I	make	no	promises,
but	certainly	you	are	desperate	enough.”
As	if	forgetting	her,	Ramana	began	to	play	on	his	flute	and	wandered
down	a	nearby	deer	path. Savitri	stood	for	a	moment,	dismayed	and	confused,
but	as	the	notes	of	the	flute	faded	into	the	forest,	she	had	no	choice	but	to	run
after	them. THE	MIRACLE	OF	DEATH
Every	life	is	framed	by	two	mysteries. Only	one	of	them,	birth,	is	considered
a	miracle. If	you	are	a	religious	person,	birth	brings	a	new	soul	into	the	world
from	its	home	with	God. If	you	are	not,	the	miracle	is	that	a	single	fertilized
cell	in	a	mother’s	womb	can	divide	and	subdivide	again	a	mere	fifty	times	to
produce	a	complete	new	person. A	blob	of	protein	and	water	somehow	knows
how	to	shape	itself	into	eyes,	hands,	skin,	and	a	brain. This	nine-month	transformation	keeps	accelerating,	so	that	by	the	end	a
million	new	brain	cells	are	appearing	every	minute. At	the	moment	the
newborn	emerges,	like	a	space	shuttle	undocking	from	the	mother	ship,	every
system	that	needs	to	function	independently—heart,	lungs,	brain,	and
digestive	tract—suddenly	realizes	that	the	moment	is	now	and	not	a	moment
later. Organs	detach	from	total	dependence	on	the	mother,	and	with
astonishing	precision	they	begin	to	act	as	if	they	had	always	been	on	their
own. In	a	split	second	life	chooses	to	live. The	other	mystery	that	occurs,	usually	decades	later,	death,	is	very
different. It	brings	to	an	end	all	the	things	birth	struggled	so	hard	to	achieve. A	thready	heartbeat	crosses	an	invisible	line	and	becomes	still. The	bellows	of
the	lungs,	which	have	pumped	some	700	million	times,	refuse	to	pump	even
once	more. A	hundred	billion	neurons	cease	to	fire;	a	trillion	billion	cells
throughout	the	body	receive	the	news	that	their	mission	is	over. Yet	this
abrupt	finale	is	as	much	a	mystery	as	birth,	for	at	the	moment	life	ends,	99%
of	our	cells	are	typically	still	functional,	and	all	3	billion	codons,	the
individual	letters	in	the	book	of	human	DNA,	remain	intact. Death	comes	without	the	miraculous	coordination	of	birth. Some	cells
don’t	even	get	the	news	for	some	time. If	the	dead	person	is	revived	within
ten	minutes	or	so,	before	the	brain	gets	permanently	
damaged
	by	hypoxia,	the
body’s	machinery	will	go	back	to	work	as	if	nothing	had	happened. Indeed,
death	is	such	a	blurry	event	that	eyelids	can	continue	to	blink	ten	or	twelve
times	after	a	head	is	severed	from	a	body	(a	grisly	fact	discovered	at	the	foot
of	the	guillotine	during	the	French	Revolution). Religion	doesn’t	consider	death	a	miracle. In	Christianity	death	is	linked
to	sin	and	Satan—the	Western	equivalent	of	the	Lord	of	Death. Death	is	the
enemy,	and	God	saves	us	from	its	clutches. But	with	God’s	help	dying	is	the
doorway	to	a	far	more	important	event—the	beginning	of	the	afterlife. To	the
religious	mind	death	brings	the	presence	of	God	near,	and	witnesses
throughout	history	have	claimed	to	actually	see	the	soul	depart. (Not	all	ofthese	witnesses	are	religious. I	know	of	a	prominent	psychiatrist	whose
atheism	was	deeply	shaken	in	medical	school	when	he	entered	a	cancer
patient’s	room	at	the	exact	moment	of	death	and	saw	a	ghostly,	luminous	form
emerge	from	the	body	and	disappear.) There	is	a	persistent	legend	that	21
grams	of	mass	disappear	when	we	die,	which	must	be	the	weight	of	the	soul. In	fact,	no	such	change	occurs. Whatever	it	is	that	occurs	at	death,	I	believe	it	deserves	to	be	called	a
miracle. The	miracle,	ironically,	is	that	we	don’t	die. The	cessation	of	the
body	is	an	illusion,	and	like	a	magician	sweeping	aside	a	curtain,	the	soul
reveals	what	lies	beyond. Mystics	have	long	understood	the	joyousness	of	this
moment. As	the	great	Persian	poet	Rumi	puts	it,	“Death	is	our	wedding	with
eternity.”	But	not	only	mystics	have	seen	through	death’s	illusion. The
eminent	twentieth-century	philosopher	Ludwig	Wittgenstein	wrote,	“For	life
in	the	present	there	is	no	death. Death	is	not	an	event	in	life. It	is	not	a	fact	in
the	world.”
I	believe	that	death	accomplishes	the	following	miraculous	things:
It	replaces	time	with	timelessness. It	stretches	the	boundaries	of	space	to	infinity. It	reveals	the	source	of	life. It	brings	a	new	way	of	knowing	that	lies	beyond	the	reach	of	the	five
senses. It	reveals	the	underlying	intelligence	that	organizes	and	sustains	creation
(for	the	moment	we	won’t	use	the	word	“God,”	for	in	many	cultures	a
single	creator	is	not	part	of	dying	or	the	afterlife). In	other	words,	death	is	a	fulfillment	of	our	purpose	here	on	earth. Every
culture	offers	a	deep	faith	that	this	is	true,	but	ours	demands	a	higher	standard
of	proof. I	think	that	proof	exists,	but	it	cannot	be	physical,	since	by	definition
death	brings	physical	life	to	an	end. To	see	this	proof,	we	must	expand	the
boundaries	of	consciousness	so	that	we	know	ourselves	better. If	you	know
yourself	as	someone	beyond	time	and	space,	your	identity	will	have	expanded
to	include	death. The	reason	that	human	beings	keep	seeking	fulfillment
beyond	the	stars	is	that	we	sense	that	our	own	mystery	lies	there,	not	here	in
the	realm	of	physical	limitation. Eternity	Now
Being	an	invisible	miracle,	death	is	extremely	elusive. But	we	get	tantalizing
clues	that	what	lies	on	“the	other	side”	is	actually	very	close	to	us	right	now. People	don’t	comprehend	how	important	this	is	in	terms	of	the	afterlife. The
very	word	“after”	implies	that	time	hasn’t	changed	at	the	moment	of	death,that	it	still	moves	in	a	straight	line,	carrying	a	person	from	earthly	time	to
heavenly	time. This	is	wrong	on	two	counts. First,	eternity	is	not	a	function	of
time. In	Christianity,	sinners	consigned	eternally	to	hell	wouldn’t	be	punished
for	a	long	time. They	would	be	punished	
outside
	time. Good	people	who	find
salvation	also	live	in	that	same	region	where	clocks	never	tick. So	our
ordinary	sense	of	time	has	no	relevance	to	what	comes	“after.”
Secondly,	our	everyday	sense	of	time	is	itself	based	on	eternity. The
universe	exploded	into	existence	14	billion	years	ago,	and	started	the	cosmic
clock	going. Our	bodies	experience	time	because	of	atomic	vibrations	at	the
level	of	hydrogen,	oxygen,	nitrogen,	and	carbon,	the	building	blocks	of
organic	chemicals. We	measure	outside	events	using	the	inner	clock	of	the
brain,	which	is	nothing	but	these	organic	chemicals. A	snail’s	brain	clicks	so
slowly	that	it	takes	five	seconds	before	one	event	passes	and	a	new	one
appears. In	that	five	seconds	you	could	pick	up	a	snail	and	move	it	ten	feet,
and	to	the	snail	it	would	appear	that	he	had	teleported	through	space. The
human	brain	ticks	fast	enough	that	we	can	sense	events	lasting	only	a	few
thousandths	of	a	second	(the	darting	of	a	mosquito,	the	blur	of	hummingbird
wings),	but	it	is	too	slow	to	observe	the	flight	of	a	bullet	or	the	million
neutrinos	that	pierce	our	bodies	every	minute. Before	the	Big	Bang	time	wasn’t	ticking	away;	a	second	was	equal	to
eternity. We	surmise	this	because	quantum	physics	has	pierced	the	illusion	of
time,	detaching	from	the	atomic	clock	to	go	deeper	into	the	fabric	of	Nature. At	the	deepest	level	vibrations	cease. The	universe	flatlines	like	a	dead	brain. Yet	the	appearance	of	death	is	illusory,	for	the	frontier	where	all	activity	ends
marks	the	beginning	of	a	new	region,	known	as	virtual	reality,	where	matter
and	energy	exist	as	pure	potential. The	basis	for	virtual	reality	is	complex,	but
in	simplest	terms,	a	nonphysical	region	must	exist	to	give	birth	to	the	physical
universe. This	region	is	a	void,	but	it’s	far	from	empty. Just	as	when	you	are
dozing	on	the	couch	your	mind	is	empty	but	can	awaken	instantly	to	an
infinite	choice	of	thoughts,	so	the	virtual	realm	awakens	to	an	infinite	realm
of	new	events. Creation	leaps	from	the	void	to	complete	fullness,	just	as
eternity	leaps	from	timelessness	into	the	fullness	of	time. If	eternity	is	with	us	now,	underlying	all	physical	existence,	it	must
underlie	you	and	me. The	illusion	of	time	tells	us	that	you	and	I	are	shooting
in	a	straight	line	from	birth	to	death,	when	in	fact	we	are	inside	a	frothy
bubble	let	loose	by	eternity. Actually,	the	event	of	death	has	never	been	all	that	far	away,	and	the	fixed
boundary	between	life	and	death	isn’t	impenetrable. A	woman	I	know	named
May	is	a	fifty-year-old	divorcée	from	New	Mexico. As	a	teenager	she
suffered	the	shock	of	having	her	adored	older	brother	die	suddenly	in	a	car
accident. “I	was	fifteen,	he	was	nineteen,	and	he	was	the	only	person	I’ve	ever
truly	worshipped. When	he	died,	poof,	just	like	that,	I	couldn’t	even	wrap	mymind	around	it,”	May	says. She	was	in	a	state	of	intense	grief	that	dragged	on
for	several	years. “I	retreated	completely. I	stopped	seeing	anyone. I	kept	asking,	
Why? I
want	an	answer. Tell	me
. Day	after	day	no	answer	came.”	May	had	given	birth
to	a	child,	so	she	decided	to	return	to	society	for	her	baby’s	sake. “I	knew	it
wasn’t	good	for	him	to	grow	up	as	a	recluse,	so	I	decided	to	start	seeing	a	few
people	at	a	time.”
At	the	first	social	gathering	she	went	to,	May	felt	a	sudden	strange
sensation. “I	was	talking	to	someone	with	a	glass	of	wine	in	my	hand	when	I
realized	that	my	feet	had	gone	numb. The	numbness	quickly	moved	up	both
legs,	and	I	had	a	flash. This	is	it
. Immediately	the	room	disappeared,	and	I
was	flying	through	space	faster	than	I	could	imagine. It	was	like	everything
was	incredibly	compressed	and	expanded	at	the	same	time. I	had	no	idea	how
long	I	was	gone. The	party	was	at	a	farm	out	in	the	country,	so	it	took	fifty
minutes	before	the	ambulance	arrived. By	then	I	had	come	to	again;	my
friends	told	me	they	had	felt	a	weak	pulse	the	whole	time. Nobody	knew	if	I’d
fainted	or	had	a	stroke.”
I	asked	her	how	she	interpreted	her	experience. “It’s	still	here,”	she	said,
holding	her	palm	about	a	foot	from	her	chest. “About	that	far.”
“What’s	still	here?”	I	asked. “Eternity. I’m	sure	that’s	what	I	experienced,	and	the	feeling	has	never	left
me. It	reassures	me	that	I	exist	outside	my	body. In	my	thirties	I	had	a	tough
time	with	breast	cancer,	but	I	wasn’t	afraid	of	dying,	not	for	a	minute. How
could	I	be? I’ve	seen	eternity.”
Vedanta—Answers	from	the	Soul
I	want	to	put	a	human	face	on	immortality	before	we	get	to	the	science	that
supports	it. Facts	are	useless	if	we	can’t	relate	to	them	personally,	and	nothing
is	more	personal	than	dying. In	ancient	India	the	idea	that	eternity	could	be
experienced	was	widely	accepted,	so	let’s	venture	there	to	see	how	that	was
possible. Thousands	of	years	ago	there	were	people	who	searched	the	depths
of	spirit	for	answers	without	offending	God	or	trespassing	on	his	domain. They	were	the	
rishis
,	or	sages	of	Vedic	India,	who	rose	into	prominence	when
Hinduism	was	in	its	earliest	flowering,	perhaps	as	far	back	as	four	thousand
years	ago	or	as	recently	as	a	thousand. The	names	by	which	the	rishis	are
known,	such	as	Vyassa,	Brighu,	and	Vasistha,	may	or	may	not	be	historical,
but	the	body	of	work	they	left	behind	numbers	in	the	thousands	of	pages. Many	writings	lack	a	proven	author,	much	like	the	Old	Testament,	but	the
teaching	of	the	rishis,	known	as	Vedanta,	isn’t	a	religion. The	spiritual	landscape	of	India	was	replete	with	gods	and	goddesses;
there	were	innumerable	Lokas,	or	nonphysical	worlds. There	were	alsohierarchies	of	angels	and	demons	to	rival	anything	in	Dante. In	the	face	of
such	bewildering	diversity,	the	rishis	didn’t	offer	one	God. They	offered	one
reality	that	encompassed	every	possible	experience,	both	in	this	life	and
beyond. They	posited	that	every	level	of	existence	was	actually	a	state	of
awareness. Other	worlds—all	worlds,	in	fact—were	formed	in	consciousness. Therefore,	as	creators	of	these	worlds,	we	could	experience	them	and
influence	them	at	will. That’s	the	essence	of	Vedanta. What	the	rishis	were
proposing	was	more	than	a	philosophy;	it	was	an	invitation	to	participate	in	an
endless	experiment. The	purpose	of	the	experiment	was	to	test	the	truth	of
reality	by	exploring	it	within	yourself. The	invitation	is	still	open. When	you	or	I	accept	it,	we	are	linked	to	the
Vedic	rishis	by	what	Aldous	Huxley	called	“the	perennial	philosophy,”	which
returns	in	every	age	to	suit	the	demands	of	a	
new
	generation. It	would	be
pointless	to	haul	an	ancient	tradition	into	the	present	if	it	didn’t	apply	to	us,
but	Vedanta	does. For	one	thing,	doubt	has	replaced	dogma	in	many	people’s
lives. The	present	spiritual	confusion	may	not	be	as	exotic	as	the	profusion	of
temples	and	gods	in	ancient	India,	but	listen	to	the	voices	that	circulate
around	us:
I	was	in	the	Alzheimer’s	unit	when	my	grandfather	died. He	was	a	totally
different	person	by	the	end—out	of	his	mind,	doped	up	on	morphine	to
the	max. It	was	like	watching	a	vegetable	die. It	was	like	nothing
changed	when	his	breathing	stopped
. My	ex-husband	is	such	a	bastard. I	told	him	when	he	dies	he’s	got	a	ticket
straight	to	hell. First	class
. I’m	a	Buddhist. When	I	drop	the	body	I	will	become	pure	consciousness
. I’m	Hindu. I	am	pure	consciousness	already
. Who	are	they	kidding? When	you’re	gone,	you’re	gone. Period
. That	last	voice	is	the	voice	of	materialism,	which	regards	death	as	final
because	it	sees	life	only	in	the	physical	body. We	may	claim	that	denying	the
afterlife	is	scientific,	but	in	fact	it	merely	indicates	a	belief	in	materialism. The	rishis	believed	that	knowledge	wasn’t	external	to	the	knower	but	woven
inside	consciousness. Thus	they	had	no	need	for	an	external	God	to	solve	the
riddle	of	life	and	death. The	rishis	had	themselves	instead,	which	is	very
fortunate,	because	so	do	we. Each	person	is	conscious. Each	person	has	a	self. Each	person	is	certain	of	existence,	that	is,	of	being	alive. With	these	raw
ingredients,	Vedanta	declares,	anyone	can	come	up	with	firsthand	knowledge
of	anything,	no	matter	how	deep	the	mystery	appears. Then	why	haven’t	we? Perhaps	it’s	because	we	don’t	contact	the	deepest
part	of	ourselves,	which	the	rishis	called	
Atman
. The	closest	equivalent	word
in	English	is	“soul.”	Soul	and	Atman	are	a	spark	of	
the
	divine,	the	invisiblecomponent	that	brings	God’s	presence	into	flesh	and	blood. The	biggest
difference	between	them	is	that	in	Vedanta	the	soul	isn’t	separate	from	God. Unlike	the	Christian	soul,	Atman	cannot	come	from	God	or	return	to	him. There	is	unity	between	the	human	and	the	divine;	awareness	of	this	unity	is
the	necessary	step	that	makes	reality	dawn. To	say	“I	am	God”	comes	naturally	with	Atman. It’s	much	less	natural	for
us. Years	ago	I	had	a	friend	who	was	capable	of	intense	spiritual	experiences
like	leaving	his	body	and	seeing	white	light	in	his	heart—or	so	he	said. I	told
him	that	personally	I	didn’t	have	such	experiences. “Neither	do	I,”	he	replied. “I	have	them	impersonally.”
