Our Precious Human Life & Death 

I traveled to Costa Rica, where I was scheduled to teach a retreat at Blue Spirit. I went two weeks early to have some personal retreat time in a tiny fishing village called San Juanillo, not far from the Buddhist teacher Lama Tsultrim Allione’s house. I’d planned this trip for months, dreaming of having time to meditate, swim, and write. But on the plane to Costa Rica, I developed a high fever. Over the next six days, I endured a severe undiagnosed illness. No doctors were nearby. My doctor told me over the phone that she thought it might be Covid-19 or the flu, while locals suspected dengue. Lama Tsultrim became alarmed and found a doctor I could text that night.  

As I lay in bed in pain, I felt myself sinking. I was teetering on the edge of coma, starting to lose consciousness. But it was a gentle descent, like a snowflake drifting into a velvety darkness that felt like the end of this life. I experienced complete surrender into the peacefulness of it. In that peace, a thought appeared: I’m seventy-eight. I’ve lived a relatively long life filled with dharma and love. This realization brought a sense of liberation. There was no fear. I felt a little sad for my husband, Jack, and for my daughter, but it was okay.

“Our miserable karma becomes our wonderful dharma.”

Then, it was as if my consciousness had two tracks. One part surrendered to the peaceful release, while another part seemed to hold a simple but clear message: Not so fast. You’ve been given the gift of awareness, a precious human birth. This is important. Don’t let it go so easily. This felt like remembering something I already knew.

To be born a human being on earth is an extraordinary opportunity. It’s not about anything any of us have done or achieved, whom we’ve helped or harmed. It’s extraordinary just because we exist, because we were born and are human, gifted with awareness and the ability to love.

Finally, a doctor arrived, examined me, and arranged for a five-hour, siren-screaming ambulance ride, accompanied by a doctor who kept me awake and even made me smile through the pain. When we arrived at Hospital CIMA in San Jose I was near death and was treated for septic shock. Throughout the ordeal in the hospital, even with excellent care from medical staff, I felt extremely vulnerable. I tried to stay grateful, but honestly, I was miserable. I share this because it’s real. It doesn’t mean your practice isn’t deep or true if the support of loving awareness and the solace of mindfulness seem unreachable at times. Sometimes, especially at night, I was in too much pain to access them. Nights in the hospital are particularly lonely, and sleep is nearly impossible with constant interruptions—necessary, of course—but I just wanted rest.

My favorite activity while lying in the hospital bed was something that orangutans do, called “fruit gazing.” They stare at trees, scanning the foliage for hidden fruit. They watch with a kind of reverie as they forage. I did the same, staring at nothing in particular. This “fruit gazing” became my daily meditation—letting my mind meander around aimlessly as I stared into space. It felt peaceful, if not exactly focused, like open-eyed meditation.

After about ten days of countless medical interventions, it became clear that my body had a future. And then, thoughts began to appear: When will I go home? Do I even care about going home? Surprisingly, I didn’t. I thought about all the time I’d spent at Home Depot over the last two years, renovating our condo that had been damaged by fire. I’d put so much energy into making that place livable, and yet, lying in the hospital, I wondered if those hours at Home Depot had been a waste of time. In the light of death, it felt meaningless, and that was unsettling. But as I drifted in my “fruit gazing,” I watched dust motes sparkling in a beam of sunlight, and an insight came to me: Time is never wasted when we’re conscious and alive, aware and present. 

I saw that the content of our actions—the things we’re doing—doesn’t matter nearly as much as simply being awake and aware. My time in Home Depot had not been filled with profound moments, but I’d been engaged and alive, and that was enough. Awareness and presence are what matters, and wherever you are, awareness is always with you. It’s like a patient parent, waiting for you when you’re distracted or lost in thought.

When I left the hospital, I stayed with a Swiss woman named Renata, who had a beautiful home by the edge of a forest. There was lush greenery everywhere, and off the kitchen was an open patio with a small couch where I’d lie for hours. I sensed that my recovery wouldn’t depend solely on medical care. As I stared at the big, tropical leaves, I felt as if their energy was helping me heal. Renata also had a sweet gray cat named Sylvia. Sylvia would lie down on my bandages, directly over the wound, and fall asleep. It felt like this cat was healing me too. It became clear that life takes care of life.

Time passed, and here I am, deeply grateful to be here. But I’ve had to learn to rest. I was raised to be an achiever, to stay productive—our culture reinforces that; it’s a kind of tyranny of productivity. This drive can feel oppressive when you truly need rest, as I did. Jack kept telling me, “You’re getting ahead of your skis” whenever I’d do too much and then crash. Eventually, I learned to rest, and now I love it. I don’t know if I’ll ever return to being as productive as before—and I don’t mind.

