Reflections on Death: Life’s Greatest Mystery
In the Breath Between the Words: An Exploration of Death and the Afterlife
In 1982, I visited Varanasi, the city of dying. In Hindu tradition, it is the most sacred place to take one’s final breath and transition from this chapter of existence into whatever comes next. In the never-ending cycle of reincarnation, to die in Varanasi, be cremated, and have your ashes scattered into the Ganges River is to attain liberation—freedom from the cycle of rebirth.
At the time, I was young, strong, fearless, and curious—perhaps even reckless in my certainty of the world. But I was also wounded, and in ways I did not yet fully understand. Walking through the narrow, crowded streets, particularly those leading to the ghats, I saw emaciated bodies, cancer-stricken men and women, lepers, and the elderly—each waiting to die. Many wore simple loincloths, carrying only a begging bowl—no possessions, no resistance, no trace of fear. There was no despair in their eyes, only acceptance.
I, on the other hand, felt discomfort, even horror. My Western sensibilities recoiled from the intimacy of death, so openly acknowledged, so seamlessly woven into the fabric of daily life. It was a stark contrast to how we in the West insulate ourselves from mortality, hiding death behind hospital walls and code words. I could not look directly into their faces, as if avoiding their gaze would shield me from the same inevitable fate.
Back then, film was precious—every exposure carefully rationed. In the few photographs I took, shadows dominate the frame, the interplay of light and darkness reflecting not just the environment but the turbulence within me. I wasn’t ready to face death—not theirs, and certainly not my own.
View: I can’t believe what I am seeing! 🇮🇳 Varanasi
A Conversation That Lingered
I remember a particular conversation—not the exact words, but the feeling it left behind. Sitting on the steps by the river, watching bodies burn and devotees bathe in the sacred waters—death and life intertwined, inseparable—we spoke with a kind Indian gentleman. With patience and conviction, he explained that Indians are superior to us, Westerners, because they possess something far more enriching than Western materialism—a deep, fundamental knowing that we don’t understand.
I clearly remember my puzzlement and awe, like a snapchat etched in my mind, one I return to often, still trying to grasp its meaning.
More about my first tour of India in 1982
A Lesson in Presence
About fifteen years ago, my ex-wife’s closest friend was diagnosed with terminal cancer—the kind that leaves little room for hope, only for time to unfold as it will. From her hospital bed in Israel, she called my ex-wife daily, their conversations stretching for hours, weaving together memories, laughter, and the quiet knowing that each call could be the last.
One day, I picked up the phone. I don’t remember exactly what I said—only that it was all wrong. I fumbled, trying to soothe, fix, and deny the inevitable. The words stumbled out:
“Oh, you’re going to get better.”
Even as I said it, I knew it was a lie. A lie told not for her, but for myself—for my own discomfort, for my unwillingness to face the rawness of what was happening. I regret that moment. I wish I had said something more genuine.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you for your friendship.”
“Thank you for the laughter, for the stories, for being part of my life.”
I know she would have appreciated that. I know I would have been left with fewer regrets.
Sitting in the Questions
Looking back on Varanasi, on that phone call, and now, on the losses of COVID times, I don’t claim to have answers. If anything, the older I get, the less I am certain of.
For the Hindus, death is a transformation of energy, a passage rather than an ending. I don’t know if that is true, but I find comfort in the idea. Maybe death is not a void but a continuation, an unraveling of the self into something larger.
I think of Bill W., the founder of Alcoholics Anonymous, who once wrote:
“You are asking yourself, as all of us must: Who am I? Where am I? Whence do I go? The process of enlightenment is usually slow. But, in the end, our seeking always brings a finding. These great mysteries are, after all, enshrined in complete simplicity.”
And perhaps, that is enough. To sit in the questions, rather than rush toward answers. To acknowledge death not as an enemy, but as a part of life’s rhythm. And to remind myself, when the time comes—whether for those I love or for myself—to be fully present, to speak gratitude instead of fear.
Maybe that is the real lesson.
February 2020