He	gave	me	insight	at	that	moment,	because	something	eternal,	boundless,
and	unchanging	
cannot	be	personal
. Out	of	habit	we	say	“my”	soul,	but	that’s
misleading. The	soul	doesn’t	belong	to	me	the	way	my	house	does,	as	a
possession,	or	as	my	children	do,	as	an	extension	of	my	flesh	and	blood. It
doesn’t	belong	to	me	like	my	personality,	or	my	memories,	because	senility
and	mental	disorder	can	disable	the	brain	and	take	away	both. Death	isn’t	about	what	I	possess	but	about	what	I	can	become. Today	I	see
myself	as	a	child	of	time,	but	I	may	become	a	child	of	eternity. I	see	my	place
here	on	earth,	but	I	may	be	on	a	journey	to	the	universe. Human	beings	have	a
deep	intuition	that	our	destiny	is	infinite,	but	we	fear	death	because	it	tests	our
wishes	and	dreams. We	fear	to	be	tested	because	if	we	turn	out	to	be	wrong,
then	all	our	aspirations	feel	empty. In	my	medical	career	I’ve	seen	how	afraid
people	can	be	at	the	last. Dying	isn’t	more	real	than	any	other	moment,	but	it
is	more	definitive. No	matter	how	rich	and	gifted	you	are,	death	is	the	great
equalizer. (I	remember	when	a	renowned	guru	was	giving	a	talk	about	how
being	absorbed	into	the	light	was	the	ultimate	spiritual	reward. The	woman
sitting	next	to	me	was	fidgeting;	she	leaned	over	and	whispered	in	my	ear,
“Sounds	a	lot	like	death	to	me.”)
For	the	afterlife	to	have	meaning,	it	has	to	be	fully	as	satisfying	as	this
life. Bringing	money,	power,	sex,	family,	achievement,	and	physical	pleasure
to	an	end	is	not	a	trivial	thing. Much	that	we	love	and	depend	on	will	be
extinguished	when	this	life	comes	to	an	end. And	yet	we	can	bring	something
to	that	moment. Many	years	ago	when	I	was	an	inexperienced	medical
resident	in	Boston,	an	older	couple	was	admitted	to	the	hospital	together. The
husband	was	at	the	end	of	a	long	struggle	with	colon	cancer. The	wife,
although	she	had	a	history	of	cardiac	disease,	was	in	much	better	shape. The
two	shared	a	room,	and	over	the	few	days	that	I	visited	them,	I	could	see	how
attached	they	were	to	each	other. The	husband	lingered	for	days,	passing	in	and	out	of	consciousness,	in
considerable	pain. His	wife	sat	beside	him	holding	his	hand,	hour	after	hour. Then	one	morning	I	came	in	to	find	her	bed	empty—she	had	died	suddenly	of
cardiac	arrest	during	the	night. The	husband	was	having	a	lucid	period,	so	Itold	him	the	news,	reluctantly,	since	I	was	afraid	of	the	shock	it	would	give. But	he	seemed	very	calm. “I	think	I’ll	go	now,”	he	said. “I’ve	been	waiting.”
“For	what?”	I	asked	him. “A	gentleman	always	allows	the	lady	to	go	first,”	he	said. He	lapsed	back
into	unconsciousness	and	passed	away	that	afternoon. He	reminds	me	of	what	we	can	choose	to	bring	to	dying. Grace,	calm,	a
patient	acceptance	of	what’s	to	come:	These	are	all	qualities	that	can	be
cultivated,	and	when	they	are,	death	is	a	test	we	will	not	fail. Our	fault	is	not
that	we	fear	death	but	that	we	don’t	respect	it	as	a	miracle. The	most	profound
subjects—love,	truth,	compassion,	birth	and	death—are	equal. They	belong	to
our	destiny	but	also	to	our	present	life. Ultimately	the	goal	of	this	book	is	to
bring	death	into	the	present	and	thereby	make	it	equal	to	love. To	that	end,	I	will	continue	the	story	of	Savitri,	a	woman	who	sought	to
use	love	to	outwit	death,	as	an	interlude	in	our	discussion	of	
the
	afterlife. In
the	fullness	of	love	there	is	a	secret	that	she	learned	and	we	must	relearn. Tagore	hints	at	it	quite	beautifully	in	the	following	poem. W
HAT
	W
ILL
	Y
OU
	G
IVE
? What	will	you	give
When	death	knocks	at	your	door? The	fullness	of	my	life
—
The	sweet	wine	of	autumn	days	and	summer	nights
,
My	little	hoard	gleaned	through	the	years
,
And	hours	rich	with	living
. These	will	be	my	gift
. When	death	knocks	at	my	door
.2
T
HE
	C
URE	FOR
	D
YING
AS	THEY	WANDERED
	farther	up	the	mountain,	Savitri	became	more	and	more
anxious,	but	Ramana	paid	no	attention	to	her. He	left	the	deer	path,	following
a	cut	among	some	huge	boulders,	and	was	lost	from	sight. Scrambling	after
him,	Savitri	spied	a	stream,	and	beside	it	sat	the	monk. He	pulled	out	his	reed
flute,	which	was	tucked	into	his	saffron	robe,	and	began	to	play. “My	music	doesn’t	make	you	smile?”	he	asked,	noticing	the	anxious	look
in	Savitri’s	eyes. All	she	could	think	about	was	the	Lord	of	Death	awaiting
her	at	home. “We	have	so	little	time,”	she	implored. “Teach	me	what	you	would	teach.”
“What	if	I	could	teach	you	the	cure	for	dying?”	asked	Ramana. Savitri	was	startled. “I’m	sure	everyone	dies.”
“Then	you	believe	in	rumors. What	if	I	told	you	that	you’ve	never	been
happy? Would	you	believe	me?”
“Of	course	not. I	was	happy	this	morning,	before	all	this	trouble	began,”
said	Savitri. Ramana	nodded. “We	all	remember	being	happy,	and	no	one	can	talk	us
out	of	that	knowledge. So	let	me	ask	you	another	question. Can	you
remember	
not
	being	alive?”
“No,”	Savitri	said	hesitantly. “Try	harder. Cast	your	mind	back	to	when	you	were	very,	very	small. Try
as	hard	as	you	can	to	remember	
not
	being	alive. This	is	important,	Savitri.”
“All	right.”	Savitri	tried	her	best,	but	she	had	no	memory	of	never	being
alive. “Perhaps	you	can’t	remember	not	being	alive	because	you	always	have
been,”	said	Ramana. He	pointed	to	a	locust	clutching	to	a	twig	over	her	head. “If	you	see	a	locust	emerging	from	the	ground	after	seven	years’	sleep,	does
that	mean	it	was	dead	before	that?”
Savitri	shook	her	head. “Yet	the	only	reason	you	believe	that	you	were	born	is	that	your	parents
saw	you	emerge	from	the	womb. They	thought	they	witnessed	the	moment
when	you	began	to	exist,	so	they	spread	the	rumor	that	you	had	been	born.”
Savitri	was	astonished	at	this	line	of	reasoning. Ramana	became	insistent. “Look	at	this	stream. All	you	see	is	a	shortstretch	of	it,	yet	would	you	say	you	know	where	the	stream	begins	or	where	it
ends? Heed	me,	Savitri. You	accept	death	because	you	accept	birth. The	two
must	go	together. Forget	these	rumors	that	you	were	ever	born. That	is	the
only	cure	for	dying.”
Ramana	stood	up	and	tucked	his	flute	back	in	his	robe;	he	was	ready	to
walk	on. “Do	you	believe	me?”
“I	want	to	believe	you,	but	I	am	still	afraid,”	Savitri	admitted. “Then	we	will	keep	going.”	Ramana	began	to	walk	away	and	Savitri
followed,	pondering	what	he	had	said. It	seemed	irrefutable	that	if	she’d	never
been	born,	she	could	never	die. Was	it	really	true? Ramana	caught	her	thoughts. “We	can’t	base	reality	on	what	we	don’t
remember,	only	on	what	we	do. Everyone	remembers	being;	nobody
remembers	nonbeing.”
After	a	moment	she	gently	touched	his	arm. “Play	a	little	more	for	me,
please. I	wish	to	remember	being	happy.”	
CROSSING	OVER
Vedanta’s	assertion	that	the	soul	is	always	near	brings	us	face	to	face	with	the
fascinating	phenomenon	of	near-death	experiences,	which	have	become	a
fixed	part	of	popular	belief. (In	a	1991	Gallup	poll,	13	million	Americans,
roughly	5%	of	the	population,	reported	that	they	had	had	such	an	experience.) Near-death	is	a	momentary	brush	with	another	reality,	or	so	it	seems	to	those
who	report	the	experience. A	person	is	lying	in	the	emergency	room	or
intensive	care	unit. His	heart	stops,	and	for	all	intents	and	purposes	death
ensues. Yet	some	of	these	patients,	typically	those	who	suffered	cardiac	arrest,
can	be	resuscitated. When	they	are,	nearly	20%	report	at	least	one	of	the
familiar	symptoms	of	NDE	(as	near-death	experience	is	abbreviated	in	the
medical	literature)—leaving	their	bodies,	looking	down	and	seeing
themselves	on	the	operating	table,	watching	medical	procedures	being
performed	as	doctors	tried	to	restart	their	hearts,	finding	themselves	in	a
tunnel,	going	toward	a	bright	light,	feeling	the	presence	of	a	higher	power,
hearing	or	seeing	loved	ones	beckoning	them	on. Dr.	Pim	van	Lommel,	the	cardiologist	who	conducted	a	major	Dutch	study
on	this	subject,	was	astonished	by	the	finding	that	patients	were	having	a	full-
blown	NDE	after	their	brains	had	ceased	any	activity—they	were	flatline	until
revived. Suddenly	death	becomes	robed	in	the	trappings	of	a	miracle. How
can	a	person	experience	any	event	after	the	brain’s	clock	has	stopped? Other
cultures,	however,	have	ventured	even	further	into	the	timeless,	and	they
assure	us	that	time	may	end,	but	consciousness	continues. A	woman	named	Dawa	Drolma	sits	quietly	inside	a	black	felt	tent	at	the
base	of	a	Himalayan	peak. This	is	her	home,	but	there’s	little	privacy	here	as
visitors	stream	in	and	out	all	day	to	ask	questions	and	to	get	her	blessing. Dawa	Drolma	has	been	famous	throughout	eastern	Tibet	ever	since	she	came
back	from	the	dead. Her	death	occurred	
from
	a	sudden	illness	when	she	was
sixteen,	and	for	five	full	days	her	corpse	lay	untouched	by	family	or	priests. After	that	time	Dawa	reentered	her	body	with	a	full	memory	of	what	had
happened	in	the	
Bardo
,	the	subtle	world	of	Tibetan	Buddhist	afterlife. In	those	five	days	Dawa	spent	time	in	many	heavens	and	hells. (These	are
Christian	terms,	but	they	correspond	to	places	described	in	Buddhism	where
the	righteous	are	rewarded	and	evildoers	punished.) The	goddess	of	wisdom
took	personal	charge	of	showing	Dawa	each	place,	pointing	out	who	was
there	and	why. She	felt	the	rapture	of	those	souls	who	were	prayed	for	by
their	still-living	families. She	heard	the	agonized	screams	and	pleas	for	mercyof	evildoers	who	had	committed	sins	on	earth. Dawa	met	the	god	of	death,
who	gave	her	messages	to	impart	to	the	living. He	knew,	and	so	did	she,	that
Dawa	would	return	to	life. In	fact,	her	dying	wasn’t	a	chance	event;	she
consciously	undertook	her	journey,	first	considering	all	the	risks	and	dangers. The	local	lamas	warned	her	not	to	do	it,	but	Dawa	had	a	conviction	that	her
life	was	going	to	be	entirely	about	her	death. Year	after	year	she	repeated	her	story;	it	took	a	long	time	to	convince
people. Tibetan	culture	wasn’t	prepared	to	give	spiritual	prominence	to	a
woman,	except	under	extraordinary	conditions. But	the	direct	knowledge
Dawa	brought	back	from	the	Bardo—and	from	the	“Clear	Light”	that	lies
beyond—was	unimpeachable. She	showed	people	where	to	find	buried	gold. She	knew	secrets	about	their	private	lives	and	details	about	departed	relatives
that	no	one	could	possibly	guess	at. She	debated	learned	lamas	and	equaled	or
outdid	them	in	Buddhist	theology. Dawa	Drolma	isn’t	unique	in	Tibet. People	who	come	back	to	life	are
called	
delogs
	(or	
deloks
),	and	one,	the	famed	Lingza	Chokyi,	left	a	vivid
account	in	the	sixteenth	century. “I	was	still	in	the	room,	but	instead	of	being
sick	in	bed	I	left	my	body	and	floated	up	to	the	ceiling. I	saw	my	body	like	a
dead	pig	dressed	in	my	clothes. My	children	wept	over	me,	and	this	caused
me	such	intense	pain. I	tried	to	talk	to	my	family,	but	no	one	could	hear	me. When	they	ate,	I	cried	and	got	
angry
	that	they	didn’t	feed	me. When	they	said
prayers	over	me,	I	suddenly	felt	much	better.”
