Buddha instructed his followers to practice various meditations in order to calm their minds and limit their mental suffering.
One of these was a meditation on death. Practitioners would go to cemeteries and sit their for hours; contemplating their own mortality and coming to terms with the thought of dying.
In the Theravadan tradition, monks take this a step farther and spend a period of time each day imagining their bodies dying and decaying in various ways. In this way, they gain greater equanimity as the fear of dying or being killed is slowly removed from their minds.
On a whim, I decide to try my hand at this particular meditation. I travel to a graveyard near my home, place my cushion on the ground, and sit in noble silence for 1 hour. During this time I contemplate my slow, unstoppable march towards death.
I start with my skeleton; imagining my 6'2 frame slowly twisting downward as calcium leechs from my bones. I feel the pain of swollen joints, and the embarrassment of not being able to walk up stairs.
I imagine slipping while getting out of the shower and hearing the terrifying CRACK of my ankle breaking; pain radiates through my body as I struggle to call for help.
Next, I focus on my eyesight. I contemplate my vision growing worse each day until my glasses no longer keep the world in sharp focus. I fantasize about moving through a dark and mysterious world; the product of my eyes' betrayal. And trying to live in a world that I can't see.
My sadness is replaced with fear as the ramifications of this hit home. I can't write anymore. I can't read. How will I work or earn a living without my eyes? I won't. So, helpless and blind, I continue with the meditation.
I think of my muscles. The arms that I trained from freshman year of college to be strong and capable. The back that allows me to carry heavy packs in the mountains and move furniture for my friends. I watch them all waste away.
My shoulder blades protrude from my back like the stunted wings of a half-formed bird. I've gone from lifting 50 pound dumb bells to struggling to carry cups of water. And I'm angry.
I'm angry because I did all the right things. I exercised obsessively, I ate healthy foods, and this is the end result. My body is reduced to a weak, useless shell. My muscles have disappeared, and there's nothing I can do.
Finally, my attention arrives on my breath; the seat of my practice. I learned to meditate by learning how to breathe; how to concentrate on the feeling of air moving in and out of my lungs. I do this now, and I allow myself to take a moment's rest.
Then I stop. I hold my breath, cutting myself off from the source of my practice. I imagine myself lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by doctors who've decided to "pull the plug". They stand around staring at the EKG machine to check if my heart has stopped.
Involuntarily, my lungs begin to expand and contract. A slow pressure builds in my chest until it becomes painful. The readings on the EKG spike as my heart rate climbs; sending my entire body into a panic.
BREATHE!
My lungs scream as they contract so violently it feels like my ribs will break.
BREATHE !
My brain begs as the pain in my chest increases.
But I refuse. Instead, I focus on the EKG machine with the doctors. I watch my heart rate climb until the numbers on the machine don't make sense anymore, and the whole world fades to black...
Eventually, my body wins out over my willpower, and I begin breathing again. I suck in air greedily, and marvel at how good it feels. How many times do I breathe every day? How many times do I take it for granted?
The meditation has left me feeling shaky and light-headed. I place my hands on the cold ground in front of me, and focus on the feel of the dirt beneath my fingertips. Slowly, my mind begins to settle, and I think about what I just experienced.
I experienced anger, fear, and a host of other emotions during the meditation because I was losing things like my strength and independence that I view as indelible parts of my identity. I reflect on this as I look around the cemetery.
I'm sure all the people here were pulled screaming and crying into the grave. But once they got there... silence. In fact, the grounds are incredibly peaceful.
Maybe losing everything isn't so bad. After all, these people died, but they didn't disappear. Their blood turned into trees, their bones became tall grasses, and their flesh became food for worms who became food for birds singing in the trees.
In this moment, I realize that in order to practice Buddhism, we must live as if we've died. In order to practice compassion, we must give up our fear of loss. This is the only way.
The people in this cemetery are dead. They've lost everything. And that loss allows them to practice compassion on a whole new level. It allows them to give of their flesh, their bones, and their blood to save all sentient beings from suffering.
That's why it's so important for practitioners to "die" on the cushion each day. Because letting go of our attachments allows us to move through the world with compassion..
Of course, this compassion starts with ourselves; with us letting go of the attachments (toxic relationships, bad habits, guilt, etc,) that cause us harm. And then it expands to everyone around us.
Until finally, we lose our fear of loss because we've nothing left to lose. And we lose our fear of death because there's no one here to die. And there's no one doing the giving, and there's no one walking the path.
There's just a cemetery, full of birds, singing in trees.
One of these was a meditation on death. Practitioners would go to cemeteries and sit their for hours; contemplating their own mortality and coming to terms with the thought of dying.
