This past spring, my husband and I took our niece on a trip to visit colleges in Southern California. One of our stops was the University of California, San Diego. Perched on a hill in beautiful La Jolla, CA, the school is like a small modern city. The architecture is striking, and throughout the campus are landscaped courtyards and groves of eucalyptus that create a spacious container for learning.
We wandered through the campus, buzzing with students. Some were hurrying to class, while others sat in the well-manicured open spaces, laughing with friends, laptops out and notebooks open. There was a feeling of purpose everywhere. It was vibrant. Alive. Full of possibility.
Somewhere in the middle of our tour, I caught myself thinking, “When I’m young again, this is where I’ll come to school.”
The thought arrived so organically that I almost believed it. For a brief moment, some part of me imagined that time might reverse itself. That somehow I’d wake up in my twenties and get to begin again.
The Buddha had a word for this tendency of the mind. He called it avijjā. This Pāli word is often translated as ignorance, but not the kind that comes from lacking knowledge. Avijjā is a fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of reality. It is losing sight of what we already know to be true: that everything is marked by anicca, impermanence.
Time marches on. Our bodies age. Children grow up. Relationships change. Every moment dissolves as soon as it arrives. Yet the mind continues to imagine that we can return to the past or hold on to what is constantly changing.
Moments of avijjā still visit me in various forms—I have yet to reach enlightenment. But there was a period around my fortieth birthday when they became something more. Thoughts about aging plagued me. I’d catch my reflection in a mirror and feel startled by the face looking back at me. In shoulder stand, I would close my eyes so I didn’t have to see the loss of elasticity in my skin, the visible reminders that my body was changing. Maybe if I eliminated sugar, tried another cleanse, or faithfully applied retinol every night, I could somehow slow the passage of time. Intellectually, I knew none of these things could stop aging, but some part of my mind kept trying to negotiate with impermanence.
Eventually, I realized that I wasn’t really afraid of wrinkles or gray hair. I was confronting mortality. Aging had become the way my mind was brushing up against the reality that this life, too, will come to an end. That I am going to die.
Beneath those thoughts was an undercurrent of grief. There was grief in watching my younger self disappear. Grief in knowing there are moments I will never return to. Grief in recognizing that seasons of my life have already passed by, never to return. All of this was a reminder of the
larger letting go that awaits us all.
While there are many traditional contemplations on death, the practice that has been most meaningful for me is the Five Remembrances, a set of five reflections that the Buddha encouraged his followers to contemplate daily. These reflections come from the Upajjhatthana Sutta, which is part of the Pāli Canon—the foundational body of scripture in the Theravāda Buddhist tradition.
The Five Remembrances:
- I am subject to aging. I have not gone beyond aging.
- I am subject to illness. I have not gone beyond illness.
- I am subject to death. I have not gone beyond death.
- I will be separated from everything and everyone I hold dear.
- I am the owner of my actions, heir to my actions, born of my actions, related to my actions, supported by my actions. Whatever actions I do, for good or for ill, of those I will be the heir.
These reflections are not intended to be morbid or make us fearful. They are intended to do just the opposite. They help us cultivate acceptance and freedom by remembering the fundamental truths of life and learning not to take them personally. They also aren’t intended to make us care less about life or become stoic or detached. Rather, we learn to meet life more wholeheartedly and deepen our appreciation for each moment we are given.
The first four of these contemplations point to anicca, or impermanence. We are all subject to aging, sickness, death, and separation from everyone and everything we hold dear. The final contemplation turns our attention to karma, reminding us that the question is not whether life will end, but how we choose to live in the face of that truth. If our time here is limited, how do we want to spend it? What do we want to give our energy and attention to? How do we want to show up for the people we love and for this precious life we’ve been given?
It took a bit of time for the fruits of this practice to take root in me. Sometimes working with the Remembrances would bring up powerful emotions. Other times, I would find myself detached and unmoved as I contemplated them. But there were also times when I would finish my sitting practice and notice that something had softened. The self-critical voice in my head was a little quieter. I felt more vitality in my system. Conversations with others felt like they were coming from a place of deep connection. My eyes seemed to see the world with a greater appreciation for its magic and beauty. And because the practice was transformative, I developed an urgency to keep practicing.
The Five Remembrances have now become a regular companion in my meditation practice. When I feel like I am struggling with change, grief, challenging relationships, or feeling consumed with busyness and getting ahead, I return to the Five Remembrances.
To practice the Five Remembrances, you might begin by sitting quietly and bringing each reflection to mind, one at a time. I suggest repeating them slowly several times to allow them to move from something you understand intellectually into something you can truly feel into. Notice what sensations, images, emotions, and thoughts arise as you work with each of the phrases. You might begin with just a few minutes in contemplation. As your capacity grows, gradually spend more time with each reflection. The invitation is to meet whatever arises with kindness and curiosity.