Stages	of	Awakening
One	amazing	thing	about	delogs	is	their	consistency;	the	experience	of	Dawa
Drolma	in	the	twentieth	century	mirrors	that	of	Lingza	Chokyi	four	hundred
years	previously. They	see	the	same	six	levels	of	the	Bardo,	are	guided	by	the
White	Tara,	the	goddess	of	wisdom,	and	receive	messages	to	bring	back	to	the
living. These	messages	tend	to	center	on	being	a	good	Tibetan	Buddhist	(just
as	apparitions	of	the	Virgin	Mary	in	every	century	tend	to	center	on	being	a
good	practicing	Catholic). Experts	in	near-death	experiences	find	much	common	ground	between
NDEs	and	delogs. They	both	describe	leaving	the	physical	body,	looking
down	on	themselves	and	the	surroundings,	being	unable	to	talk	to	the	people
they	see,	and	then	traveling	elsewhere	using	the	power	of	thought. When
delogs	report	that	in	the	other	world	they	had	“a	body	from	the	golden	age”—
which	is	to	say,	young	and	perfect—we’re	reminded	that	some	NDEs
remember	that	once	they	died	they	seemed	to	be	back	in	the	prime	of	physical
life,	somewhere	in	their	twenties	or	early	thirties. Deceased	relatives	appear
on	the	other	side,	a	region	the	Tibetans	call	“the	Bardo	of	becoming.”	When
the	newly	dead	person	tries	to	join	them,	he	is	pushed	back	into	the	physicalworld	with	a	sense	that	it	isn’t	the	right	time	or	that	somehow	a	mistake	has
been	made. In	both	cases	there	can	be	a	profound	sense	of	coming	into
contact	with	God	or	the	supreme	Light,	after	which	the	fear	of	death	holds	no
more	power. There	are	significant	parallels,	then,	between	the	experience	of	NDE	and
the	delogs	of	Tibet. Since	delogs	provide	more	detailed	and	extended
accounts,	it	seems	fair	to	assume	that	an	NDE	is	just	the	beginning	of	the
awakening	taking	place	that	moves	the	dying	person	
through
	all	the	stages
needed	for	the	soul	to	reveal	itself. If	we	shed	the	specific	geography	of
Christian	heaven,	the	Buddhist	Bardo,	and	the	many	Lokas,	or	divine	realms,
of	Hinduism,	the	first	stage	of	the	afterlife	emerges	with	certain	consistent
events. “
C
ROSSING
	O
VER
”
How	the	afterlife	dawns
1
. The	physical	body	stops	functioning. The	dying	person	may	not	be
aware	of	this	but	eventually	knows	that	it	has	occurred. 2
. The	physical	world	vanishes. This	can	happen	by	degrees;	there	can
be	a	sense	of	floating	upward	or	of	looking	down	on	familiar	places
as	they	recede. 3
. The	dying	person	feels	lighter,	suddenly	freed	of	limitation. 4
. The	mind	and	sometimes	the	senses	continue	to	operate. Gradually,
however,	what	is	perceived	becomes	nonphysical. 5
. A	presence	grows	that	is	felt	to	be	divine. This	presence	can	be
clothed	in	a	light	or	in	the	body	of	angels	or	gods. It	can
communicate	to	the	dying	person. 6
. Personality	and	memory	begin	to	fade,	but	the	sense	of	“I”	remains. 7
. This	“I”	has	an	overwhelming	sense	of	moving	on	to	another	phase
of	existence. This	sevenfold	awakening	isn’t	the	same	as	going	to	heaven. Researchers
often	call	this	the	“inter-life”	phase,	a	transition	between	the	mental	state	of
being	alive	and	the	mental	state	of	realizing	that	one	has	passed	on. There	are
many	specifics	that	change	from	person	to	person. Not	all	NDEs	“go	into	the
light.”	Some	patients	report	traveling	to	various	planets	in	space	or	to	other
worlds	according	to	their	religious	beliefs. Some	experience	a	judgment	scene
that	can	
be
	quite	harsh,	or	even	hellish;	it	can	also	be	full	of	satisfaction,
however. The	nature	of	the	person	plays	a	large	part. A	child	can	come	back	from
heaven	and	report	that	it	was	full	of	baby	animals	at	play,	a	cardiac	patient
can	report	sitting	on	God’s	lap	and	being	told	by	the	Almighty	that	he	mustreturn	to	Earth,	and	a	delog	can	see	every	detail	of	Tibetan	theology. These
images	clearly	depend	on	the	culture	they	reflect. Huston	Smith,	an	expert	on
world	religions,	declares,	“Everything	we	experience	in	the	Bardos	is	a
reflection	of	our	own	mental	machinations.”	One	can	substitute	“afterlife”	for
Bardos,	since	Christians	see	Christian	images,	not	Buddhist	ones,	and
Muslims	see	Islamic	images. Crossing	over	is	only	a	transition,	however. The	full	reality	of	the	soul
hasn’t	yet	revealed	itself. For	delogs,	still	ahead	lies	the	experience	of	“the
mind’s	pure	nature,”	as	Buddhists	would	call	it. Delogs	are	quite	clear	that
they	haven’t	actually	gone	anywhere,	that	every	level	of	the	journey	exists	in
consciousness. What	is	actually	real	isn’t	heaven	and	hell	but	the	“Clear
Light”	that	lies	beyond	them. Dawa	visited	that	brilliant	white	light	before
descending	back	through	the	intermediate	worlds	in	her	return	to	physical
existence. As	her	son	writes,	“Despite	the	fact	that	the	realms	of	cyclic	existence	are
in	the	absolute	sense	empty	in	nature,	mere	projections	of	[the]	mind’s
delusions,	on	a	relative	level	the	suffering	of	beings	trapped	there	is
undeniable.”	Westerners	argue	over	whether	the	afterlife	could	be	as	real	as
the	physical	world;	Easterners	declare	that	both	are	mental	projections. Westerners	limit	the	human	life	cycle	to	a	short	span	between	birth	and	death;
Easterners	see	an	eternal	cycle	of	birth,	death,	and	rebirth. Thus	there	is	huge	room	for	variation	even	in	the	same	journey:	“As	if	in	a
dream	or	hallucination,	beings	float	in	and	out	of	Dawa	Drolma’s	perception
like	flakes	of	snow. In	one	instant	she	encounters	an	acquaintance	enduring
the	most	hideous	torments	of	hell;	in	the	next	she	meets	a	virtuous	person	on
the	way	to	a	pure	realm. Occasionally
,	she	sees	entire	processions	of	Bardo
beings	leaving	for	the	pure	realms	shepherded	by	a	great	lama	…	who	by	the
power	of	his	or	her	altruistic	aspirations,	has	come	to	save	[them].”
A	Wealth	of	Expectations
If	different	cultures	see	such	different	things	after	death,	we	must	face	the
possibility	that	we	create	our	own	afterlife. Perhaps	the	vivid	images	that
appear	to	dying	people	are	projections,	the	soul’s	way	of	helping	us	adjust	to
leaving	behind	the	five	senses. I	accept	that	the	afterlife	is	created	in
consciousness. But	as	a	noted	biologist	told	me	with	a	sigh	recently,	“The
minute	you	begin	to	use	that	word	‘consciousness,’	you	are	immediately	shut
out	of	science.”	I	can	pick	up	a	recent	
Time
	magazine	to	read	the	following
from	Professor	Eric	Cornell,	a	Nobel	Prize	winner	in	physics:	
“Science	isn’t
about	knowing	the	mind	of	God;	it’s	about	understanding	nature	and	the
reasons	for	things. The	thrill	is	that	our	ignorance	exceeds	our	knowledge.”
I’m	sure	that	many	people	would	agree,	without	realizing	that“understanding	nature”	has	limited	value	when	you	don’t	understand	human
nature. Why	are	we	leaving	ourselves	out	of	the	experiment? W
HEN	CONSCIOUSNESS	ISN’T
	a	viable	possibility,	explanations	can	only	come
from	materialism. Drugs	(for	example,	marijuana,	hashish,	LSD,	ketamine,
mescaline)	can	induce	the	brain	to	experience	both	a	white	light	and	a	tunnel
effect. So	can	putting	someone	in	a	centrifuge	and	spinning	them	at	high
enough	rates	to	press	blood	out	of	the	frontal	lobes—astronauts	and	test	pilots
have	such	experiences	when	trained	in	centrifuges. Extreme	stress	can	bring
on	hallucinations;	patients	hospitalized	in	intensive	care	during	the	aftermath
of	a	heart	attack	are	especially	prone	to	them. Is	it	possible	that	medicine	has	all	the	answers	after	all? Dr.	van	Lommel,
who	conducted	the	Dutch	study	of	near-death	experiences,	doesn’t	think	so. He	screened	344	patients	whose	heart	had	defibrillated	(gone	into	chaotic
twitching	instead	of	a	normal	regular	heartbeat)	in	the	hospital. Talking	to
them	within	days	of	being	revived,	van	Lommel	discovered	that	anesthesia	or
medications	didn’t	affect	their	experience. What	he	marvels	most	at,	however,
are	those	reports	of	consciousness	in	the	absence	of	brain	activity. Years
afterward	this	paradox	still	fills	him	with	awe:	
“At	that	moment	these	people
are	not	only	conscious;	their	consciousness	is	even	more	expansive	than	ever. They	can	think	extremely	clearly,	have	memories	going	back	to	their	earliest
childhood	and	experience	an	intense	connection	with	everything	and	everyone
around	them. And	yet	the	brain	shows	no	activity	at	all!”
These	observations	undercut	the	dying-brain	theory	of	materialism,	since
the	brain	has	stopped	functioning	before	the	NDE	begins,	in	that	4-	to	10-
minute	limbo	when	resuscitation	is	possible	without	permanent	brain	damage. Van	Lommel	also	points	out	that	any	physiological	explanation,	if	true,	should
apply	to	everyone. He	found	that	82%	of	resuscitated	patients	couldn’t
remember	any	near-death	experience;	why	did	their	dying	brains	deprive	them
of	one	when	the	brains	of	18%	of	patients	had	experiences? Maybe	consciousness	isn’t	in	the	brain. That’s	a	startling	possibility	but
one	consistent	with	the	world’s	most	ancient	spiritual	traditions. What	if	an
NDE	is	a	step	into	the	afterlife	that	is	still	governed	by	memories	and
expectations? There	is	no	doubt	that	heaven	is	the	expectation	of	many	people	in
Western	society,	and	therefore	we	will	have	to	examine	its	promises	next,	to
consider	if	Paradise	is	the	choice	we	really	want	to	make.3
D
EATH
	G
RANTS
	T
HREE
	W
ISHES
AFTER	TWO	HOURS
	of	walking	through	the	woods,	Savitri	and	Ramana	came	to
a	fork	in	the	path. “If	we	went	that	way	we	would	arrive	at	Yama’s	castle. Did	you	know	that
Death	lives	so	close	by?”	he	said. Savitri	shuddered. “I’m	happy	not	to	know.”
“Really?”	Ramana	seemed	genuinely	surprised. “I	ran	across	the	castle
when	I	was	out	wandering	one	day. I	was	very	curious	to	meet	Death	face	to
face.”
Savitri	felt	frightened	simply	to	be	reminded	of	something	she	so	dreaded. Ramana	reached	out	and	took	her	hand. “Come,	I	can	tell	you	about	it	as	we
walk.”	He	had	a	strong	grip,	and	Savitri	felt	calmer,	as	if	his	strength	was
seeping	into	her. “I	immediately	knew	that	I	had	stumbled	on	to	Yama’s	home,”	Ramana
continued,	“because	skulls	were	stuck	on	pikes	surrounding	the	gate. So	I	sat
down	and	waited	for	my	host	to	appear. I	waited	all	that	day	and	the	next. The
next	day	Yama	returned	home. When	he	saw	me	he	became	distressed. ‘I’ve
made	you	wait	outside	my	gate	for	three	whole	days,’	he	said. ‘Not	even
Death	can	break	the	sacred	vow	of	hospitality. Therefore	I	grant	you	three
wishes,	one	for	each	day.’
“‘That	pleases	me	well,’	I	replied,	‘for	I	have	long	wanted	to	gain
knowledge	of	you,	the	wisest	of	all	beings	in	creation.’	Yama	bowed	regally. ‘My	first	wish,’	I	said,	‘is	to	know	the	way	back	home. I’m	not	a	fool,	and	I
have	no	desire	to	remain	with	you	forever.’
“Yama	smiled	and	pointed	to	the	east. ‘You	will	find	your	way	back	to	the
living	if	you	go	that	way,	where	the	sun	rises.’
“‘My	second	wish,’	I	said,	‘is	to	know	if	you	have	ever	felt	love.’
“Yama	didn’t	look	so	pleased	now,	but	reluctantly	he	answered. ‘The	role
of	love	is	to	create;	my	role	is	to	destroy. Therefore,	I	have	no	need	of	love.’
Hearing	that,	I	pitied	Yama,	but	he	glared	proudly,	scorning	any	attempt	at
compassion. He	said,	‘Now	be	quick	and	name	your	third	wish.’
“I	said,	‘The	great	sages	declare	that	the	soul	survives	beyond	death. Is
this	true?’	A	black	cloud	came	over	Yama’s	countenance. He	sputtered	with
rage,	but	there	was	nothing	for	it	but	to	answer	me. ‘I	will	tell	you	the	truth,’he	said. ‘There	are	two	paths	in	life,	the	path	of	wisdom	and	the	path	of
ignorance. The	path	of	wisdom	is	to	pursue	the	Self. The	path	of	ignorance	is
to	pursue	pleasure. Pleasure,	being	born	of	the	senses,	is	temporary,	and
whatever	is	temporary	falls	under	the	sway	of	death. Thus	the	ignorant	fall
into	my	clutches. But	the	Self	is	the	light	of	immortality. It	shines	forever. Few	are	wise	enough	to	see	this	light,	even	though	it	is	inside	them	and
nowhere	else. The	Self	is	but	the	light	of	your	soul. Now	go. It	will	please
Yama	never	to	behold	your	face	again.’	And	off	he	stalked	to	nurse	his	rage.”