In the Theravadan tradition, monks take this a step farther and spend a period of time each day imagining their bodies dying and decaying in various ways. In this way, they gain greater equanimity as the fear of dying or being killed is slowly removed from their minds.
On a whim, I decide to try my hand at this particular meditation. I travel to a graveyard near my home, place my cushion on the ground, and sit in noble silence for 1 hour. During this time I contemplate my slow, unstoppable march towards death.
I start with my skeleton; imagining my 6'2 frame slowly twisting downward as calcium leechs from my bones. I feel the pain of swollen joints, and the embarrassment of not being able to walk up stairs.
I imagine slipping while getting out of the shower and hearing the terrifying CRACK of my ankle breaking; pain radiates through my body as I struggle to call for help.
I'm filled with sadness as I look at my decrepit body sprawled out on the floor.
Next, I focus on my eyesight. I contemplate my vision growing worse each day until my glasses no longer keep the world in sharp focus. I fantasize about moving through a dark and mysterious world; the product of my eyes' betrayal. And trying to live in a world that I can't see.
My sadness is replaced with fear as the ramifications of this hit home. I can't write anymore. I can't read. How will I work or earn a living without my eyes? I won't. So, helpless and blind, I continue with the meditation.
I think of my muscles. The arms that I trained from freshman year of college to be strong and capable. The back that allows me to carry heavy packs in the mountains and move furniture for my friends. I watch them all waste away.
My arms become thinner, weaker, until it seems like only skin and bone are left.
My shoulder blades protrude from my back like the stunted wings of a half-formed bird. I've gone from lifting 50 pound dumb bells to struggling to carry cups of water. And I'm angry.
I'm angry because I did all the right things. I exercised obsessively, I ate healthy foods, and this is the end result. My body is reduced to a weak, useless shell. My muscles have disappeared, and there's nothing I can do.
Finally, my attention arrives on my breath; the seat of my practice. I learned to meditate by learning how to breathe; how to concentrate on the feeling of air moving in and out of my lungs. I do this now, and I allow myself to take a moment's rest.
Then I stop. I hold my breath, cutting myself off from the source of my practice. I imagine myself lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by doctors who've decided to "pull the plug". They stand around staring at the EKG machine to check if my heart has stopped.
Involuntarily, my lungs begin to expand and contract. A slow pressure builds in my chest until it becomes painful. The readings on the EKG spike as my heart rate climbs; sending my entire body into a panic.
BREATHE!
My lungs scream as they contract so violently it feels like my ribs will break.
BREATHE !
My brain begs as the pain in my chest increases.
But I refuse. Instead, I focus on the EKG machine with the doctors. I watch my heart rate climb until the numbers on the machine don't make sense anymore, and the whole world fades to black...
Eventually, my body wins out over my willpower, and I begin breathing again. I suck in air greedily, and marvel at how good it feels. How many times do I breathe every day? How many times do I take it for granted?
The meditation has left me feeling shaky and light-headed. I place my hands on the cold ground in front of me, and focus on the feel of the dirt beneath my fingertips. Slowly, my mind begins to settle, and I think about what I just experienced.
I quickly realize that it isn't death or even the act of dying that bother me. It's the feeling of loss.
I experienced anger, fear, and a host of other emotions during the meditation because I was losing things like my strength and independence that I view as indelible parts of my identity. I reflect on this as I look around the cemetery.
I'm sure all the people here were pulled screaming and crying into the grave. But once they got there... silence. In fact, the grounds are incredibly peaceful.
Maybe losing everything isn't so bad. After all, these people died, but they didn't disappear. Their blood turned into trees, their bones became tall grasses, and their flesh became food for worms who became food for birds singing in the trees.
In this moment, I realize that in order to practice Buddhism, we must live as if we've died. In order to practice compassion, we must give up our fear of loss. This is the only way.
The people in this cemetery are dead. They've lost everything. And that loss allows them to practice compassion on a whole new level. It allows them to give of their flesh, their bones, and their blood to save all sentient beings from suffering.
That's why it's so important for practitioners to "die" on the cushion each day. Because letting go of our attachments allows us to move through the world with compassion..
Of course, this compassion starts with ourselves; with us letting go of the attachments (toxic relationships, bad habits, guilt, etc,) that cause us harm. And then it expands to everyone around us.
Until finally, we lose our fear of loss because we've nothing left to lose. And we lose our fear of death because there's no one here to die. And there's no one doing the giving, and there's no one walking the path.
There's just a cemetery, full of birds, singing in trees.
Check out my YouTube Channel!
Beautiful
ReplyDelete