Are we any less laughable now? Do our technological gains reflect a corresponding social improvement? Are we any more self-aware? Consider that one of our funniest routines continues to be the effort we make to bleach our thoughts of dying. It is almost a cultural imperative. Who are we kidding? Dealing with death is perhaps the most difficult test that life presents. At least that's how most of us view it. Sure, we know that no one leaves here alive. But rare are those who ready their hearts and minds to make the crossing. What are we afraid of, a sudden plunge into the vast unknown? That was the leading question in my March 2000 New Times essay, "What Comes Around." For most people, the answer is yes. Worse yet, we don't seem to understand why. Is it guilt over sins committed that consumes our mental state? Or is it a deeper dread, born of delusions that disconnect us from peace? One of Buddhism's greatest living masters, Sogyal Rinpoche, suggests that we are afraid of death because we do not know who we truly are. "We believe in a personal, unique, and separate identity," he writes, whose existence "depends on an endless collection of things to prop it up." Because of this, in our late years especially, we often succumb to a kind of bewildering despair. We begin to wonder who will be left when all of that biographical stuff is finally stripped away. Who will be the one who passes on when we pass away? Is it some "unnerving stranger"? Again, the answer for most of us is yes. Ignoring the certainty of death until it is near, we tend to hide from ourselves, filling our time with tedious and trivial pursuits, mainly to keep from meeting that very stranger who dwells inside us. Then, as the end approaches, collapsing our shelter of cards, we find ourselves in the harsh, accusing glare of our misspent years, of chasing after the glitter of fool's gold. Oddly enough, we spare little time or thought for living, either. My own father, like many of his generation, worked at his occupation until he retired, only to wind up lost in the land of not knowing what to do. Despite his diligent labors and material gains, the future he envisioned was empty of meaning or joy. Worse, he feared the real future that awaited the end of his days. I have no doubt that my father's abiding desire was to live wisely and well, but he was stopped cold, failing to embrace the life that his death would bring. Sound familiar? Here we are, investing the coin of our happiness in a dream of limited span, while before us lies eternity, seldom regarded. In the short season of our days on earth, each of us must, as Paramahansa Yogananda admonished, "reap the most [we] can of immortality." But who does? Rather, like dupes in a con game of our own egocentric device, dressed in our drawers like Hans Christian Anderson's ridiculous emperor, we hold that by our vaunted human intelligence, we are as finely and fully clothed as we could be. Thus our lives, repeating that funny is as funny does, appear to be locked in reruns of the past. To befriend one's death while alive is to realize the mercy of its mission. Death is not the grim reaper of lore. It is, above all, a chance to wipe clean the slate of mistaken turns. The beauty of it is, we don't have to wait to breathe our last in order to gain its worth. As we give ourselves fully to each moment in time, we realize that change itself is the only possession allowed. "What is born will die," observed the Buddha, "what is gathered will be dispersed, and what has been high will be brought low." The message here is positively clear, and yet we act as if we could override it. Funny, isn’t it? On a subtler level, death delivers another lesson, too. This is not a place, it says, to lazily drift along. "Whatever we have done with our lives makes us what we are when we die," writes Sogyal Rinpoche, "and absolutely everything counts." Inwardly, I suspect, we know this to be true, which may explain why death is feared so widely. Who among us behaves as though everything counts? To reverse the habit of our worldly ways is a challenge more daunting in its demands — and essential in its purpose — than any other we face. Over and over we miss the mark, returning to try again as the elevator to heaven's gate opens to a lower floor. As Bill Murray’s character discovered in the movie Groundhog Day, none of us gets out of this "picture" for good, its plot observed, until we pass the exam of selfless love. And if this were not hard enough, society’s enormous momentum, driven by relentless propaganda and pressure to conform, is pitted squarely against us. No wonder we are slow to link our disappointments and pain to the habit of our ways. No wonder we are slower still to resist their certain effect. In the Bhagavad Gita, with the vast armies of his senses arrayed against him, even brave Arjuna was reluctant to fight. He saw himself having to kill the collected forces of his earthly ways, his "little self," and he wondered what would be left of him if he won. Krishna's response to Arjuna on the eve of battle — the response intended for each of us — is that we are not as we seem, not as our senses report, not as ego proclaims. It is these seducers that delude the embodied soul by eclipsing its discrimination. "O Arjuna, arise! Take shelter in union with Spirit. Slash with the sword of wisdom the doubt about Self existing in thy heart." So, where do we start? How do we dump the notion that letting go of ego is losing the rich romance of being human? To reunite with our true selves requires a journey of spirit beyond all socialization: a baptism of cleansing inner fire. Do you think you can do it alone? If so, your pride will drive you to fail. Burdened as we are with desires and doubts, we can hardly expect to stay the course of a spiritual transformation without an expert guide — a guru, that is — a master who has made the journey, and who returns to light the way. Whether of East or West, saint or sage, true gurus have realized the divinity within them and, by their own liberation, have demonstrated that life on Earth is an obstacle illusion. Finding such a guide is not a casual task. Forget about running a Personals ad or perusing the Yellow Pages. A formal education will not help either, nor even rigorous logic. To paraphrase an old cliché, when the pilgrim is ready, the avatar will appear, and getting ready is all about cutting loose mortal ties. The key step to moving in this direction, which is more a leap of faith, is attunement to the guru's being. It matters not whether she or he is living in the flesh or only in the verities of long-ago enlightened ways and teachings. Through our devoted efforts to absorb his or her presence, the guru is able to enter heart and mind, leading as Jesus led each apostle to vistas that no one of common sight could provide. On the subject of dying, for instance, a master is certain to emphasize a perspective beyond the norm: that preparing for death is the most important "to do" on anyone's list; that discerning the body's inborn illusory nature is critical to rising above its limitations; that the process of dying, when viewed from increasing detachment, allows the dawning of ever-expanding horizons of soul knowledge. In surrender to the guru's wisdom and will — through compassion, through selfless service, through deep meditation — we reconnect with the consciousness that is our divinely unconditional nature, dispelling our fear of death and replacing it with blessings of inner peace. Thinking and writing about all of this is the easy part, of course. Alas, it does not guarantee that I am the proper model of my advice. For over three years, I have inched along the guru-disciple path to greater awareness, praying that one day I would awake to a faith without self-doubt, but seeming yet to doubt that it could happen. Like most, I am steeped in delusion's brew, still gasping at times to keep from drowning in it. I speak from no road-to-Damascus conversion on what to believe or how to die, only from my own aspiration to live what is true, and sometimes that aspiration runs out of courage. People like me are funny, all right. But at least we're getting the picture. And beginning to change. James Conti is a freelance writer and a member of Ananda Church of Self-Realization. For a reprint of his previous essay, "What Goes Around," or any other article reprint desired, please send SASE to The New Times. |
Years ago, when TV entertainment was cutting its teeth, People Are Funny was the name of a popular show. Gentle in its humor, it steered wide of today's aggressive themes and confrontations. But the show was always good for laughs as it recorded, in a sense, our convoluted thinking and antic behaviors.