Savitri	found	this	tale	fascinating,	but	she	was	puzzled. “How	can	we	miss
finding	the	soul	if	its	light	shines	inside	us?”
Ramana	stopped	and	looked	around. He	spied	a	rain	puddle	along	the	path
and	drew	Savitri	toward	it. “Do	you	see	the	sun	reflected	in	that	puddle?”
Savitri	nodded. “I	do.”
“Then	watch.”
Ramana	stepped	into	the	water,	stirring	up	the	mud	and	roiling	the	water’s
smooth	surface. “Can	you	still	see	the	sun’s	reflection?”	Savitri	admitted	that
she	couldn’t. “This	is	why	people	cannot	find	the	soul,”	said	Ramana. “It	is
muddied	by	the	mind’s	constant	activity	and	confusion. When	I	destroyed	the
sun’s	reflection	I	didn’t	kill	the	sun. It	is	eternal,	and	nothing	I	do	can
extinguish	it. Now	you	know	the	secret	of	the	soul,	which	even	Death	cannot
extinguish.”
Savitri	grew	grave	and	thoughtful. “This	is	something	I	want	to	believe.”
“You	are	still	afraid,”	Ramana	said	gently,	“but	learn	this	one	thing:	Do
not	trust	reflections,	not	if	you	want	to	see	reality.”
Savitri	looked	thoughtful	as	they	continued	to	walk,	her	hand	softly
placed	in	the	monk’s. A	QUESTION	OF	BELIEF
The	worst	afterlife	I	can	imagine	is	hell
. The	second	worst	may	be	heaven
. I	scribbled	these	sentences	on	the	page	of	a	notebook	in	the	summer	of
2005. The	words	“heaven”	and	“hell”	immediately	strike	a	Christian	note,	but
I	was	thinking	generally. Heaven	is	where	you	go	if	you	are	good	enough	for
God;	hell	is	where	you	go	if	you	aren’t. Aren’t	they	both	synonyms	for	“the
end”? Vedanta	holds	that	every	afterlife	is	created	to	give	us	what	we	expect. If
that’s	true	of	heaven	and	hell,	what	kind	of	expectations	do	they	stand	for? Why	should	bad	deeds	doom	you	to	a	prison	where	your	wrongdoing	ispunished	without	mercy	or	hope	of	reprieve? That’s
	an	easy	question
compared	to	the	opposite. Why	should	being	good	lead	to	a	fantasy	land
above	the	clouds	where	virtue	is	rewarded	with	endless	indolence,	also
without	reprieve? In	the	summer	of	2005	these	issues	were	close	at	hand	for	me. Death	was
something	I	had	to	think	about	constantly	because	my	mother	had	lapsed	into
a	coma. Hurry
,	an	urgent	voice	said	on	the	phone	from	India. I	was	on	a	jet
immediately. From	moment	to	moment	it	was	uncertain	whether	I	would
reach	her	bedside	in	time	to	say	good-bye. It’s	hard	to	imagine	someone	you	love	dying. My	mother	was	nearly
eighty	and	had	been	gradually	fading	for	the	past	five	years. Her	body	was	a
husk	of	what	it	had	been	even	six	months	before. Everyone	in	the	family
agreed	that	it	would	be	a	blessing	for	her	suffering	to	end. I	found	myself	thinking	about	just	a	single	cell	in	my	mother’s	heart. As	a
doctor	I	could	imagine	that	cell	as	clearly	as	if	it	were	under	a	microscope. Any	heart	cell	has	exchanged	all	its	atoms	many	times	over	during	one
lifetime. My	mother’s	weak	heart,	so	full	of	a	lifetime’s	experience,	was	not	a
static	object. It	was	a	firestorm	of	change. Because	every	cell	is	like	that,	my
mother	has	been	passing	in	and	out	of	life	since	the	day	she	was	born. Old	heart	cells	can’t	go	to	heaven,	yet	they	survive	physical	death	in	their
own	way. Your	whole	body	does	the	same,	putting	itself	into	the	grave	and
rising	from	the	dead	thousands	of	times	a	minute	as	old	matter	is	exchanged
for	new. Since	molecules	can	always	be	replenished,	only	the	death	of	knowledge
matters. Knowledge	is	a	cell’s	essence,	which	no	one	will	ever	see	or	touch. When	millions	of	oxygen	atoms	fly	away	on	an	exhaled	breath,	floating	out
into	the	world,	what	remains	is	far	more	important:	how	to	build	a	cell,	how	a
cell	behaves,	how	it	relates	to	other	cells. How	can	a	string	of	simple	molecules	along	a	strand	of	DNA	know	all
this? When	we	die	we	go	in	pursuit	of	the	answer,	because	then	we	confront
our	essence	behind	the	mask	of	matter. “Essence”	means	a	distillation,	boiling
down	something	crude	into	something	refined,	extracting	the	pure	from	the
impure. There’s	no	need	to	get	tangled	up	in	terminology	here. Essence,	soul,
Atman,	or	holy	spirit	all	suffice. After	the	initial	stage	of	“crossing	over,”	the
rest	of	the	afterlife	is	beyond	images;	it	concerns	the	soul. My	mother	passed	away,	still	in	a	coma,	a	few	hours	after	I	arrived	at	her
bedside. It	was	a	modern	death,	undramatic	and	swaddled	in	the	caring
cocoon	of	a	hospice. The	time	to	grieve	had	come,	but	knowing	that	Mother
was	now	free	to	discover	who	she	really	was	sustained	me. Millions	of	people
do	not	think	in	this	way,	relying	on	the	time-honored	idea	of	heaven,	but
that’s	changing. The	erosion	of	traditional	faith	has	not	left	Paradise	untouched. After	theColumbia
	space	shuttle	disaster	in	2003,	in	which	the	craft	exploded	in	the
atmosphere	over	central	Texas	and	killed	all	seven	people	aboard,	President
Bush	said	he	was	sure	that	the	dead	astronauts	“are	now	in	heaven.”	Yet	in
Tennessee,	pollsters	asked	people	if	they	agreed,	and	although	74%	said	they
believed	in	the	afterlife,	only	about	half	of	them	(37%	of	the	total)	thought	the
astronauts	were	in	heaven,	with	another	third	saying	they	didn’t	know. One	only	has	to	look	at	a	leading	indicator	like	church	attendance. While
44%	of	Americans	say	they	attend	church	regularly,	reliable	statistics	show
that	perhaps	half	that	number	is	more	realistic. Every	major	denomination	is
declining—as	is	also	true	in	fifteen	out	of	eighteen	developed	countries. (One
exception	is	Christian	fundamentalism,	which	claims	growth	in	the	United
States	and	worldwide.) To	get	some	idea	of	where	you	fall	in	the	spectrum	of	religious	belief,	ask
some	basic	questions	of	yourself,	as	follows:	
T
O
	B
ELIEVE	OR
	N
OT
? Read	the	following	statements	and	then	rate	each	one:
A
	
Agree—This	is	true	to	my	beliefs
. D
	
Disagree—This	is	opposed	to	my	beliefs
. N
	
No	Opinion—I	am	uncertain,	or	don’t	think	about	this
. A	D	N
I	believe	in	God. A	D	N
I	think	God	is	in	heaven. A	D	N
I	expect	to	go	to	heaven	when	I	die. A	D	N
Going	to	heaven	depends	on	being	a	good	person. A	D	N
Going	to	heaven	means	believing	in	what	the	Bible	says	(substitute
Koran	or	other	scriptures). A	D	N
If	you	believe	in	God	you	have	a	better	chance	of	going	to	heaven
than	if	you	don’t. A	D	N
God	is	merciful,	but	he	still	created	Hell. A	D	N
Hell	is	for	the	punishment	of	sin. A	D	N
Both	heaven	and	hell	are	eternal. A	D	N
Whether	I	am	punished	or	achieve	salvation,	the	outcome	will	be
just. A	D	N
It	comforts	me	to	think	that	I	won’t	disappear	when	I	die. A	D	N
Scientific	proof	of	heaven	will	never	come. A	D	N
What	happens	after	we	die	is	known	by	faith. A	D	N
Near-death	experiences	are	real. A	D	N
When	people	“go	into	the	light”	and	then	come	back,	this	is	a
foretaste	of	the	afterlife. A	D	N
The	near-death	experiences	I’ve	read	about	increase	my	belief	in
heaven. A	D	N
The	loved	ones	I’ve	lost	will	meet	me	in	heaven. A	D	N
I	expect	to	join	my	mother	and	father	after	I	die. A	D	N
Communicating	with	the	dead	is	real. A	D	N
Reincarnation	is	real. Total	A
	______Total	D
	______
Total	N
	______
Compare	the	number	of	times	you	agreed,	disagreed,	or	had	no	opinion
and	find	one	category	that’s	dominant. High	A
	(14–20	points)	You	are	a	
believer
. Believers	fall	into	two
categories,	those	who	closely	hold	the	tenets	of	an	organized	religion	and
those	who	pursue	spirituality	even	though	they	have	dropped	out	of	church. As	a	believer	you	feel	secure	about	the	afterlife	and	take	comfort	from	that
certainty. You	feel	you	have	come	to	terms	with	fear	of	dying. Your	God	is
benign—a	higher	being	who	will	look	after	your	soul	when	you	die. What
you	know	about	near-death	experiences	totally	confirms	your	belief. High	D
	(14–20	points)	You	are	a	
skeptic
. As	a	skeptic	your	approach	to
life	is	likely	to	be	logical	and	materialistic. Although	not	necessarily	a
scientist,	you	trust	the	scientific	model	over	models	of	faith,	to	the	point	that
for	you	the	two	cannot	coexist. You	disbelieve	in	life	after	death	and	have
made	peace	with	that. You	suspect	that	near-death	experiences	must	be	a
strange	kind	of	brain	dysfunction. Your	mind	could	be	changed	by	more
convincing	evidence,	but	so	far	you’ve	seen	none;	you	suspect	that	every
proof	of	the	afterlife	is	either	a	fantasy	or	wish	fulfillment. Since	no	one
returns	from	the	dead,	you	feel	pretty	certain	we	will	never	have	reliable
information	about	it. High	N
	(14–20	points)	You	are	either	
agnostic
	or	
noncommittal
. Despite
the	difference	between	these	two	groups,	both	agree	that	
the
	afterlife	may	or
may	not	exist. You	may	be	someone	who	doesn’t	think	about	dying,
preferring	to	wait	until	there	is	no	other	choice	but	to	face	it. Or	you	may	feel
that	the	afterlife,	like	God,	will	never	be	explained. Accounts	of	near-death
experiences	mildly	interest	you. If	you	don’t	score	14	to	20	points	in	any	category,	consider	yourself	
open-
minded
. Such	people	find	credence	in	spiritual	notions	but	also	in
materialistic	or	scientific	ones. You	are	intrigued	by	near-death	experiences
but	not	totally	convinced. You	may	experience	a	certain	anxiety	about	having
no	fixed	beliefs;	you	may	consider	yourself	confused. Most	likely	you	are
comfortable	with	having	no	certainties	because	there	is	no	certainty,	in	your
opinion,	to	be	had	when	it	comes	to	the	afterlife. (At	the	prospect	of	going	to
heaven,	you	sigh	and	think	it	would	be	nice. But	you’re	not	counting	on	it.) I
T	SHOULD	COME
	as	no	surprise	to	discover	that	you	are	a	believer,	skeptic,	or
agnostic. Yet	when	you	look	at	where	other	people	fall,	which	could	be	veryfar	outside	your	belief	system,	it	may	be	disturbing	to	consider	that	
you	might
all	be	right
. Believers	may	go	to	the	heaven	(or	hell)	that	matches	their	religious
background. In	the	afterlife	they	will	meet	their	most	cherished	version	of
God—or	gods. They	will	find	themselves	surrounded	by	angels	or
bodhisattvas. The	emotional	tone	of	that	afterlife	could	be	one	of	total	bliss,	if
that	is	the	tone	they	anticipate,	or	it	could	feel	more	ambiguous,	even	sad. Catholic	theology	allows	for	a	weeping	Jesus	and	his	mother,	Mary,
sorrowing	over	the	fate	of	sinners. The	experience	could	even	feel	like	nothing. Skeptics	may	find	that	the
afterlife	is	a	blank,	devoid	of	conscious	sensation. For	them,	dying	could	lead
to	a	long	sleep	without	any	perception	of	the	self. The	question	is	how	long
this	state	will	last	or	what	it	might	become. For	agnostics	the	afterlife	is	problematic. They	may	perceive	that	they
remain	themselves,	occupying	a	kind	of	limbo	where	good	and	
bad
	deeds
form	a	hazy	cloud	that	never	resolves	decisively. In	this	kind	of	afterlife	the
same	worries	and	ambiguities	that	reside	at	the	center	of	the	agnostic
worldview	may	persist. For	Christians	purgatory	fits	this	description. And	the	undecided	or	open-minded	people? They	may	be	in	for	the
biggest	surprise,	because	someone	who	is	truly	open-minded	dies	without	any
expectations. If	your	approach	to	life	is	to	take	it	one	day	at	a	time,	the	very
last	day	won’t	be	any	different. In	short,	the	ability	of	consciousness	to	shape
our	lives	is	the	most	permanent	thing	about	us,	the	one	aspect	of	the	mind	we
can	expect	to	continue. Somewhere	in	the	Gap
As	long	as	the	physical	and	the	metaphysical	remain	confused,	we	are	trapped
in	the	gap	between	them. Since	belief	isn’t	a	given	in	our	society,	why	should
we	all	expect	the	same	afterlife? Choice	and	conditioning	must	play	a	huge
part	in	the	outcome. Consider	the	following	two	people	whose	lives	diverge	in
many	ways:
Marion	was	born	into	a	large	Catholic	family. She	took	Communion	and
was	a	believer	until	her	mother	died	of	ovarian	cancer	before	she	was	forty. Watching	her	mother’s	suffering	killed	something	in	Marion. She	stopped
believing	in	God’s	mercy,	although	she	hardly	acknowledged	this,	even	to
herself. When	she	married	a	man	who	had	long	ago	dropped	his	faith,	she
turned	to	career	and	family,	and	together	they	achieved	success. Decades	went
by	without	any	undue	calamities. After	her	last	child	left	home	for	college,
Marion	began	to	feel	lonely,	and	within	a	few	years	she	had	vague,	somewhat
guilty	impulses	that	made	her	reconsider	joining	the	Church	again. At	fifty-
two,	she	again	feels	the	need	for	the	faith	she	grew	up	in.Aaron	comes	from	a	small	family	of	nonpracticing	Jews. As	the	only	son
his	needs	were	nurtured	as	a	child,	perhaps	to	a	fault,	and	when	he	developed
a	talent	for	mathematics,	his	father	encouraged	
him
	to	become	an	accountant
(for	the	financial	security). Aaron	pursued	the	law	instead,	and	by	age	thirty
was	established	in	a	prominent	Manhattan	law	firm. Since	then	he	has	never
looked	back. He	married	late	to	a	woman	who	is	also	a	lawyer,	and	together
they	own	an	apartment	in	the	city	and	a	summer	cottage	at	the	beach. They
have	no	children,	and	when	he	found	out	that	his	wife	was	cheating	on	him,
Aaron	got	over	his	shock	rapidly. He	arranged	a	divorce	settlement	that
benefited	him	as	much	as	possible. At	fifty	he	hasn’t	decided	whether	to
remarry,	and	his	career	gives	him	little	time	to	consider	the	prospects. So	far
as	he	is	aware,	he	hasn’t	had	a	spiritual	thought	in	years. It’s	obvious	that	these	two	people	have	led	very	different	lives. One	is	a
placid	follower,	the	other	a	fierce	competitor. One	put	her	energies	into
raising	a	family,	the	other	into	making	a	career. Key	words	for	Marion	include
stability,	intimacy,	caring,	togetherness,	cooperation,	listening,	and	patience. The	key	words	for	Aaron	include	independence,	self-reliance,	competition,
power,	ambition,	and	success. When	two	lives	are	different	in	so	many	core
values,	why	should	they	anticipate	the	same	afterlife? Everyone’s	basic	choices,	which	have	shaped	their	lives,	begin	at	the	level
of	consciousness. At	this	level	choices	aren’t	simple. They	depend	on
memory	and	conditioning,	on	culture	and	expectation. All	these	ingredients
factor	into	what	happens	in	the	afterlife. Only	some	of	the	beliefs	that	make	a
difference	center	on	religion. Looming	much	larger	are	the	infinite	other
choices	we	make	every	day,	for	they	create	our	personal	reality. What	you	choose	today	will	ripple	throughout	a	thousand	tomorrows
.4
E
SCAPING	THE
	N
OOSE
FROM	THE	MOMENT
	she	ran	away	from	home,	Savitri	had	been	counting	the
minutes	until	Satyavan	would	return	from	his	woodcutting. But	now	her	mind
grew	quieter. This	wasn’t	just	the	influence	of	Ramana’s	wisdom	or	the
silence	of	the	woods. Fate	had	a	scheme	in	mind	for	Savitri. Fate	was	leading
her	in	circles	until	it	was	satisfied	that	she	could	face	Yama	on	her	own. Before,	all	she	could	see	in	her	mind’s	eye	was	her	beloved	husband
coming	home	to	his	doom,	but	now	she	saw	nothing. Perhaps	this	was	a	good
sign,	because	Ramana	began	to	speak. “I’m	not	promising	you	that	we	can	save	Satyavan,	but	others	have
escaped	death.”
