Dominance or Discovery?

Conversations with Death.

This world is meat tenderizing my heart. My country, the United States, is out of control, and we are not alone in that. Our collective ego is out of control. Our need to prevail, to dominate, to win, to accumulate wealth and power, even for billionaires who clearly have more than they need, threatens everyone and everything. Seems there’s no such thing as enough.

Recently, I’ve been opening my heart and asking what I need to understand about death. At first, this was an exercise of discovery - for writing. My main character has Death as an ally, and I wanted to understand her arc better. What would she learn if Death were her teacher? Very quickly, this became about me. Writing and living simply won’t stay in separate lanes.

Here’s the first thing Death said: every time I’m even a little worried, it’s her I'm terrified of. When I look out at the world around me, I see the results from our worship of the fear of death. She assures me that what we give our attention to is worship, the only kind there is. And yet, she also assures me, death is a friend. I’ve decided to trust her.

Where would we be without her? she wants to know. Who would soften our hard hearts, interrupt our certainty, and show us what really matters with such enormous patience? Will we continue to ignore her good counsel and try to exert our petty dominance, or can we listen with our skin while allowing Death to whisper love songs through our hearts? Everything seems both simple and impossible when Death speaks. What would it take for us to surrender like that? I shudder to think. She will win in the end, though. She always does. Perhaps that’s why she’s so patient.

Since it’s so much easier to listen than exert force, I don’t know why I still have a hard time giving up control. Isn’t listening and waiting for something to rise up inside me the simplest thing in the world? Isn’t exerting force the hardest? What is easier than listening?

Death also said I have to admit I don’t know anything, which, if I’m being honest, is genuinely terrifying. It’s the willingness to be vulnerable and helpless. I think that’s what faith really is, not a blind belief in some god’s myth. We have to embody it, this understanding that we don’t know. Then, we have to be willing to address the obvious issues that are right on the surface.

In the United States, these will be tough conversations. If we could enter them from a place of not-knowing, I’d put my faith in us, the presence around us, the love that we are, which is holding all of us. We would have to admit some terrible truths and experience some painful feelings, though. We might even have to ask for forgiveness.

The largesse of our hearts might move us to offer a redress almost as expensive as a war. We might hear our own voice offer something as outrageous as restitution or even reparations. We might create a pathway for immigrants to succeed, thereby ensuring that we thrive, too. Our compassionate hearts might want to give people the shirts off our own backs, for crying out loud. What if we truly let the “other” in? Listened to their story and felt their pain? We might take home every waif living on the street. We might want to give them healthcare, pay their medical debt, or send them to college - out of love. It’s like Ram Dass said: “We don’t have fear in our hearts. We have fear of our hearts.” You never know. Our hearts might give away the whole store. Remember during 9/11 when New Yorkers did just that?

Ram Dass also said, “The minute you don’t want power, you’ll have more than you ever dreamed possible.” I think Death would agree with that.

People who pursue dominance end up at war, either literally, to the mass destruction of limbs and livelihoods, or in the more mundane contests over whose worldview will prevail that we see in personal relationships like marriage. Listening and responding truthfully takes just a smidge less courage than allowing your country to send you out on a soul-destroying mission to kill other people or be killed yourself in a war. So, why can’t we just stop? Death says we are terrified of what would happen if we did.

Another thing Death said is that the body never lies. I can listen inside myself for what the body is saying. If I don’t want to agree to something, my body will know it. If there is some detail bothering me, I’ll find the words in my body to express my misgivings. When my mind overrides my body, I’m in trouble. This makes me think about how willing Abraham was to sacrifice his son as a burnt offering. For what? To show his obedience? To a god of war? If I were in that situation and asked my body? It would tell me to find another god. And where has the god of the three Abrahamic religions gotten us? Look around. We override our bodies for all kinds of terrible reasons, and of course, with appalling results.

While I was asking Death why I continue to bear down even when I know better, she offered this gem: I don’t know what anything is for. That’s lesson 25 from A Course in Miracles. Decades ago, I was a teacher of ACIM, but I’ve rarely thought about it since then. But this is the second conversation in a row where Death has brought up one of the early lessons. Last time, the lesson was: I’m never upset for the reason I think. And before that, the very first time I sat down and had a heart-to-heart with Death, she said: Can you admit that you don’t know anything?

Yes. Yes, I can. My eldest brother didn’t speak to his only daughter for 16 years and three grandchildren over something she said when she was a teenager. She tried, and I tried to create a reconciliation, but he wouldn’t agree to it. He didn’t relent until he was in the hospital, dying. She said there was a light in the whole room, a gentle love that held them both. I would say that death was in the room. What was the first thing he said after all that time? “I’m so sorry.” Then, they cried and laughed and told each other love stories. He was at death’s door. He passed two days later, and she said it was beautiful. He was in the room, around them, holding them. Before he died, my brother wasn’t capable of that.

The other side of the fear of death for me is the longing for obliteration, for non-existence, for putting down the burden of striving. That’s an ego death, too. So, I offered my willingness.

I got sick, violently ill. I saw the death wish, felt the helplessness. All these rigid structures in my mind melted from my flesh. It wasn’t a long illness, only a flu, but it took me straight to helplessness, the place I’d rather die than visit. I curled up on the cool bathroom tiles, and even though my meditations on death might have opened the door for this illness, I’m glad, difficult though it was. Because I think our overriding task on this earth is to develop a strong ego and then let it go. When I die, even a small death like that one, the ego effaces so more of me can come into the room. The only thing to survive that fire was a longing for connection, a longing to love and to delight people.

So, will I stop asking in my artistic life what I should know about death? No. I’m not afraid to ask, even if I still have a fear of walking through that doorway. I don’t think asking to learn will hasten the day, though it may provide teachable moments. I don’t think there is a greater mystery on earth than this one.

This world is spinning out of control. It’s very clear we don’t know anything. We are trusting the wrong people and allowing them to do terrible things. In these circumstances, it would be a relief to admit we don’t know anything and let someone like Death, with an overview, take charge of us. Then we could sit down with our perceived enemy, open our hearts, and listen. Don’t speak unless spoken through. Make sure our body verifies anything we might say.

We could enter Discovery, the antidote to Dominance. In discovery, you are there to find out. By definition, you don’t know. Then we could invite Death into the room to see what she has to say. Perhaps we could agree on the most obvious things, like a moratorium on killing. Sending food to those who are starving. We could sit down and gaze into the abyss together and wait for something true to bubble up. I’m afraid this is the function of war and disaster. Maybe maturity is being willing to let go of the need for disaster before we are willing to listen.

I’m at the very beginning of my exploration. Since we all have experience with death, I’d love to know what yours taught you.