I left this retreat ‘reborn’. All I did was focus on one scary thing

It’s the day we’ve all been dreading. “Death day”, as we’ve facetiously called it; the second-last day of a Buddhism retreat at Kathmandu’s Kopan Monastery, when 130 fellow travellers and I will meditate on our own deaths.

We’ve heard whispers about this meditation since the start of the 10-day retreat. The 70-something Swedish nun who’s teaching this retreat has been priming us for the 40 minutes we’ll spend “focusing on our own impermanence”. She says that by looking squarely at the thing we spend most of our lives denying will ever happen, we can be spurred to live our lives with greater intention.

The bright interiors of Kopan Monastery.

We can also remove our fear of death, she adds, which in the Buddhist world isn’t thought of as an ending at all. Given the focus on reincarnation, it’s seen rather as a transformation into another form – a mosquito, perhaps, if you haven’t been kind or generous; or a prosperous prince if you have.

Whether or not you believe in reincarnation, death, of course, is the final destination to which we’re all inevitably headed. Despite knowing this intellectually, and having studied Buddhist philosophy for years, I, like most in the retreat, am mildly terrified.

We’re told to envisage telling our friends and family that we’re about to fall off this mortal coil...Credit: Jamie Brown

In the days leading up to “death day”, the other students’ questions mirror my own. Could meditating on death somehow will it to happen? Could it cause a panic attack? Or depress us to a point of no return? But our teacher keeps assuring us that Buddhists view end-of-life meditation as an uplifting and powerful practice. And that we likely will, too.

After eight days of meditating; of listening to Buddhist teachings on love and compassion, gratitude and generosity and the interconnectedness of all living beings; of eating and walking in silence and contemplating the nature of our existence, it’s time. We all file into the incense-shrouded gompa or meditation hall, sit on our designated round saffron and tangerine-coloured cushions, close our eyes and begin.

Following our teacher’s instructions, we imagine ourselves being driven to the doctor, where we’re given a terminal diagnosis and only a short time to live. We’re then told to envisage telling our friends and family that we’re about to fall off this mortal coil, before being nursed to the final day, and eventually experiencing the nothingness that will come afterwards.

Kopan Monastery hosts 3000 visitors each year seeking spiritual guidence.Credit: Getty Images

As I sit there, breathing in and out and imagining myself disintegrating into white light, I hear sniffs and nose-blowing coming from my fellow retreaters. I, however, remain dry-eyed. As it turns out, I have indeed found facing the one true certainty in life not as terrifying, but as life-affirming. My mind flashes images of loved ones, of our spinning planet and the very fact of being alive on it, and I feel immensely grateful for it all.

In the days afterwards I feel kind of reborn. Flowers look more beautiful, as do the smiles of strangers. Trees are brutally green and more alive than I remember them being. I find myself enjoying being aimless; enjoying stopping and looking up and noticing the way the light filters down through the clouds of an afternoon.

Surrendering to the idea that I’m definitely going to die is also accompanied by an epiphany: there must be something more important than compulsively seeking sensory pleasures and obsessively boosting status, and I’m filled with a greater sense of purpose.

So, if we want to discover the big world outside our little ego-bound cocoons and create a more meaningful life – one filled with more generosity and kindness, attention and intention, truth and connectedness – maybe all we need to do is find the courage to die.