Savitri’s	heart	rose. “Tell	me.”
“I	remember	a	boy	who	was	born	under	a	terrible	curse. His	father	was	a
great	rishi,	the	most	revered	sage	for	many	miles. This	rishi	had	longed	for	a
son,	yet	his	wife	was	barren. Finally	the	rishi	decided	that	he	would	demand	a
son	from	God. Only	the	wisest	know	the	secret	that	God	was	created	to	do	our
bidding,	not	we	to	do	His. “The	rishi	called	upon	God,	but	at	first	He	refused	to	appear. The	rishi	had
great	patience,	however,	and	he	kept	telling	God	to	grant	
him
	a	son,	year	after
year. Finally	God	appeared	to	him	and	said,	‘I	will	give	you	offspring,	but	you
must	choose. Do	you	want	a	hundred	sons	who	will	live	long	but	be	fools,	or
do	you	want	one	son	who	will	be	intelligent	but	die	young?’
“The	rishi	didn’t	hesitate	to	choose	the	intelligent	son,	who	God	decreed
would	die	on	his	sixteenth	birthday. To	the	boundless	joy	of	the	rishi	and	his
wife,	she	became	pregnant	and	gave	birth	to	a	boy. He	grew	up	to	be
extremely	intelligent,	and	his	parents	cherished	him	all	the	more	knowing	the
curse	he	was	born	under. They	intended	to	tell	the	boy	his	fate	in	time. Somehow	the	years	passed,	and	they	kept	putting	it	off. “Finally	the	boy’s	sixteenth	birthday	arrived,	and	still	he	knew	nothing. When	he	knelt	before	his	father	to	get	his	blessing,	the	rishi	said,	‘I	want	you
to	stay	beside	me	and	not	leave	the	house	today.’	His	son	was	puzzled,
especially	when	he	saw	the	tears	in	his	father’s	eyes. Obediently	he	stayed
beside	him	the	whole	day,	but	the	rishi	was	called	away	for	a	moment,	and	his
son	seized	the	opportunity	to	run	out	the	back	door. He	owed	an	offering	toGod	on	his	birthday,	which	a	father	cannot	forbid. “When	the	boy	got	to	the	temple	he	stood	in	front	of	the	altar,	not	noticing
that	Yama	had	followed	him	there,	carrying	the	noose	that	he	uses	to	snare	his
victims. He	threw	it	over	the	boy’s	head	to	drag	him	away. “But	at	that	very	moment	the	boy	bowed	before	the	altar	in	gratitude	for
the	gift	of	life. Yama’s	noose	missed	and	caught	the	sacred	images	on	the	altar
instead,	which	crashed	to	the	floor. When	they	broke,	God	leaped	up,	enraged
at	this	insult. He	kicked	Yama	out	of	the	temple	and	granted	the	boy	a
reprieve	from	death. Some	say	that	he	kicked	Yama	so	hard	that	he	killed	him,
but	then	God	gave	him	life	again	when	he	realized	that	people	were	so	used	to
dying	that	they	couldn’t	do	without	it.”
Savitri	listened	to	this	tale	intently. Her	intuition	told	her	that	
the
	boy	was
none	other	than	Ramana,	but	she	decided	to	keep	that	to	herself. “What	did
the	boy	learn	from	this?”	she	asked	instead. Ramana	replied,	“He	learned	that	when	Death	comes	to	grab	you,	let	him
grab	God	instead. If	God	is	in	you,	Yama’s	noose	will	always	miss. That	is	the
secret	for	escaping	his	clutches.”
As	it	happened,	they	were	passing	a	meadow	that	gleamed	with	flowers	in
a	clearing. Savitri	said,	“Let’s	lie	down	here	for	a	while. I’ve	been	so	anxious
that	I	forgot	to	be	grateful	that	I	am	alive.”
“A	good	idea,	Savitri.”
They	sat	down	in	the	afternoon	light	that	turned	every	flower	into	radiant
gold,	and	Savitri	meditated	on	her	soul. A	RISHI’S	HEAVEN
The	notion	of	heaven	keeps	things	human,	and	that’s	one	reason	it	has
survived	so	long. The	image	of	returning	home	after	we	die,	resting	from	our
labors,	and	receiving	our	just	reward	offers	powerful	reassurance. (It’s
difficult	not	to	come	to	tears	listening	to	the	old	gospel	hymn	with	its	gentle,
rocking	refrain:	“Softly	and	tenderly	Jesus	is	calling,	
Come	home	…	Come
home.”
)	In	an	age	of	doubt,	however,	the	shakiest	assumptions	about	heaven
are	the	two	it	can’t	do	without:
1
. We	go	somewhere	when	we	die. 2
. The	place	we	go	to	is	the	same	heaven	or	hell	for	everyone. When	we	talked	about	the	transition	stage	known	as	“crossing	over,”	we
saw	that	step-by-step	the	dying	person	comes	to	terms	with	losing	a	physical
body	and	the	many	attachments	of	a	personality. But	this	is	just	the	first	stage
of	what	transpires. A	destination	lies	ahead,	which	for	most	religious	peopleimplies	a	real	place,	not	simply	a	state	of	mind. Of	all	possible	destinations,	heaven	is	the	easiest. It	offers	reassurance	that
we	will	remain	physically	the	same,	with	our	personality	intact. (People	get
even	more	specific. I	was	talking	with	a	breast	cancer	patient	who	had
undergone	a	radical	mastectomy. We	both	knew	there	was	a	chance	she	might
not	survive,	but	being	a	devout	Christian	she	was	easy	about	going	to	heaven. “What	do	you	expect	to	see	when	you	get	there?”	I	asked. “My	boobs,”	she
shot	back	immediately.) Heaven	flies	in	the	face	of	Vedanta,	which	holds	that	our	destination	is	a
meeting	with	the	unknown. After	the	familiar	images	of	“crossing	over”
disappear,	the	unexpected	unfolds. Consciousness	can	take	a	creative	leap. The	conventional	heaven	we	were	all	told	about	as	children	was	just	such	a
creative	leap	that	has	become	a	cliché. We	can	remain	in	its	well-worn
groove,	but	in	a	culture	of	doubt,	I	don’t	think	this	is	fixed. Doubt	has	the
advantage	of	opening	new	possibilities. One	of	these	is	the	possibility	that	death	can	be	as	creative	as	living. A
painter	knows	that	he’s	using	the	raw	material	of	pigment,	but	the	vast
majority	of	people	do	not	realize	that	they	are	using	the	raw	material	of
consciousness. If	they	think	about	consciousness	at	all,	what	comes	to	mind
are	its	contents. Like	a	room	full	of	furniture,	your	consciousness	is	filled
with	thoughts	and	memories,	wishes	and	fears,	desires	and	dreams. Some	of
this	content	gets	changed,	but	some	of	it	is	permanent—the	fixed	furniture	of
the	mind. It	isn’t	creative	to	keep	using	those	same	contents	over	and	over,	yet
that’s	essentially	what	heaven	amounts	to:	reused	furniture. Take	a	piece	of	paper	and	mark	one	column	“heaven”	and	one	column
“hell.”	As	quickly	as	you	can,	list	the	words	and	images	that	come	to	mind	for
each	word. Most	people,	whether	they	consider	themselves	believers	or
skeptics,	come	up	with	a	list	along	the	following	lines:
H
EAVEN
harps
fluffy	white	clouds
angels
home	of	God
everlasting	peace
bliss	eternal
the	soul’s	true	home
Paradise—lost	and	then	regained
reward	for	the	righteous
great	white	father	on	his	throne
nice	but	boringone	big	family	again
opiate	of	the	masses
I	want	to	go	there
H
ELL
devil,	pitchfork,	sulfur
torments	of	the	damned
fire
Dante’s	Inferno—circle	after	circle
unending	pain
scary	beyond	belief
cloven	hooves
fear	keeps	people	in	line
glamour	of	evil
Satan	the	ultimate	rock	star,	seductive	bad	boy
I	don’t	want	to	go	there
These	were	the	entries	I	came	up	with,	writing	as	fast	as	I	could. I
immediately	notice	two	things:	my	images	are	entirely	secondhand,	
inherited
from	the	culture	I	live	in. There	is	no	ambiguity. Heaven	is	one	thing,	hell	is
the	opposite. Without	room	for	ambiguity,	the	afterlife	can’t	be	creative. But
our	minds	prefer	things	to	be	clear-cut. Every	fairy	tale	opposes	absolute	good
with	absolute	evil. We	don’t	tell	our	children	that	after	Cinderella	came	home
from	the	ball	she	was	so	happy	to	see	her	stepsisters	there	that	they	became
better	friends. Or	that	once	the	glass	slipper	fit	her	foot	she	decided	to	go	on	a
trial	date	with	the	prince. Despite	centuries	of	theology	about	Satan	and	his
relationship	to	God,	our	minds	simplify	their	roles	into	villain	and	hero. According	to	Catholic	belief	we	see	God	imperfectly	while	we	are	alive
here	on	earth. His	reflection	is	cast	in	a	mirror	like	our	own	face	and	body
(Saint	Paul’s	“seeing	in	a	glass	darkly”). We	imagine	that	he	is	human. But	on
arriving	in	heaven	we	will	see	God	directly	as	he	is. And	that,	according	to
the	Church,	raises	a	contradiction,	because	we	will	see	both	the	“obscure	and
vague”	image	we	had	in	mind	and	the	real	God	“after	the	manner	of	His	own
Being.”	In	other	words,	he	will	be	real	and	unreal	at	the	same	time. This
contradiction	can’t	be	settled;	it’s	a	mystery. On	this	Vedanta	would	agree. How,	then,	can	we	find	mystery	in	Heaven? The	War	in	Heaven
The	popular	British	writer	H.	G.	Wells	wrote,	“This	doctrine	of	the	Kingdom
of	Heaven	…	is	certainly	one	of	the	most	revolutionary	doctrines	that	everstirred	and	changed	human	thought.”	What	made	heaven	so	revolutionary	was
a	shift	from	this	world	to	the	next	for	which	Jesus	is	almost	single-handedly
responsible. In	fact,	heaven	is	one	of	his	most	unique	contributions. In	the	Old	Testament	God	promises	the	prophets	and	patriarchs	a	kingdom
in	the	literal	sense:	They	will	rule	the	earth	in	His	name. Thus	God	makes	a
covenant,	a	binding	legal	contract,	with	David	
that
	He	will	“never	lack	a	man
to	sit	upon	His	throne,	forever.”	Since	David	was	already	a	king,	this	promise
was	taken	to	mean	that	David’s	throne	in	Jerusalem	would	be	God’s	for	all
eternity. Jesus	himself	seems	to	second	this	notion	when	he	promises	that	the
Kingdom	of	God	is	at	hand,	yet	his	teaching	extends	much	further. In	Christ’s	conception	heaven	is	
present:
	It’s	an	inward	experience	that
can	be	felt	by	the	righteous. Heaven	is	also	
future:
	It’s	returning	home	to	be
with	God	that	the	righteous	await	on	Judgment	Day. Heaven	is	
personal:
	It	is
to	be	found	“within	you.”	At	the	same	time,	heaven	is	
universal:
	It	is	an
eternal	abode	beyond	birth	and	death,	a	place	outside	Creation. This	teaching	was	revolutionary	because	Jesus	built	a	bridge	to	the	soul,
exhorting	every	person	to	find	his	(or	her)	way	across. Before,	being
righteous	in	the	eyes	of	Jehovah	was	a	matter	of	ritual,	obeying	the	priests,
and	not	breaking	divine	commandments. Whether	the	Old	Testament	even
holds	out	any	afterlife	is	a	matter	of	debate. (Needless	to	say,	Jews	do	not
consider	the	New	Testament	an	advance	over	the	Old. As	Judaism	has
evolved	it	came	to	include	its	own	elaborate	metaphysics. But	for	millions	of
Reform	Jews,	there	is	no	afterlife. This	puts	pressure	on	every	believer	to	live
the	most	moral	and	righteous	life	possible	here	and	now.) After	Jesus,	people	could	go	on	a	spiritual	journey,	and	the	urgency	of	the
journey	was	something	quite	new. Heaven	was	a	prize	one	had	to	win	through
one’s	own	efforts. The	urgency	to	win	heaven	has	fueled	Christianity	to	this
day,	and	the	most	fervent	believers	declare	that	it	must	never	be	forgotten. But
do	they	remember	that	the	entire	process	happens	inside? In	today’s	culture	Christianity	has	become	stuck	in	literal	images—such
as	heaven	that	is	literally	a	place. There’s	no	hint	of	an	inward	journey	and	no
room	for	creative	exploration	of	the	soul. People	wind	up	arguing	fiercely
over	an	imaginary	landscape	far	removed	from	Jesus’	actual	teaching. The
ramifications	of	this	war	
reach
	everywhere. In	2005	a	forty-one-year-old
brain-dead	woman	in	Florida	named	Terri	Schiavo	became	the	focus	for	a	war
between	faith	and	science. The	heartache	of	Ms.	Schiavo’s	condition,	known
as	a	persistent	vegetative	state	(PVS),	is	that	the	brain-dead	person	may	have
brief	periods	of	what	looks	like	intermittent	wakefulness	as	facial	expressions
change,	the	eyes	blink,	and	the	head	possibly	moves. These	are	all
unconscious	reflexes. If	viewed	through	desperate	eyes,	slim	signs	of
wakefulness	can	seem	like	“minimal	consciousness,”	a	medical	term	that
implies	a	faint	degree	of	hope. Terri	Schiavo’s	parents	had	seen	her	eyesmove	after	she	emerged	from	her	original	coma,	and	this	they	interpreted	as	a
sign	of	recognition	from	someone	they	loved. (Right-wing	politicians	blew
these	faint	signs	of	awareness	out	of	all	proportion,	claiming	that	Ms.	Schiavo
laughed	and	cried,	knew	her	surroundings,	and	recognized	her	family.) The	idea	that	Schiavo	was	no	longer	alive—and	hadn’t	been	for	fifteen
years,	ever	since	the	day	in	1990	when	she	collapsed	from	heart	failure—was
attacked	vehemently	by	the	religious	right. President	Bush	flew	overnight
from	his	Texas	ranch	to	Washington,	D.C.,	so	that	an	emergency	bill	in
Congress	could	“save”	the	life	of	one	endangered	person,	a	move	that	was
