In the Forest of the Falling Trees

The reality of death...and life

I am moved for several days now to write about death. Oh, dear, a little voice says in my head, nobody wants to read about death. We spend most of our lives running from death, hoping we will be spared. Imagining we will live forever. 

And then, there it is. A parent dies, as mine did more than 20 years ago.  An animal dies and burial happens in the back yard, like ours in Maryland, where multiple cats and rabbits now fertilize the grass and mix with the dead leaves to provide compost for the vegetable garden.

As a younger person, I was aware of death. It was something that happened way down the road ahead. My metaphor for years has been trees falling in the forest. Occasionally I would hear a report as an oak, way ahead, thundered to the ground. In rare moments, one quite near declined and dropped, like my dear friend Tutti Tölle from graduate school, who collapsed on her office floor at the age of 46 from an aneurism. I attended her funeral in Boston in 1988, but with the sense that this would not happen to me; I was way too young.

As I have walked through the stages of my life, the forest has drawn closer. First they fell out of my sight, but in my hearing. Then I could watch them fall. Now, at 82, they fall around me, even behind me; I know many of these trees; they have enriched my life; now they are gone.

Now, death comes closer. It is in the house, in the family. One sibling falls in a storm and disappears slowly into the world of cognitive decline. We must deal with the safety of person and the memory of the mind that was once sharp and articulate.  Another slowly loses sight, the visual we take for granted, that assures us we are in the world. Now a sibling that needs attending care. 

There is no escape from the Forest of the Falling Trees. I am drawn into that reality as my age advances and my own body deteriorates.  At my age, I am about four years past my “sell-by” date. I like to say “at my age there are no longer things to cure; there are conditions I now must manage.”  Chronic conditions, like diabetes, lower lumbar stenosis and sciatic pain and the simple realities of aging: stiffness, unexplainable twinges, declining energy. I can work to manage these conditions, but I have no access to bionic remedies that send them packing.

Recognizing my own approaching death, I have begun to examine it in depth. For a second year in a row, I am taking a one-year class through Spirit Rock called “A Year to Live.”  There are over 500 of us in the Zoom room, which is then broken down into small groups and affinity groups, meeting every month for a year. 

Aware of the world around me, I conjure up another metaphor – a video streaming in front of me, with people moving off to the right and turning to haze and shadow, and a new, next generation sliding into view. They do the things I used to do, things I am slowly letting go of like running, doing in-depth research, staying up until midnight, drinking alcohol, debating world and national affairs. 

This is inevitable.  Oh, with exercise and good ingestion one can go through the forest with more or less ability. But death comes.

It is the one event in our lives we cannot prevent or escape. As an increasingly practicing Buddhist, I am aware that everything in my life, everything in everybody’s life, is impermanent. Change is the only constant. Death is part of that reality. I now recite daily what are called the five remembrances:

            I am of the nature to grow old. There is no way to escape growing old.

            I am of the nature to get sick. There is no way to escape getting sick.

            I am of the nature to die. There is no way to escape death.

            Everything that is dear to me and everyone I love will change. There is no escape from being separated from them.

            My only true belongings are my actions; they are the ground on which I stand.

“Oh, dear,” I can hear some of you say, “get out of that trough of depression and sadness; enjoy life while you still have it; forget that lurking shadow.”

To the contrary. To the extent I can escape my own fear of disappearing in pain, seeing death as part of life gives me incentive to live my life to the fullest, with as much rich joy and sorrow as I can experience. The many changes in my life over the past five years – ending a marriage as mindfully as we could, discovering my own gender identity, moving across the country, discovering new friends – are all part of that journey of joy and sorrow.

I have always been intrigued by the way Hunter S. Thompson described the approach of death and the end of life: “Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow, what a ride!”

I am not inclined to follow all the paths he took, but I share the sentiment. Drink deeply of life; love, care; experience it all. It is the gift you have now, today. 

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Some interesting sources on death that have been guiding me on this journey:

Stephen Levine, A Year to Live: How to Live This Year as if it Were Your Last (1997)

Frank Ostaseski, The Five Invitations: Discovering What Death Can Teach Us About Living Fully (2017)

Lewis Richmond, Aging as a Spiritual Practice (2012)

Katy Butler, The Art of Dying Well: A Practical Guide to a Good End of Life (2019)

B.J Miller and Shoshana Berger, A Beginner’s Guide to the End: Practical Advice for Living Life and Facing Death (2019)