The Five Invitations: Discovering What Death Can Teach Us About Living Fully

by Frank Ostaseski

The ability to watch our inner dramas without getting lost in judgment or reactivity is essential to spiritual growth. When we try to push away difficult emotions or the bodily sensations and states of mind that accompany them, we actually keep them in place. When we lock them in, we don’t give them the space they need to unfold and reveal themselves, to show us what they have to teach.

My friend Caroline told me that the one thing that did help after her husband’s death was a friend who called her every week to invite her out to dinner. The friend said, “I know you may not want to go, and it’s okay to say no. But I want you to know that I’m here when you need me. I will call again next Monday.”

Rituals can help. I usually recommend that people find some place in their house to create an altar. Place on that altar a photo and some special objects of the person who has died. Spend some time there each day. Talk to the person, tell them how you’re feeling, maybe spend some time in meditation or in prayer. Use this moment to extend your wish to the person who has passed that they may be free of suffering, that they may be touched by compassion.

When someone close to us dies, we experience a tremendous sense of loss. At first, it’s like reaching for a hand that has always been there, only to discover that it is no longer available. Gradually we see that the relationship continues. The person is in some way internalized, and you can carry them with you wherever you go. They might surprise you when a memory of them shows up when you least expect it. You can talk to them, they can talk to you, they can be with you, and you can be with them. You are not crazy because you feel the presence of your loved one in your heart.

This person has a body, heart, and mind, just like me. This person worries and gets frightened, just like me. This person is trying their best to navigate life, just like me. This person is a fellow human being, just like me.

May this person have the strength and support to face the difficulties in life. May this person be free from suffering and its causes. May this person be peaceful and happy. May this person be loved.

If I cut my left hand, my right one reaches out spontaneously to care for it. It doesn’t ask if it is deserving of my attention, or a member of my same church, or if it shares my political views. Nor does it worry about becoming overly involved and getting swept up in suffering. One hand just embraces the other with love and compassion. Acting altruistically on behalf of another person is just like this.

It’s useful to draw a distinction between empathy and compassion. Empathy is this capacity to feel as the other person. And as such, it is a necessary and essential glue in forming relationships and social networks.

Yet we need to balance and regulate the initial empathetic response in order not to confuse ourselves with the other person. This is particularly important for those who face continued exposure to suffering, such as nurses, teachers, counselors, therapists, and first responders. Otherwise, empathetic concern can easily slip into empathetic overload, which can have a negative impact on our health and well-being, leading to exhaustion, isolation, burnout, and even selfish behaviors such as acting out on others to relieve our personal empathetic distress.

It means entering the private perceptual world of the other and becoming thoroughly at home in it. It involves being sensitive, moment to moment, to the changing felt meanings which flow in this other person, to the fear or rage or tenderness or confusion or whatever he or she is experiencing. It means temporarily living in the other’s life, moving about in it delicately without making judgments; it means sensing meanings of which he or she is scarcely aware, but not trying to uncover totally unconscious feelings, since this would be too threatening. It includes communicating your sensings of the person’s world as you look with fresh and unfrightened eyes at elements of which he or she is fearful. To be with another in this way means that for the time being, you lay aside your own views and values in order to enter another’s world without prejudice. In some sense it means that you lay aside your self; this can only be done by persons who are secure enough in themselves that they know they will not get lost in what may turn out to be the strange or bizarre world of the other, and that they can comfortably return to their own world when they wish.

Taming our riotously active minds is a bit like training a wild horse—not easy, but not impossible. Gradually, the tamed horse calms down and can be put to useful work. Then we can enjoy some degree of balance and rest. When you’re able to do this in a relationship—whether with someone who is dying, or your boss, spouse, or child—you will find that you have a capacity to experience life in an entirely different way. You can see the causes and conditions of the situation and skillfully interact with them in order to alleviate your own and others’ suffering. You can be the calm in the storm.

It may be necessary—skillful, even—to shift some of the causes and conditions of your life deliberately, rather than just floating along as a hapless passenger. I’m not saying you shouldn’t take action. You may need to leave the job with the abusive boss, or get help for an addiction. But when you’re on the surface of your mind, all you can do is react. You’re at the total mercy of the storm, being tossed about like a tiny rowboat in a wild sea. When you travel into the calm depths, you can act from a place of wisdom and compassion.