denounced	in	some	circles	as	a	cynical	political	stunt. Accusations	of
hypocrisy	flew	freely. Isn’t	the	religious	right	also	an	eager	supporter	of
capital	punishment,	a	form	of	death	that	has	taken	scores	of	innocent	lives? In
the	end,	Terri	Schiavo’s	feeding	tube	was	removed	by	court	order,	despite	the
emergency	congressional	bill. She	died	two	weeks	later,	in	March	2005. The
right	to	end	the	life	of	the	brain-dead	has	been	well	established	all	the	way	up
to	the	Supreme	Court,	and	it	was	upheld	again	in	this	case. In	this	story	religion	traps	the	mind	in	a	welter	of	firmly	held
contradictory	positions. Those	people	who	so	vociferously	believe	in	heaven,
weren’t	they	also	denying	Terri	Schiavo	her	chance	to	go	there	by	trying	to
keep	her	alive? If	heaven	is	the	supreme	reward,	is	euthanasia	a	crime	or	a
gift? Medical	science	doesn’t	care	when	the	
soul
	enters	the	body	or	when	it
leaves. If	a	woman	in	PVS	can’t	see,	feel,	or	think,	then	taking	her	off	life
support	isn’t	much	of	a	change. She	will	go	from	dead	to	dead,	experiencing
merely	a	more	complete	definition	of	what	“dead”	means. Finally,	there	is	a
peculiarly	Christian	dilemma	here:	Was	Terri	Schiavo	going	to	heaven	now	or
on	Judgment	Day,	in	which	case	how	much	can	it	matter	if	she	is	allowed	to
die	sooner	or	later? According	to	fundamentalists,	her	body	will	still	have	to
wait	until	the	End	Time	to	rise	from	the	grave	and	meet	God	face	to	face. The	schism	between	science	and	religion	is	more	than	faith	versus
materialism. Science	absents	itself	from	metaphysical	questions,	but	most
people	assume	that	science	disproves	metaphysics,	indeed,	disproves	all
invisible	things	associated	with	God,	the	soul,	heaven,	hell,	and	so	on. This
assumption	is	skepticism,	not	science.
Life_After_Death_by_Deepak_Chopra.txt
Summarize the following text section accurately and concisely. Maintain specific details and numerical information, and use anti-repetition mechanisms:

        I	make	no	promises,
but	certainly	you	are	desperate	enough. ”
As	if	forgetting	her,	Ramana	began	to	play	on	his	flute	and	wandered
down	a	nearby	deer	path. Savitri	stood	for	a	moment,	dismayed	and	confused,
but	as	the	notes	of	the	flute	faded	into	the	forest,	she	had	no	choice	but	to	run
after	them. THE	MIRACLE	OF	DEATH
Every	life	is	framed	by	two	mysteries. Only	one	of	them,	birth,	is	considered
a	miracle. If	you	are	a	religious	person,	birth	brings	a	new	soul	into	the	world
from	its	home	with	God. If	you	are	not,	the	miracle	is	that	a	single	fertilized
cell	in	a	mother’s	womb	can	divide	and	subdivide	again	a	mere	fifty	times	to
produce	a	complete	new	person. A	blob	of	protein	and	water	somehow	knows
how	to	shape	itself	into	eyes,	hands,	skin,	and	a	brain. This	nine-month	transformation	keeps	accelerating,	so	that	by	the	end	a
million	new	brain	cells	are	appearing	every	minute. At	the	moment	the
newborn	emerges,	like	a	space	shuttle	undocking	from	the	mother	ship,	every
system	that	needs	to	function	independently—heart,	lungs,	brain,	and
digestive	tract—suddenly	realizes	that	the	moment	is	now	and	not	a	moment
later. Organs	detach	from	total	dependence	on	the	mother,	and	with
astonishing	precision	they	begin	to	act	as	if	they	had	always	been	on	their
own. In	a	split	second	life	chooses	to	live. The	other	mystery	that	occurs,	usually	decades	later,	death,	is	very
different. It	brings	to	an	end	all	the	things	birth	struggled	so	hard	to	achieve. A	thready	heartbeat	crosses	an	invisible	line	and	becomes	still. The	bellows	of
the	lungs,	which	have	pumped	some	700	million	times,	refuse	to	pump	even
once	more. A	hundred	billion	neurons	cease	to	fire;	a	trillion	billion	cells
throughout	the	body	receive	the	news	that	their	mission	is	over. Yet	this
abrupt	finale	is	as	much	a	mystery	as	birth,	for	at	the	moment	life	ends,	99%
of	our	cells	are	typically	still	functional,	and	all	3	billion	codons,	the
individual	letters	in	the	book	of	human	DNA,	remain	intact. Death	comes	without	the	miraculous	coordination	of	birth. Some	cells
don’t	even	get	the	news	for	some	time. If	the	dead	person	is	revived	within
ten	minutes	or	so,	before	the	brain	gets	permanently	
damaged
	by	hypoxia,	the
body’s	machinery	will	go	back	to	work	as	if	nothing	had	happened. Indeed,
death	is	such	a	blurry	event	that	eyelids	can	continue	to	blink	ten	or	twelve
times	after	a	head	is	severed	from	a	body	(a	grisly	fact	discovered	at	the	foot
of	the	guillotine	during	the	French	Revolution). Religion	doesn’t	consider	death	a	miracle. In	Christianity	death	is	linked
to	sin	and	Satan—the	Western	equivalent	of	the	Lord	of	Death. Death	is	the
enemy,	and	God	saves	us	from	its	clutches. But	with	God’s	help	dying	is	the
doorway	to	a	far	more	important	event—the	beginning	of	the	afterlife. To	the
religious	mind	death	brings	the	presence	of	God	near,	and	witnesses
throughout	history	have	claimed	to	actually	see	the	soul	depart. (Not	all	ofthese	witnesses	are	religious. I	know	of	a	prominent	psychiatrist	whose
atheism	was	deeply	shaken	in	medical	school	when	he	entered	a	cancer
patient’s	room	at	the	exact	moment	of	death	and	saw	a	ghostly,	luminous	form
emerge	from	the	body	and	disappear. ) There	is	a	persistent	legend	that	21
grams	of	mass	disappear	when	we	die,	which	must	be	the	weight	of	the	soul. In	fact,	no	such	change	occurs. Whatever	it	is	that	occurs	at	death,	I	believe	it	deserves	to	be	called	a
miracle. The	miracle,	ironically,	is	that	we	don’t	die. The	cessation	of	the
body	is	an	illusion,	and	like	a	magician	sweeping	aside	a	curtain,	the	soul
reveals	what	lies	beyond. Mystics	have	long	understood	the	joyousness	of	this
moment. As	the	great	Persian	poet	Rumi	puts	it,	“Death	is	our	wedding	with
eternity. ”	But	not	only	mystics	have	seen	through	death’s	illusion. The
eminent	twentieth-century	philosopher	Ludwig	Wittgenstein	wrote,	“For	life
in	the	present	there	is	no	death. Death	is	not	an	event	in	life. It	is	not	a	fact	in
the	world. ”
I	believe	that	death	accomplishes	the	following	miraculous	things:
It	replaces	time	with	timelessness. It	stretches	the	boundaries	of	space	to	infinity. It	reveals	the	source	of	life. It	brings	a	new	way	of	knowing	that	lies	beyond	the	reach	of	the	five
senses. It	reveals	the	underlying	intelligence	that	organizes	and	sustains	creation
(for	the	moment	we	won’t	use	the	word	“God,”	for	in	many	cultures	a
single	creator	is	not	part	of	dying	or	the	afterlife). In	other	words,	death	is	a	fulfillment	of	our	purpose	here	on	earth. Every
culture	offers	a	deep	faith	that	this	is	true,	but	ours	demands	a	higher	standard
of	proof. I	think	that	proof	exists,	but	it	cannot	be	physical,	since	by	definition
death	brings	physical	life	to	an	end. To	see	this	proof,	we	must	expand	the
boundaries	of	consciousness	so	that	we	know	ourselves	better. If	you	know
yourself	as	someone	beyond	time	and	space,	your	identity	will	have	expanded
to	include	death. The	reason	that	human	beings	keep	seeking	fulfillment
beyond	the	stars	is	that	we	sense	that	our	own	mystery	lies	there,	not	here	in
the	realm	of	physical	limitation. Eternity	Now
Being	an	invisible	miracle,	death	is	extremely	elusive. But	we	get	tantalizing
clues	that	what	lies	on	“the	other	side”	is	actually	very	close	to	us	right	now. People	don’t	comprehend	how	important	this	is	in	terms	of	the	afterlife. The
very	word	“after”	implies	that	time	hasn’t	changed	at	the	moment	of	death,that	it	still	moves	in	a	straight	line,	carrying	a	person	from	earthly	time	to
heavenly	time. This	is	wrong	on	two	counts. First,	eternity	is	not	a	function	of
time. In	Christianity,	sinners	consigned	eternally	to	hell	wouldn’t	be	punished
for	a	long	time. They	would	be	punished	
outside
	time. Good	people	who	find
salvation	also	live	in	that	same	region	where	clocks	never	tick. So	our
ordinary	sense	of	time	has	no	relevance	to	what	comes	“after. ”
Secondly,	our	everyday	sense	of	time	is	itself	based	on	eternity. The
universe	exploded	into	existence	14	billion	years	ago,	and	started	the	cosmic
clock	going. Our	bodies	experience	time	because	of	atomic	vibrations	at	the
level	of	hydrogen,	oxygen,	nitrogen,	and	carbon,	the	building	blocks	of
organic	chemicals. We	measure	outside	events	using	the	inner	clock	of	the
brain,	which	is	nothing	but	these	organic	chemicals. A	snail’s	brain	clicks	so
slowly	that	it	takes	five	seconds	before	one	event	passes	and	a	new	one
appears. In	that	five	seconds	you	could	pick	up	a	snail	and	move	it	ten	feet,
and	to	the	snail	it	would	appear	that	he	had	teleported	through	space. The
human	brain	ticks	fast	enough	that	we	can	sense	events	lasting	only	a	few
thousandths	of	a	second	(the	darting	of	a	mosquito,	the	blur	of	hummingbird
wings),	but	it	is	too	slow	to	observe	the	flight	of	a	bullet	or	the	million
neutrinos	that	pierce	our	bodies	every	minute. Before	the	Big	Bang	time	wasn’t	ticking	away;	a	second	was	equal	to
eternity. We	surmise	this	because	quantum	physics	has	pierced	the	illusion	of
time,	detaching	from	the	atomic	clock	to	go	deeper	into	the	fabric	of	Nature. At	the	deepest	level	vibrations	cease. The	universe	flatlines	like	a	dead	brain. Yet	the	appearance	of	death	is	illusory,	for	the	frontier	where	all	activity	ends
marks	the	beginning	of	a	new	region,	known	as	virtual	reality,	where	matter
and	energy	exist	as	pure	potential. The	basis	for	virtual	reality	is	complex,	but
in	simplest	terms,	a	nonphysical	region	must	exist	to	give	birth	to	the	physical
universe. This	region	is	a	void,	but	it’s	far	from	empty. Just	as	when	you	are
dozing	on	the	couch	your	mind	is	empty	but	can	awaken	instantly	to	an
infinite	choice	of	thoughts,	so	the	virtual	realm	awakens	to	an	infinite	realm
of	new	events. Creation	leaps	from	the	void	to	complete	fullness,	just	as
eternity	leaps	from	timelessness	into	the	fullness	of	time. If	eternity	is	with	us	now,	underlying	all	physical	existence,	it	must
underlie	you	and	me. The	illusion	of	time	tells	us	that	you	and	I	are	shooting
in	a	straight	line	from	birth	to	death,	when	in	fact	we	are	inside	a	frothy
bubble	let	loose	by	eternity. Actually,	the	event	of	death	has	never	been	all	that	far	away,	and	the	fixed
boundary	between	life	and	death	isn’t	impenetrable. A	woman	I	know	named
May	is	a	fifty-year-old	divorcée	from	New	Mexico. As	a	teenager	she
suffered	the	shock	of	having	her	adored	older	brother	die	suddenly	in	a	car
accident. “I	was	fifteen,	he	was	nineteen,	and	he	was	the	only	person	I’ve	ever
truly	worshipped. When	he	died,	poof,	just	like	that,	I	couldn’t	even	wrap	mymind	around	it,”	May	says. She	was	in	a	state	of	intense	grief	that	dragged	on
for	several	years. “I	retreated	completely. I	stopped	seeing	anyone. I	kept	asking,	
Why. I
want	an	answer. Tell	me. Day	after	day	no	answer	came. ”	May	had	given	birth
to	a	child,	so	she	decided	to	return	to	society	for	her	baby’s	sake. “I	knew	it
wasn’t	good	for	him	to	grow	up	as	a	recluse,	so	I	decided	to	start	seeing	a	few
people	at	a	time. ”
At	the	first	social	gathering	she	went	to,	May	felt	a	sudden	strange
sensation. “I	was	talking	to	someone	with	a	glass	of	wine	in	my	hand	when	I
realized	that	my	feet	had	gone	numb. The	numbness	quickly	moved	up	both
legs,	and	I	had	a	flash. This	is	it. Immediately	the	room	disappeared,	and	I
was	flying	through	space	faster	than	I	could	imagine. It	was	like	everything
was	incredibly	compressed	and	expanded	at	the	same	time. I	had	no	idea	how
long	I	was	gone. The	party	was	at	a	farm	out	in	the	country,	so	it	took	fifty
minutes	before	the	ambulance	arrived. By	then	I	had	come	to	again;	my
friends	told	me	they	had	felt	a	weak	pulse	the	whole	time. Nobody	knew	if	I’d
fainted	or	had	a	stroke. ”
I	asked	her	how	she	interpreted	her	experience. “It’s	still	here,”	she	said,
holding	her	palm	about	a	foot	from	her	chest. “About	that	far. ”
“What’s	still	here. ”	I	asked. “Eternity. I’m	sure	that’s	what	I	experienced,	and	the	feeling	has	never	left
me. It	reassures	me	that	I	exist	outside	my	body. In	my	thirties	I	had	a	tough
