to reach her. Why is it that these 2 words together always get me a bit suspicious?

I think this is my new koan. What is the sound of one missing 80 year old who’s dropped off the face of this earth?

I’ve been working with my reactions to the words ‘spiritual journey’ and to not being able to contact someone (which is quite a bit similar to having the ‘cosmic phone line cut’ and the person being on the ‘other side’).

Photo from ChanChan222 :: Death Note: "L"

As the driver did a u-turn in the middle of my street, I had a big lump of fear grow in the centre of my chest. He was driving a bit erratic for the snow-slicked streets and I noticed this after not even a minute of being in the car. He tried pumping his brakes as we headed down the hill and I felt my fear grow. He wasn’t driving with snow tires. This is akin to me on a snowboard – unstoppable and much like a greasy footed Fred Flintstone on a butter glazed bowling lane.

We rounded a corner and did a full 360 and headed for a concrete beam supporting the massive overpass. Spinning around, I saw a car headed for us in the rear window and it fortunately slowed down in time. Luckily we didn’t hit the wall. Shaken up, I got out of the car, lost a mitten and walked home, barfing out of shock.

To take the edge of of the anger I felt for the reckless cabbie, the disappointment I felt that I missed the session I wanted to attend, the wish for all people who drive to be a bit more mindful, the missing of the lost mitten – yada yadda yada… I did some readings from my Nalandabodhi homework. The readings came from Khenpo Tsultrim Gyamtso Rinpoche’s book “Progressive Stages of Meditation on Emptiness” and did much to dissolve my anger. I’m by no means an expert on karma and am only beginning to dip my toe into an analysis of such a weighty concept, but a sense of peace came over me as I attributed the action of the accident as not being entirely the fault of the cabbie who was at the receiving end of my wrath due to the stupidity or uncaring nature that I projected onto him. I saw him as a being who was trying to make a living and scrape by. He may not have been able to afford winter tires so I breathed in his pain and suffering rather than just dwelling in my feelings.

Things happen all the time. Mistaken appearances are acted upon. They cause us unnecessary fears.

What reality do we choose to dwell in?

By now I’m sure you all know my love of the National Film Board of Canada and their movies.

Griefwalker is yet another film produced through the assistance of the NFB dealing with topics relating to Buddhism, palliative care, living and dying, philosophy and moral issues. (If you haven’t seen Leonard Cohen’s narration of the story of the ‘The Tibetan Book of the Dead’ you owe it to yourself to check it out).

Griefwalker tells the story of Stephen Jenkinson, a Harvard-trained theologian who is a palliative care worker helping many come to terms with their finality. He’s been given the nickname “the Angel of Death”.

“Whether sitting at the bedside of a dying woman, or speaking to clinicians dedicated to delaying death, Jenkinson bears a message that most do not want to hear: that death is not something to be denied or avoided—but “befriended…. Jenkinson says there is a “hole inside most of us and it’s in the approximate shape of a soul.”

There is such a strong denial of death in our culture. Thoughts that if we discuss it or plan for it, then we’ll bring it on ourselves. To continue to not be curious or inquisitive about this ‘fact of life’ does both us and our family and friends a disservice.

Directed by award-winning documentary director, producer, and writer Tim Wilson ‘Griefwalker’, this film looks like essential viewing for anyone who isn’t likely to look away when facing their mortality.

Check out the trailers for the film here and Stephen Jenkinson’s website Orphan Wisdom here

Esther Kalaba and Karen Haffey are two women who united through their loss of family members to explore the memories associated with the clothing of those who pass away digitally via this website as well as in person by way of both a private meeting of all those who participated in sharing their experiences and then through a public art exhibit and future book project.

From the website:
“What happens to clothing once occupied by someone who has passed away? Is it left sitting in a pile on the floor as it was when death came? Is it given away, thrown away, washed or unwashed, folded away in a drawer, or hung indefinitely in a quiet closet, in a quiet untouched room? Whatever choices are made, one thing remains the same: the clothing of a deceased loved one is no longer just dress. It holds a narrative of memory, body, identity, sweat and smell that is a souvenir of loss.”

This is an extraordinary project. I really don’t know much more to say beyond that.

In Buddhism, we are presented with the bitter pill of gulping down that suffering is a part of life. Some of us face it as the truth while others turn away in fright or continue to numb ourselves from this reality.

It struck me how our death manifests in itself so much of our personality- as how we travel through our lives is similar to how we face the truth of death when it presents itself. My aunt preferred to communicate via a series of journals rather than to open up her pain to the world, whereas I twitter, blog and note on facebook every single headache, misfortune or celebration that comes my way.

Death and life are intertwined and interconnected.

We all display such humanity and courage in how we live- and how we die, whether we are conscious and aware of it or not.

To my aunt, you were brave in your silence and you will be missed greatly.

German photographers Walter Schels and Beate Lakotta have a show of their extraordinary before-and-after-death photos opening on April 9 at the Wellcome Trust in London.

Wrenching and beautiful before-and-after-death photos – Boing Boing

It’s fascinating to see the images of those who have accepted death and the peace which has graced their faces in contrast with those that have experienced more suffering in the face of their time of death.

As someone who is still exploring my attitudes and feelings towards dying, I find this photo exhibit so valuable and useful. Not sure if I’d invite the photographers in to snap shots of my visage- I’m still attached and vain like that!