I used to think of surrender as something I’d have to do reluctantly, like surrendering after losing a war. But now I see it as simply letting things be as they are, making peace with the present. There’s real freedom in that. This experience continues to teach me that who we are matters more than what we do. Just being alive is a gift, even though there are moments when it doesn’t feel like that.

Recently, a friend recommended a book of Tibetan teachings by Sera Khandro, a great woman lama from the last century. The book, translated by Christina Monson, became particularly meaningful to me because Christina was a dear friend of Lama Tsultrim’s, and she received a sudden, terminal diagnosis a few months before she died in 2023. It’s poignant to me that a seemingly healthy person much younger than me had to go through this.

In a podcast Christina recorded shortly before her death, she talked about the cultural messaging that implies you’re a failure if you aren’t healthy, even though physical discomfort can serve as a transformative tool, intensifying the clarity of bright, luminous awareness. Many of us have glimpses of this in our meditation practice—how pain can concentrate the mind, keeping us present with experience.

Christina pointed out that she was not the only person to get something she didn’t want. This is a teaching for all of us, a way of grounding ourselves in the shared nature of difficult emotions. It isn’t only terminal illness that makes us feel the depths of regret, grief, or anger. When these feelings arise, we can remind ourselves, I’m not the only person who feels this—this is what it feels like to be a human being who is mourning, furious, or whatever it might be. By recognizing this, we release ourselves from the isolation that often surrounds these emotions, connecting instead to everyone who has ever felt that way. This shifts the energy of the experience.

Feel the feelings. This is something many of us prefer not to hear, but it’s a path to connection. Christina explained that having physical challenges or tough emotions isn’t a sign of something going wrong with us; it’s a natural part of having a human body made up of the elements. It’s inevitable, and that connects us to all of life. 

We’re naturally drawn to celebrating life’s expansions—new beginnings, births, anything that feels like growth. Those moments are so easy to rejoice in. But life’s contractions—feelings of failure, depression, or grief—while harder to welcome, are equally vital. This, too, is our practice: embracing each moment as precious, even when it’s challenging. Life’s unpredictability is part of that. None of us knows what a day or a night will bring, and recognizing that truth brings gratitude for the simple gifts of wellness and ease. It’s like Thich Nhat Hanh’s teaching about the happiness of the non-toothache. Not being in pain is an often overlooked but wonderful feeling. Small moments of ease, however ordinary, are worth savoring.

In our practice, we work with the four foundations of mindfulness, which include not only awareness of the body, but also awareness of the “feeling tone” of experience—whether it’s pleasant, unpleasant, or neutral. The unpleasant moments are easy to recognize and therefore practice with. The more neutral moments often get ignored. Yet these moments offer glimpses of peace, equanimity, and stillness, like the gap between the breath. They’re dharma doorways into a moment of freedom. 

To come to terms with, accept, and even be at peace with whatever’s happening, no matter how rough or dangerous the circumstances may feel, is something we can cultivate with practice. Over time, if we hang in there with sustained practice, we might reach a place where we accept misfortune with steadiness and grace, and even find joy in moments. This openness brings a sensitivity and increased brightness to life, where we no longer fear the ten thousand joys or the ten thousand sorrows. And while it may seem strange to fear joy, sometimes we do. For some, joy carries an underlying fear that it might be fleeting, like waiting for the other shoe to drop. But we don’t have to be afraid. A life grounded in practice—a life of listening to, honoring, and freeing the heart—becomes a deeply meaningful one.

Our miserable karma becomes our wonderful dharma. We have the same content of experience, but the magic of awareness performs spiritual alchemy. The contents of our consciousness—whatever is present in any moment, pleasant or unpleasant—become the raw material of our awakening. Even when our experience is clouded by afflictions, or hindrances, as soon as we realize we’re caught up in them, there is some freedom.

The bodhisattva vow in Zen begins, “Sentient beings are numberless. I vow to free them all.” It’s a commitment not just to others, but to all the beings within ourselves, all the different parts of who we are. These sentient beings within—the many facets of our heart and mind—are freed through acknowledgment and acceptance. In allowing all the parts of ourselves to be as they are, they change. 

Ultimately, when we face our death, what comes to the forefront isn’t so much our love for specific people or memories, though love is definitely present. Instead, what stands out is our ability to access appreciation and gratitude for the love and life we’ve had. When you’re dying, you have to say goodbye to yourself and your world. This is what we practice for.