No One Escapes Impermanence
I am 67 years old now. That places me firmly in the “older” category, and before long I’ll be considered elderly. My body, though still mostly healthy, offers daily reminders of impermanence—an ache here, a stiffness there, the occasional protest from my back. I used to take health and comfort for granted. Now I see how quickly life moves, each year vanishing more swiftly than the last.
With age comes the awareness that my generation’s season is fading. My father and brother are gone, as are most of my uncles and aunts. Their absence reminds me daily of a truth we all share: no one escapes impermanence.
Death remains one of the last taboos in our culture, rarely acknowledged except in hushed tones. Yet it lingers close by: in the stories that fill the news, in the struggles of friends and family, in the quiet ache of loss. And if we look honestly, we see that a surprising portion of daily life is spent warding it off—choosing caution at crosswalks, avoiding needless risks, attending to our health whenever concern arises.
Even so, awareness of death is not only heavy. It can also awaken gratitude. When we realize there will be a final time for everything—the last cup of coffee, the last shared laugh, even the last load of laundry—ordinary moments take on a quiet radiance.
The Buddhist teacher Sogyal Rinpoche once wrote:
“When we finally know we are dying, and all other beings are dying with us, we start to have a burning, almost heartbreaking sense of the fragility and preciousness of each moment and each being. From this can grow a deep, clear, limitless compassion for all beings.”
I want to live with this reminder close to my heart, letting it soften how I move through the world. It changes how I greet the cashier at Target, or listen when a friend tells a long story. It shifts my patience when someone arrives late to lunch, and deepens my tenderness when my wife Heidi sighs at the end of a long day.
Impermanence can be a harsh teacher, but it also offers a rare gift: the chance to cultivate a mind that rests in peace, even while everything changes. I like to imagine such a state of being, where I can watch the whole process of aging and transience with open eyes and still feel gratitude, contentment, and even joy. That seems to me a practice worth devoting one’s life to.
As the poet Danna Faulds reminds us:
“There is no controlling life. Try corralling a lightning bolt, containing a tornado. The more we resist change, the more turbulent it becomes. Relax into the changing moment. The only safety lies in letting it all in—the wild with the weak, fear, fantasies, failures, and success.”