time	with	breast	cancer,	but	I	wasn’t	afraid	of	dying,	not	for	a	minute. How
could	I	be. I’ve	seen	eternity. ”
Vedanta—Answers	from	the	Soul
I	want	to	put	a	human	face	on	immortality	before	we	get	to	the	science	that
supports	it. Facts	are	useless	if	we	can’t	relate	to	them	personally,	and	nothing
is	more	personal	than	dying. In	ancient	India	the	idea	that	eternity	could	be
experienced	was	widely	accepted,	so	let’s	venture	there	to	see	how	that	was
possible. Thousands	of	years	ago	there	were	people	who	searched	the	depths
of	spirit	for	answers	without	offending	God	or	trespassing	on	his	domain. They	were	the	
rishis
,	or	sages	of	Vedic	India,	who	rose	into	prominence	when
Hinduism	was	in	its	earliest	flowering,	perhaps	as	far	back	as	four	thousand
years	ago	or	as	recently	as	a	thousand. The	names	by	which	the	rishis	are
known,	such	as	Vyassa,	Brighu,	and	Vasistha,	may	or	may	not	be	historical,
but	the	body	of	work	they	left	behind	numbers	in	the	thousands	of	pages. Many	writings	lack	a	proven	author,	much	like	the	Old	Testament,	but	the
teaching	of	the	rishis,	known	as	Vedanta,	isn’t	a	religion. The	spiritual	landscape	of	India	was	replete	with	gods	and	goddesses;
there	were	innumerable	Lokas,	or	nonphysical	worlds. There	were	alsohierarchies	of	angels	and	demons	to	rival	anything	in	Dante. In	the	face	of
such	bewildering	diversity,	the	rishis	didn’t	offer	one	God. They	offered	one
reality	that	encompassed	every	possible	experience,	both	in	this	life	and
beyond. They	posited	that	every	level	of	existence	was	actually	a	state	of
awareness. Other	worlds—all	worlds,	in	fact—were	formed	in	consciousness. Therefore,	as	creators	of	these	worlds,	we	could	experience	them	and
influence	them	at	will. That’s	the	essence	of	Vedanta. What	the	rishis	were
proposing	was	more	than	a	philosophy;	it	was	an	invitation	to	participate	in	an
endless	experiment. The	purpose	of	the	experiment	was	to	test	the	truth	of
reality	by	exploring	it	within	yourself. The	invitation	is	still	open. When	you	or	I	accept	it,	we	are	linked	to	the
Vedic	rishis	by	what	Aldous	Huxley	called	“the	perennial	philosophy,”	which
returns	in	every	age	to	suit	the	demands	of	a	
new
	generation. It	would	be
pointless	to	haul	an	ancient	tradition	into	the	present	if	it	didn’t	apply	to	us,
but	Vedanta	does. For	one	thing,	doubt	has	replaced	dogma	in	many	people’s
lives. The	present	spiritual	confusion	may	not	be	as	exotic	as	the	profusion	of
temples	and	gods	in	ancient	India,	but	listen	to	the	voices	that	circulate
around	us:
I	was	in	the	Alzheimer’s	unit	when	my	grandfather	died. He	was	a	totally
different	person	by	the	end—out	of	his	mind,	doped	up	on	morphine	to
the	max. It	was	like	watching	a	vegetable	die. It	was	like	nothing
changed	when	his	breathing	stopped. My	ex-husband	is	such	a	bastard. I	told	him	when	he	dies	he’s	got	a	ticket
straight	to	hell. First	class. I’m	a	Buddhist. When	I	drop	the	body	I	will	become	pure	consciousness. I’m	Hindu. I	am	pure	consciousness	already. Who	are	they	kidding. When	you’re	gone,	you’re	gone. Period. That	last	voice	is	the	voice	of	materialism,	which	regards	death	as	final
because	it	sees	life	only	in	the	physical	body. We	may	claim	that	denying	the
afterlife	is	scientific,	but	in	fact	it	merely	indicates	a	belief	in	materialism. The	rishis	believed	that	knowledge	wasn’t	external	to	the	knower	but	woven
inside	consciousness. Thus	they	had	no	need	for	an	external	God	to	solve	the
riddle	of	life	and	death. The	rishis	had	themselves	instead,	which	is	very
fortunate,	because	so	do	we. Each	person	is	conscious. Each	person	has	a	self. Each	person	is	certain	of	existence,	that	is,	of	being	alive. With	these	raw
ingredients,	Vedanta	declares,	anyone	can	come	up	with	firsthand	knowledge
of	anything,	no	matter	how	deep	the	mystery	appears. Then	why	haven’t	we. Perhaps	it’s	because	we	don’t	contact	the	deepest
part	of	ourselves,	which	the	rishis	called	
Atman. The	closest	equivalent	word
in	English	is	“soul. ”	Soul	and	Atman	are	a	spark	of	
the
	divine,	the	invisiblecomponent	that	brings	God’s	presence	into	flesh	and	blood. The	biggest
difference	between	them	is	that	in	Vedanta	the	soul	isn’t	separate	from	God. Unlike	the	Christian	soul,	Atman	cannot	come	from	God	or	return	to	him. There	is	unity	between	the	human	and	the	divine;	awareness	of	this	unity	is
the	necessary	step	that	makes	reality	dawn. To	say	“I	am	God”	comes	naturally	with	Atman. It’s	much	less	natural	for
us. Years	ago	I	had	a	friend	who	was	capable	of	intense	spiritual	experiences
like	leaving	his	body	and	seeing	white	light	in	his	heart—or	so	he	said. I	told
him	that	personally	I	didn’t	have	such	experiences. “Neither	do	I,”	he	replied. “I	have	them	impersonally. ”
He	gave	me	insight	at	that	moment,	because	something	eternal,	boundless,
and	unchanging	
cannot	be	personal. Out	of	habit	we	say	“my”	soul,	but	that’s
misleading. The	soul	doesn’t	belong	to	me	the	way	my	house	does,	as	a
possession,	or	as	my	children	do,	as	an	extension	of	my	flesh	and	blood. It
doesn’t	belong	to	me	like	my	personality,	or	my	memories,	because	senility
and	mental	disorder	can	disable	the	brain	and	take	away	both. Death	isn’t	about	what	I	possess	but	about	what	I	can	become. Today	I	see
myself	as	a	child	of	time,	but	I	may	become	a	child	of	eternity. I	see	my	place
here	on	earth,	but	I	may	be	on	a	journey	to	the	universe. Human	beings	have	a
deep	intuition	that	our	destiny	is	infinite,	but	we	fear	death	because	it	tests	our
wishes	and	dreams. We	fear	to	be	tested	because	if	we	turn	out	to	be	wrong,
then	all	our	aspirations	feel	empty. In	my	medical	career	I’ve	seen	how	afraid
people	can	be	at	the	last. Dying	isn’t	more	real	than	any	other	moment,	but	it
is	more	definitive. No	matter	how	rich	and	gifted	you	are,	death	is	the	great
equalizer. (I	remember	when	a	renowned	guru	was	giving	a	talk	about	how
being	absorbed	into	the	light	was	the	ultimate	spiritual	reward. The	woman
sitting	next	to	me	was	fidgeting;	she	leaned	over	and	whispered	in	my	ear,
“Sounds	a	lot	like	death	to	me. ”)
For	the	afterlife	to	have	meaning,	it	has	to	be	fully	as	satisfying	as	this
life. Bringing	money,	power,	sex,	family,	achievement,	and	physical	pleasure
to	an	end	is	not	a	trivial	thing. Much	that	we	love	and	depend	on	will	be
extinguished	when	this	life	comes	to	an	end. And	yet	we	can	bring	something
to	that	moment. Many	years	ago	when	I	was	an	inexperienced	medical
resident	in	Boston,	an	older	couple	was	admitted	to	the	hospital	together. The
husband	was	at	the	end	of	a	long	struggle	with	colon	cancer. The	wife,
although	she	had	a	history	of	cardiac	disease,	was	in	much	better	shape. The
two	shared	a	room,	and	over	the	few	days	that	I	visited	them,	I	could	see	how
attached	they	were	to	each	other. The	husband	lingered	for	days,	passing	in	and	out	of	consciousness,	in
considerable	pain. His	wife	sat	beside	him	holding	his	hand,	hour	after	hour. Then	one	morning	I	came	in	to	find	her	bed	empty—she	had	died	suddenly	of
cardiac	arrest	during	the	night. The	husband	was	having	a	lucid	period,	so	Itold	him	the	news,	reluctantly,	since	I	was	afraid	of	the	shock	it	would	give. But	he	seemed	very	calm. “I	think	I’ll	go	now,”	he	said. “I’ve	been	waiting. ”
“For	what. ”	I	asked	him. “A	gentleman	always	allows	the	lady	to	go	first,”	he	said. He	lapsed	back
into	unconsciousness	and	passed	away	that	afternoon. He	reminds	me	of	what	we	can	choose	to	bring	to	dying. Grace,	calm,	a
patient	acceptance	of	what’s	to	come:	These	are	all	qualities	that	can	be
cultivated,	and	when	they	are,	death	is	a	test	we	will	not	fail. Our	fault	is	not
that	we	fear	death	but	that	we	don’t	respect	it	as	a	miracle. The	most	profound
subjects—love,	truth,	compassion,	birth	and	death—are	equal. They	belong	to
our	destiny	but	also	to	our	present	life. Ultimately	the	goal	of	this	book	is	to
bring	death	into	the	present	and	thereby	make	it	equal	to	love. To	that	end,	I	will	continue	the	story	of	Savitri,	a	woman	who	sought	to
use	love	to	outwit	death,	as	an	interlude	in	our	discussion	of	
the
	afterlife. In
the	fullness	of	love	there	is	a	secret	that	she	learned	and	we	must	relearn. Tagore	hints	at	it	quite	beautifully	in	the	following	poem. W
HAT
	W
ILL
	Y
OU
	G
IVE. What	will	you	give
When	death	knocks	at	your	door. The	fullness	of	my	life
—
The	sweet	wine	of	autumn	days	and	summer	nights
,
My	little	hoard	gleaned	through	the	years
,
And	hours	rich	with	living. These	will	be	my	gift. When	death	knocks	at	my	door. 2
T
HE
	C
URE	FOR
	D
YING
AS	THEY	WANDERED
	farther	up	the	mountain,	Savitri	became	more	and	more
anxious,	but	Ramana	paid	no	attention	to	her. He	left	the	deer	path,	following
a	cut	among	some	huge	boulders,	and	was	lost	from	sight. Scrambling	after
him,	Savitri	spied	a	stream,	and	beside	it	sat	the	monk. He	pulled	out	his	reed
flute,	which	was	tucked	into	his	saffron	robe,	and	began	to	play. “My	music	doesn’t	make	you	smile. ”	he	asked,	noticing	the	anxious	look
in	Savitri’s	eyes. All	she	could	think	about	was	the	Lord	of	Death	awaiting
her	at	home. “We	have	so	little	time,”	she	implored. “Teach	me	what	you	would	teach. ”
“What	if	I	could	teach	you	the	cure	for	dying. ”	asked	Ramana. Savitri	was	startled. “I’m	sure	everyone	dies. ”
“Then	you	believe	in	rumors. What	if	I	told	you	that	you’ve	never	been
happy. Would	you	believe	me. ”
“Of	course	not. I	was	happy	this	morning,	before	all	this	trouble	began,”
said	Savitri. Ramana	nodded. “We	all	remember	being	happy,	and	no	one	can	talk	us
out	of	that	knowledge. So	let	me	ask	you	another	question. Can	you
remember	
not
	being	alive. ”
“No,”	Savitri	said	hesitantly. “Try	harder. Cast	your	mind	back	to	when	you	were	very,	very	small. Try
as	hard	as	you	can	to	remember	
not
	being	alive. This	is	important,	Savitri. ”
“All	right. ”	Savitri	tried	her	best,	but	she	had	no	memory	of	never	being
alive. “Perhaps	you	can’t	remember	not	being	alive	because	you	always	have
been,”	said	Ramana. He	pointed	to	a	locust	clutching	to	a	twig	over	her	head. “If	you	see	a	locust	emerging	from	the	ground	after	seven	years’	sleep,	does
that	mean	it	was	dead	before	that. ”
Savitri	shook	her	head. “Yet	the	only	reason	you	believe	that	you	were	born	is	that	your	parents
saw	you	emerge	from	the	womb. They	thought	they	witnessed	the	moment
when	you	began	to	exist,	so	they	spread	the	rumor	that	you	had	been	born. ”
Savitri	was	astonished	at	this	line	of	reasoning. Ramana	became	insistent. “Look	at	this	stream. All	you	see	is	a	shortstretch	of	it,	yet	would	you	say	you	know	where	the	stream	begins	or	where	it
ends. Heed	me,	Savitri. You	accept	death	because	you	accept	birth. The	two
must	go	together. Forget	these	rumors	that	you	were	ever	born. That	is	the
only	cure	for	dying. ”
Ramana	stood	up	and	tucked	his	flute	back	in	his	robe;	he	was	ready	to
walk	on. “Do	you	believe	me. ”
“I	want	to	believe	you,	but	I	am	still	afraid,”	Savitri	admitted. “Then	we	will	keep	going. ”	Ramana	began	to	walk	away	and	Savitri
followed,	pondering	what	he	had	said. It	seemed	irrefutable	that	if	she’d	never
been	born,	she	could	never	die. Was	it	really	true. Ramana	caught	her	thoughts. “We	can’t	base	reality	on	what	we	don’t
remember,	only	on	what	we	do. Everyone	remembers	being;	nobody
remembers	nonbeing. ”
After	a	moment	she	gently	touched	his	arm. “Play	a	little	more	for	me,
please. I	wish	to	remember	being	happy. ”	
CROSSING	OVER
Vedanta’s	assertion	that	the	soul	is	always	near	brings	us	face	to	face	with	the
fascinating	phenomenon	of	near-death	experiences,	which	have	become	a
fixed	part	of	popular	belief. (In	a	1991	Gallup	poll,	13	million	Americans,
roughly	5%	of	the	population,	reported	that	they	had	had	such	an	experience. ) Near-death	is	a	momentary	brush	with	another	reality,	or	so	it	seems	to	those
who	report	the	experience. A	person	is	lying	in	the	emergency	room	or
intensive	care	unit. His	heart	stops,	and	for	all	intents	and	purposes	death
