As a Zen student, I’ve become so accustomed to talking about death, that when someone recently suggested I, “not talk like that,” I was a little surprised.

So. Let me just get something out of the way before I go any further.

We are all going to die.

Okay. Whew. Glad that’s out.

I mentioned this to my Zen teacher the other day and, of course, it prompted us to start talking about Japanese death poems. He quoted some of his favorites. One of them, if I remember correctly (which I may not be), goes a little something like this:

The sharp-edged sword, unsheathed,
Cuts through the void-
Within the raging fire
A cool breeze blows.

(taken from Japanese Death Poems)

I couldn’t possibly imagine having my head severed by a sword. And I certainly can’t imagine writing a poem about it. But I have to wonder, what will happen to me when I die? When will it happen and how? Maybe it won’t be by a sword (at least, I hope not), but someday, somehow, it will happen.

Until then, what to do?

Before I could give any more thought to the matter, I looked up to see my Zen teacher with his knees propped into the seat of an office chair, wheeling around the room smiling and laughing.