If this is what dying feels like

Four weeks ago my body underwent spinal surgery. I say “my body” because the ego-self was asleep when it happened. The last thing I remember before going under was someone remarking on my painted toenails.

Later, in the recovery area, between muttered responses, I felt a floating sensation . . . a sliding back and forth between present and not-present. No thoughts or feelings that I can remember. And afterwards, although I had no sense of clock time, a cheerful voice within, “If this is what dying feels like, I’d be content to stay or to go.” No worries either way.

Is this how a ‘good death’ looks like? Do I have to be anesthetized to go there again? It felt so good, so light, so innocent — I’d like to die like that.

Twenty years ago, during our first one-on-one interview, my teacher explained that as the busy mind encounters something unfamiliar – such as a scent, a sound, a taste — it habitually proceeds to name, categorize, or judge it. Meditation practice, she went on, could open me to what lies beyond such a ‘normal’ reaction: toward an appreciation beyond words, toward the essence of all things.

How about I stop tinkering with the hospital experience — which by now is but a memory, an embellished one at that? How about letting it percolate through me, wash over me, see what comes of it? Instead of searching for meaning, remain open to whatever understanding may (or may not) emerge in due time?