I have met death in many disguises, but never the same way twice. The last time was on 5th March at eight-thirty pm. Death came quietly, and with more love than I ever felt in my entire life.
On this Sunday, I held my grandmother’s hand, walking alongside her to the final point of her existence. A space stretched with expectation and reminiscing stories. Her time had come, and I was her Deathwalker. Death patiently stood waiting in the corner. A sombre presence that had only one irreversible purpose.
When Death finally stepped forward, the veil separating our world and the unseen slit open, and time was still. Through it love spilled into the room, and into every cell, every bone, and dark place of the mind. Here we were, at the edge of our physical existence, looking into the next.
Death was many; a sea of light beings and known faces from old family photos. Everyone excited to welcome her Spirit. There was no judgment, no hellfire, only this deep love. The kind that accepts us in whatever state we are in and many look for their entire lives. It seemed Death never comes as expected. It was not a despair-filled void missing an exit sign. Instead, Death was the sacred gatekeeper of the final journey back to our origin.
My grandmother had this keen awareness of her own mortality. She never held onto anything that was not meant to be, carried no regrets for the things that were not going so well, and never feared her own ending. As a matter of fact, she counted on it. Underlying this attitude was a sense of understanding that our existence is based on the cycle of ending and beginning.
Death drives the daily regeneration of our cells, inspires us to new inventions, and deepens our connections. In a way, our mortality ensures the survival of our species, and gifts this life meaning, even in ways we did not anticipate. You see, every life creates stories. All of them combined form the meaning behind our human existence on this planet. They are the guidelines through which we make sense of this experience. In time, we pass these on to the next generation, who will use them as the foundation to mould the world in their own image. This is how we continue as humanity; through our stories and by allowing new ones to be written.
But maybe the most honest realization we have in all of this is the one about ourselves. When we face a final situation with no alternative solution, our copying mechanisms are disabled. Death is a mirror, reflecting back the truest feelings about our existence. Sometimes for better and sometimes for the worst, but always with the understanding that life is a precious gift with a time limit. And although we cannot live in this clarity forever, a moment of realization has the power to birth a whole new consciousness. I was never as accepting of myself and my life as when death came knocking on the door of those I loved dearest.
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