Dear ones,
There are moments in life that quietly change the way we understand who we are. Sometimes they come in meditation, sometimes in silence, sometimes sitting beside someone we love as they take their final breaths. Over the years, I’ve come to trust that beneath all the changing conditions of this human life, there is something timeless that cannot be lost.
When I first went into long periods of silent retreat in the monasteries of Asia, I thought silence would be difficult. But after some time, I discovered something surprising: silence is one of the easiest and most natural things in the world. In silence, the heart begins to open again. You notice the light in the trees. You feel the crunch of leaves beneath your feet. You begin to sense that life is happening in a much larger and more mysterious way than we usually allow ourselves to see.
During one of those retreats, after many hours of meditation, I had an experience where I rose from my body and looked back to see myself lying on the floor. It was startling, but also strangely natural. Later, as I reflected on it, I understood something very deeply: we are not merely this body, this history, this collection of thoughts and fears. We are consciousness itself, far more spacious and mysterious than we imagine.
I’ve seen this same mystery so clearly while sitting with people who are dying. There comes a moment when something leaves the body, and what remains is no longer the person you love. It becomes very clear that the spirit, the consciousness, the living presence of a person cannot be reduced to flesh and bone alone. When my father was dying, after years of doing the inner work to make peace between us, I sat beside him and said, “You wait. You say you will only be dirt, but actually you’re going to find yourself floating free of this broken body, and there will be a great sense of well-being.” Somehow, deep down, we already know this.
The Zen poet Issa wrote this tender tribute after the death of his daughter:
“Dew evaporates
and all this world is dew—
so dear, so fresh, so fleeting.”
This human life is unbearably beautiful precisely because it does not last. We love, we lose, we begin again. And all along there is timeless consciousness, in any moment we can turn our attention from our experience to awareness itself. This turning is the gateway to freedom. Consciousness is who we are. When we turn and rest in timeless awareness, we discover that it holds everything.
With metta,
Jack