When I am withfamily and friends or at the bedside I try to create a warm, open, and nonjudgmental space in which whatever needs to happen, can happen. This is best done if I can first become a refuge to myself. I can pause and call on the better part of my nature as a shelter from my habitual defensiveness, reactivity, or neurotic tendencies that cause me to be overwhelmed by the chaos surrounding me. We cannot always eliminate difficult conditions, but we can use our acquired skills to transform obstacles into opportunities. We can be that one calm person in the room.

This is the real paradox of the spiritual life: that which can save us also can drive us mad. Don’t get me wrong. Seeking has a place in this world. It isn’t all bad. In order to begin our spiritual journeys, we must be motivated by seeking a better life—deeper connections with ourselves and others; explanations for our existential questions; relief from our pain and suffering. Yet too often our quests for peace and fulfillment get entangled with striving. We read books, seek out teachers, and go looking for our tribes. We accumulate practices, beliefs, and strategies as we seek solutions. We continuously search for answers outside of ourselves when in fact we already have everything we need, here, within us.

Wholesome desire does not feel agitated. In fact, it removes the restlessness because we stop looking outside ourselves for approval or satisfaction. It feels more like love. We love our true nature, we love presence, and because we so love it, we want to be close to it, to get intimate with it. It’s a kind of love affair with truth. It’s like when we are with our partners, we long to see them with as few clothes on as possible. We want them as they are, naked. Just so in spiritual life, we long to see the naked truth, unobstructed by preferences or the clothing of our treasured beliefs. “I am here now. We are here now.”

That choice, the only choice we have really, is to be open or closed. Open to what is unfolding or selective in our acceptance of it. Actually, I don’t even like the word acceptance—it has too many moral overtones. The word allow is better suited to what I am describing. It’s a softer word, a word that takes us beyond the concepts of accepting and rejecting altogether. It releases us from the whole idea of comparison, preference for or against, hope and fear. It is a true resting place.

Seeking doesn’t end by finding. Seeking just ends. It ends when our awareness comes to rest in the peaceful depths of our essential nature. Then, like the sweeping monk, we can go about our daily activities while still functioning from a place of inner calm.

A mind is like a parachute. It doesn’t work if it is not open. —THOMAS ROBERT DEWAR, REPEATED BY FRANK ZAPPA

People with Alzheimer’s or dementia are often unable to control their own behavior, even when they are trying as hard as they can. This means that neither you nor they can prevent problems from arising. However, the attitude that you bring to the encounter can impact their behavior. Their well-being often depends upon your well-being. If you are in a hurry or if you are irritable, people with dementia are likely to sense these feelings. Frequently, like small children, they become anxious and resistant. Your calm presence, accompanied by compassionate touch, can often provide a sense of order in the midst of chaos, a replacement for the internal structure they are missing. It’s almost always reassuring to just sit quietly with people in this state.

When I spend time with people who are living with dementia or Alzheimer’s, I make an effort to look past the surface and see the whole individual. I sit without doing, making space to simply be present without the customary busyness or setting of agendas. I strive to meet people with acceptance, listening from the heart, withholding any judgments about their mannerisms or confusion. I cultivate don’t know mind. From that place, I find that I can enjoy the often playful exchanges of language without worrying about logic, literal interpretations, or if what is being said is correct. For a little while, the gods of reason and rationality do not rule our interaction, and I find that quite relaxing. I also embrace the intense underlying emotions that often arise, as torrid and unpredictable as the fierce winds of a hurricane.

And if, like me, you sometimes mess up and find yourself out in a parking lot overcome with anxiety, please be kind to yourself. We are only human, and we all make mistakes. Take a few deep breaths. Feel your body again. In caring for someone who is confused, we face our deepest fears. This can prove emotionally draining and physically exhausting. It is a time for mercy. Cultivating forgiveness and acceptance of ourselves is what allows us to extend the same to others.

“The path is right beneath your feet.”

When we don’t know where we are going, we have to remain fully present, carefully feeling our way inch by inch, moment by moment. We have to stay close to our actual experiences. When we don’t know, anything is possible because we are not limited by old habits of thinking or others’ points of view. We see the bigger picture. Not knowing leaves room for wisdom to arise, for the situation itself to inform us.