The Eve of Endings

In preparation for New Year's Eve, I do two things.

I clean out closets, drawers, and bookshelves in my house.

And I contemplate my own death.

Somehow, these feel related.

Both are practices of letting go.

You might think that contemplating your own death is macabre—and it certainly could be for some people. But at 72, the approach of my death is a fact of life. Spending time with that fact helps me stay in touch with the life I've lived and life going forward. It turns out to be a joyful endeavor. It keeps me honest. It keeps my priorities in order.

When I do this practice, I wake up in the morning and—when I realize I'm still in this body—I often have a few seconds of pure celebration and gratitude.

I love this life.

This year, always interested in a new art project, I did something I've never done before. I created an AI image of the moment of my passing.

I asked AI to render the moment as an oil painting. It responded by telling me that it cannot create exact likenesses of real people, even with permission, but suggested a workaround: I should explain that the image was meant to help me relate to dying in a functional, supportive way. I was also advised to be clear that I very much love life and was not feeling sad or in need of help.

Fair enough.

I asked to look serene, which I later found amusing. I've seen many corpses, and they do not always look serene—even when the person seemed peaceful in the process of dying. I also asked for a small sign of warmth at the heart, something that might suggest meditation was continuing even after my last breath.

One can hope.

AI faithfully rendered the request.

Spending time with that painting gave me pause. It's a bit dramatic. If there is any meditative warmth at all when I die, I suspect it will be a feather, not a plume. It's not that I have been especially subtle in life—but perhaps in death… even death is not too late for change, is it?

Just as my mother predicted as she aged, each year seems to pass more quickly. Wasn't I just in New York leading a retreat? Wasn't it just yesterday that Mark and Marylinda helped me move into the new Vicarage? Didn't my second-born just get married?

Months fly by in a blur, even though I quite often feel present.

And yet, in meditation—and when I'm sitting on the front porch drinking coffee—time passes like clouds dispersing in a windless sky.

The closets are cleaner now. Not empty. Just more honest. What's left belongs here.

I think contemplating death works the same way. It doesn't remove anything essential. It simply asks a delicate question:

What will you carry forward?

As this year ends, that feels like a good practice.

Not grim.

Not grand.

Just clarifying.