The evocative scent of a human corpse, the passing of my Buddhist teacher, and the unfolding of bodhicitta — all part of my recent explorations.
Grief often arrives in small, unexpected moments, years after the initial loss. It ripples softly from the heart, like the lingering echo of a bell — strong at first, then gradually fading.
A few months ago, while reclining in my office chair during a break from tedious data entry, one of these ripples surfaced. I recalled a compassionate moment with the owners of the funeral home in the small town where we entrusted my daughter’s body for cremation. Their kindness, their gentle care of her dissolving form, has stayed with me. I vividly remembered the funeral parlor: the room’s details, the scents, the urns, the caskets. And I remember wanting to follow her body through that final door.
This memory, combined with a persistent dissatisfaction in my current work, spurred me to begin a new exploration. I began researching and speaking with people working with the dying and the dead, including my meditation teacher, Lama Linda, who has deeply influenced my journey in relation to dying and death. Inspired, I enrolled in a six-week hospice volunteer training program and arranged to begin job shadowing at a funeral home in view of a possible career change.
Doors seemed to open effortlessly to facilitate my explorations, but doubt still crept in.
“What am I doing?” I asked myself. Could I immerse myself in the world of death and grieving daily? Could I remain present and grounded in such an emotionally charged space? Why was I adding this to an already full plate? Yet, something deeper encouraged me. Perhaps there is a calling here—to understand human mortality and what it entails. Embalmer, mortician, funeral director, coroner? The charnel grounds. Hmm. There is a profound need for compassionate beings in these spaces. So, I decided to give it a try.
A week before my first job shadowing at the funeral home, my primary meditation teacher, Qapel, passed away. Time seemed to simultaneously speed up and slow down. My sangha was engulfed in grief, the rhythm of our community disrupted. One heart was gone, and others scrambled to find the beat. I offered support where I could and held on.
During that week, I witnessed my sangha prepare for Qapel’s passing. I was present when his body was brought back in a black Cadillac hearse and gently transferred to the shrine room. Like the day we said goodbye to my daughter, I was once again moved by the compassion of the funeral home staff, now woven into the collective memory of our teacher’s final days.
My first day at the funeral home was unforgettable—fittingly, the day before Halloween the same day the Clear Sky Sangha was scheduled to collect Qapel’s body for transfer to Seattle for terramation.
The funeral home staff held nothing back, determined to ensure I could handle the work. Within an hour, I was touching the dead, moving their bodies, and confronting the raw realities of this vocation—sights, smells and even sounds!
I unzipped a body bag in the hospital morgue to reveal a months-old autopsied body. The pungent odor arrested my senses, yet it wasn’t unfamiliar; it echoed memories of the bodies of my daughter and teacher. Rather than recoiling, I leaned into curiosity and exploration, silently visualizing Buddha Amitabha within the morgue cooler.
We transferred another body to the crematorium, where I saw the incinerator in action—the flames, the bones, the ash. Quietly, I recited Green Tara mantras.
Later, I helped dress a man who had died of cancer. His jaundiced, skeletal form and the purge from his mouth were stark reminders of mortality. I observed, offering silent bardo prayers.
The funeral home staff encouraged my curiosity, allowing me to inspect another body closely. Another deceased person, well cared for in life, had neatly trimmed nails and clean, moisturized feet—reminders of love and dignity even in death. It brought me back to Qapel, whose body still rested steps from me in the cooler in a pine box adorned with prayers, rainbows, and an outpouring of love.
How extraordinary it is to witness these moments that many avoid. Lessons in curiosity, reverence, respect, and compassion abound. How fortunate I am to intertwine this exploration of death and dying with my Dharma practice. The bardo prayers, introduced to me through these experiences, have become a lifelong mantra. I will never stop saying them… everyone dies.
Qapel’s death was a profound gift to me. His body is no longer confined to the funeral home cooler, and his being is no longer bound by physical form. His presence now walks beside me as I navigate life alongside the dead. This expansion of understanding and connection feels immense—not isolating or sorrowful. For that, I am deeply grateful.
Thus ye shall see, in all this fleeting world:
A star at dawn, a bubble in a stream;
A flash of lightning in a summer cloud,
A flickering lamp, a phantom, and a dream.
- The Diamond Sutra
Rasha
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