ensues. Yet	some	of	these	patients,	typically	those	who	suffered	cardiac	arrest,
can	be	resuscitated. When	they	are,	nearly	20%	report	at	least	one	of	the
familiar	symptoms	of	NDE	(as	near-death	experience	is	abbreviated	in	the
medical	literature)—leaving	their	bodies,	looking	down	and	seeing
themselves	on	the	operating	table,	watching	medical	procedures	being
performed	as	doctors	tried	to	restart	their	hearts,	finding	themselves	in	a
tunnel,	going	toward	a	bright	light,	feeling	the	presence	of	a	higher	power,
hearing	or	seeing	loved	ones	beckoning	them	on. Dr. Pim	van	Lommel,	the	cardiologist	who	conducted	a	major	Dutch	study
on	this	subject,	was	astonished	by	the	finding	that	patients	were	having	a	full-
blown	NDE	after	their	brains	had	ceased	any	activity—they	were	flatline	until
revived. Suddenly	death	becomes	robed	in	the	trappings	of	a	miracle. How
can	a	person	experience	any	event	after	the	brain’s	clock	has	stopped. Other
cultures,	however,	have	ventured	even	further	into	the	timeless,	and	they
assure	us	that	time	may	end,	but	consciousness	continues. A	woman	named	Dawa	Drolma	sits	quietly	inside	a	black	felt	tent	at	the
base	of	a	Himalayan	peak. This	is	her	home,	but	there’s	little	privacy	here	as
visitors	stream	in	and	out	all	day	to	ask	questions	and	to	get	her	blessing. Dawa	Drolma	has	been	famous	throughout	eastern	Tibet	ever	since	she	came
back	from	the	dead. Her	death	occurred	
from
	a	sudden	illness	when	she	was
sixteen,	and	for	five	full	days	her	corpse	lay	untouched	by	family	or	priests. After	that	time	Dawa	reentered	her	body	with	a	full	memory	of	what	had
happened	in	the	
Bardo
,	the	subtle	world	of	Tibetan	Buddhist	afterlife. In	those	five	days	Dawa	spent	time	in	many	heavens	and	hells. (These	are
Christian	terms,	but	they	correspond	to	places	described	in	Buddhism	where
the	righteous	are	rewarded	and	evildoers	punished. ) The	goddess	of	wisdom
took	personal	charge	of	showing	Dawa	each	place,	pointing	out	who	was
there	and	why. She	felt	the	rapture	of	those	souls	who	were	prayed	for	by
their	still-living	families. She	heard	the	agonized	screams	and	pleas	for	mercyof	evildoers	who	had	committed	sins	on	earth. Dawa	met	the	god	of	death,
who	gave	her	messages	to	impart	to	the	living. He	knew,	and	so	did	she,	that
Dawa	would	return	to	life. In	fact,	her	dying	wasn’t	a	chance	event;	she
consciously	undertook	her	journey,	first	considering	all	the	risks	and	dangers. The	local	lamas	warned	her	not	to	do	it,	but	Dawa	had	a	conviction	that	her
life	was	going	to	be	entirely	about	her	death. Year	after	year	she	repeated	her	story;	it	took	a	long	time	to	convince
people. Tibetan	culture	wasn’t	prepared	to	give	spiritual	prominence	to	a
woman,	except	under	extraordinary	conditions. But	the	direct	knowledge
Dawa	brought	back	from	the	Bardo—and	from	the	“Clear	Light”	that	lies
beyond—was	unimpeachable. She	showed	people	where	to	find	buried	gold. She	knew	secrets	about	their	private	lives	and	details	about	departed	relatives
that	no	one	could	possibly	guess	at. She	debated	learned	lamas	and	equaled	or
outdid	them	in	Buddhist	theology. Dawa	Drolma	isn’t	unique	in	Tibet. People	who	come	back	to	life	are
called	
delogs
	(or	
deloks
),	and	one,	the	famed	Lingza	Chokyi,	left	a	vivid
account	in	the	sixteenth	century. “I	was	still	in	the	room,	but	instead	of	being
sick	in	bed	I	left	my	body	and	floated	up	to	the	ceiling. I	saw	my	body	like	a
dead	pig	dressed	in	my	clothes. My	children	wept	over	me,	and	this	caused
me	such	intense	pain. I	tried	to	talk	to	my	family,	but	no	one	could	hear	me. When	they	ate,	I	cried	and	got	
angry
	that	they	didn’t	feed	me. When	they	said
prayers	over	me,	I	suddenly	felt	much	better. ”
Stages	of	Awakening
One	amazing	thing	about	delogs	is	their	consistency;	the	experience	of	Dawa
Drolma	in	the	twentieth	century	mirrors	that	of	Lingza	Chokyi	four	hundred
years	previously. They	see	the	same	six	levels	of	the	Bardo,	are	guided	by	the
White	Tara,	the	goddess	of	wisdom,	and	receive	messages	to	bring	back	to	the
living. These	messages	tend	to	center	on	being	a	good	Tibetan	Buddhist	(just
as	apparitions	of	the	Virgin	Mary	in	every	century	tend	to	center	on	being	a
good	practicing	Catholic). Experts	in	near-death	experiences	find	much	common	ground	between
NDEs	and	delogs. They	both	describe	leaving	the	physical	body,	looking
down	on	themselves	and	the	surroundings,	being	unable	to	talk	to	the	people
they	see,	and	then	traveling	elsewhere	using	the	power	of	thought. When
delogs	report	that	in	the	other	world	they	had	“a	body	from	the	golden	age”—
which	is	to	say,	young	and	perfect—we’re	reminded	that	some	NDEs
remember	that	once	they	died	they	seemed	to	be	back	in	the	prime	of	physical
life,	somewhere	in	their	twenties	or	early	thirties. Deceased	relatives	appear
on	the	other	side,	a	region	the	Tibetans	call	“the	Bardo	of	becoming. ”	When
the	newly	dead	person	tries	to	join	them,	he	is	pushed	back	into	the	physicalworld	with	a	sense	that	it	isn’t	the	right	time	or	that	somehow	a	mistake	has
been	made. In	both	cases	there	can	be	a	profound	sense	of	coming	into
contact	with	God	or	the	supreme	Light,	after	which	the	fear	of	death	holds	no
more	power. There	are	significant	parallels,	then,	between	the	experience	of	NDE	and
the	delogs	of	Tibet. Since	delogs	provide	more	detailed	and	extended
accounts,	it	seems	fair	to	assume	that	an	NDE	is	just	the	beginning	of	the
awakening	taking	place	that	moves	the	dying	person	
through
	all	the	stages
needed	for	the	soul	to	reveal	itself. If	we	shed	the	specific	geography	of
Christian	heaven,	the	Buddhist	Bardo,	and	the	many	Lokas,	or	divine	realms,
of	Hinduism,	the	first	stage	of	the	afterlife	emerges	with	certain	consistent
events. “
C
ROSSING
	O
VER
”
How	the	afterlife	dawns
1. The	physical	body	stops	functioning. The	dying	person	may	not	be
aware	of	this	but	eventually	knows	that	it	has	occurred. 2. The	physical	world	vanishes. This	can	happen	by	degrees;	there	can
be	a	sense	of	floating	upward	or	of	looking	down	on	familiar	places
as	they	recede. 3. The	dying	person	feels	lighter,	suddenly	freed	of	limitation. 4. The	mind	and	sometimes	the	senses	continue	to	operate. Gradually,
however,	what	is	perceived	becomes	nonphysical. 5. A	presence	grows	that	is	felt	to	be	divine. This	presence	can	be
clothed	in	a	light	or	in	the	body	of	angels	or	gods. It	can
communicate	to	the	dying	person. 6. Personality	and	memory	begin	to	fade,	but	the	sense	of	“I”	remains. 7. This	“I”	has	an	overwhelming	sense	of	moving	on	to	another	phase
of	existence. This	sevenfold	awakening	isn’t	the	same	as	going	to	heaven. Researchers
often	call	this	the	“inter-life”	phase,	a	transition	between	the	mental	state	of
being	alive	and	the	mental	state	of	realizing	that	one	has	passed	on. There	are
many	specifics	that	change	from	person	to	person. Not	all	NDEs	“go	into	the
light. ”	Some	patients	report	traveling	to	various	planets	in	space	or	to	other
worlds	according	to	their	religious	beliefs. Some	experience	a	judgment	scene
that	can	
be
	quite	harsh,	or	even	hellish;	it	can	also	be	full	of	satisfaction,
however. The	nature	of	the	person	plays	a	large	part. A	child	can	come	back	from
heaven	and	report	that	it	was	full	of	baby	animals	at	play,	a	cardiac	patient
can	report	sitting	on	God’s	lap	and	being	told	by	the	Almighty	that	he	mustreturn	to	Earth,	and	a	delog	can	see	every	detail	of	Tibetan	theology. These
images	clearly	depend	on	the	culture	they	reflect. Huston	Smith,	an	expert	on
world	religions,	declares,	“Everything	we	experience	in	the	Bardos	is	a
reflection	of	our	own	mental	machinations. ”	One	can	substitute	“afterlife”	for
Bardos,	since	Christians	see	Christian	images,	not	Buddhist	ones,	and
Muslims	see	Islamic	images. Crossing	over	is	only	a	transition,	however. The	full	reality	of	the	soul
hasn’t	yet	revealed	itself. For	delogs,	still	ahead	lies	the	experience	of	“the
mind’s	pure	nature,”	as	Buddhists	would	call	it. Delogs	are	quite	clear	that
they	haven’t	actually	gone	anywhere,	that	every	level	of	the	journey	exists	in
consciousness. What	is	actually	real	isn’t	heaven	and	hell	but	the	“Clear
Light”	that	lies	beyond	them. Dawa	visited	that	brilliant	white	light	before
descending	back	through	the	intermediate	worlds	in	her	return	to	physical
existence. As	her	son	writes,	“Despite	the	fact	that	the	realms	of	cyclic	existence	are
in	the	absolute	sense	empty	in	nature,	mere	projections	of	[the]	mind’s
delusions,	on	a	relative	level	the	suffering	of	beings	trapped	there	is
undeniable. ”	Westerners	argue	over	whether	the	afterlife	could	be	as	real	as
the	physical	world;	Easterners	declare	that	both	are	mental	projections. Westerners	limit	the	human	life	cycle	to	a	short	span	between	birth	and	death;
Easterners	see	an	eternal	cycle	of	birth,	death,	and	rebirth. Thus	there	is	huge	room	for	variation	even	in	the	same	journey:	“As	if	in	a
dream	or	hallucination,	beings	float	in	and	out	of	Dawa	Drolma’s	perception
like	flakes	of	snow. In	one	instant	she	encounters	an	acquaintance	enduring
the	most	hideous	torments	of	hell;	in	the	next	she	meets	a	virtuous	person	on
the	way	to	a	pure	realm. Occasionally
,	she	sees	entire	processions	of	Bardo
beings	leaving	for	the	pure	realms	shepherded	by	a	great	lama	…	who	by	the
power	of	his	or	her	altruistic	aspirations,	has	come	to	save	[them]. ”
A	Wealth	of	Expectations
If	different	cultures	see	such	different	things	after	death,	we	must	face	the
possibility	that	we	create	our	own	afterlife. Perhaps	the	vivid	images	that
appear	to	dying	people	are	projections,	the	soul’s	way	of	helping	us	adjust	to
leaving	behind	the	five	senses. I	accept	that	the	afterlife	is	created	in
consciousness. But	as	a	noted	biologist	told	me	with	a	sigh	recently,	“The
minute	you	begin	to	use	that	word	‘consciousness,’	you	are	immediately	shut
out	of	science. ”	I	can	pick	up	a	recent	
Time
	magazine	to	read	the	following
from	Professor	Eric	Cornell,	a	Nobel	Prize	winner	in	physics:	
“Science	isn’t
about	knowing	the	mind	of	God;	it’s	about	understanding	nature	and	the
reasons	for	things. The	thrill	is	that	our	ignorance	exceeds	our	knowledge. ”
I’m	sure	that	many	people	would	agree,	without	realizing	that“understanding	nature”	has	limited	value	when	you	don’t	understand	human
nature. Why	are	we	leaving	ourselves	out	of	the	experiment. W
HEN	CONSCIOUSNESS	ISN’T
	a	viable	possibility,	explanations	can	only	come
from	materialism. Drugs	(for	example,	marijuana,	hashish,	LSD,	ketamine,
mescaline)	can	induce	the	brain	to	experience	both	a	white	light	and	a	tunnel
effect. So	can	putting	someone	in	a	centrifuge	and	spinning	them	at	high
enough	rates	to	press	blood	out	of	the	frontal	lobes—astronauts	and	test	pilots
have	such	experiences	when	trained	in	centrifuges. Extreme	stress	can	bring
on	hallucinations;	patients	hospitalized	in	intensive	care	during	the	aftermath
of	a	heart	attack	are	especially	prone	to	them. Is	it	possible	that	medicine	has	all	the	answers	after	all.
The author believes that the two mysteries are birth and death, which are considered miracles.
What are the two mysteries that the author believes are often overlooked?
The author views death as a miracle that brings a new way of knowing that lies beyond the reach of the five senses.
What is the author's view on the concept of death?
The author does not explicitly state a stance on the concept of God, but implies that the idea of a single creator is not part of the Vedic tradition.
What is the author's stance on the concept of God?
The story of Savitri and Ramana serves as an example of the author's view that death is not the end, but rather a new beginning.
What is the significance of the story of Savitri and Ramana?
The author believes that near-death experiences are a testament to the idea that the afterlife is not a physical place, but rather a state of consciousness.
What is the author's view on the concept of near-death experiences?