Over the years, whenever I’ve found myself in a social gathering where everyone is invited to share something unique about themselves, my go-to reveal has usually been that I do a quick scan of the New York Times obituary pages on a daily basis, and often take the time to read one or more of the entries in their entirety.  While some might interpret this habitual practice as indicative of a somewhat morbid fascination with death, for me the attraction in reading these brief biographical sketches has always been in recognizing the significance of the life that was lived, not the death that ended it. 

But lately, with my 74th birthday only weeks away, the experience of consulting the obituaries every morning has started to bring a more personal response.  Invariably these days, I find myself taking special note of the reported deaths for individuals aged 74 or younger.  My lifelong curiosity about how other people have lived their lives seems to be morphing into a curiosity (and perhaps an anxiety) about how much longer this life of mine is likely to last.

This growing awareness of my mortality reinforces, and in turn is being reinforced by, the natural affinity I’ve long felt for secular Buddhism’s emphasis on the impermanent nature of the one and only life each of us gets to lead in this ever-changing contingent world we all get to share.  My newfound concern about the ever-shrinking amount of time left to me could very well strike some as a kind of morbid preoccupation, just as my daily obituary reading habit could.  But for me, quite the opposite is true.  Rather than brooding over the inevitable approach of death, this deepening sense of time as a finite and precious phenomenon is actually enhancing my awareness of, and appreciation for, the life that I still have left to live.

Reflecting on impermanence and mortality, as I now so frequently do, often brings to mind what is purported to be the last statement uttered by the historical Buddha, Siddhartha Gotama, as he lay dying surrounded by his followers: ‘Things fall apart. Tread the path with care.’

The first half of this statement – ‘things fall apart’ – scarcely needs elaboration, as it concisely captures one of the fundamental tenets of Buddhism, the impermanence of all things, most especially our frail physical bodies. There’s nothing like reading the obituary page every day to keep that core truth fresh in mind!

It’s the second half – ‘tread the path with care’ – that invites further consideration, given the two distinct ways of reading the phrase ‘with care’. If we take it as an adverbial clause, the admonition can be interpreted as ‘Tread carefully on the path’, i.e., carefully monitor your personal adherence to the traditional eightfold path of wise, ethical, and mindful behaviors prescribed therein. But if, instead, we take it as a prepositional clause, then the more appropriate interpretation would be something like ‘As you tread the path, extend care to all those you meet along the way’.

When I first came upon this deathbed admonition from the Buddha, as a fairly novice practitioner of vipassana-style mindfulness meditation, I interpreted it in the former sense.  By attending to the teachings implicit in this eightfold path (by treading it carefully), I hoped to become a more mindful person, a more skillful meditator, a more knowledgeable Buddhist.  Worthy enough aspirations, but what I failed then to take sufficient note of was how these intentions were inadvertently limiting my focus to very little beyond my own self.

As I’ve become more engaged in recent years with secular Buddhism and its emphasis upon Buddhist ethics, I’ve been drawn more and more to the latter interpretation of Buddha’s advice.  Treading the path with care, I’ve come to think, calls on us to maintain a constant awareness of our interconnectedness with every other being.  It asks us to think rigorously about how we’re living our one and only life, and especially about how we’re interacting with all those we meet along our path.

A life marked by caring for others, rather than simply being careful for oneself, seems more in tune with Buddhism’s exhortation to its practitioners to respond with all the compassion we can muster to the suffering we observe all around us. So, as I read those obituary pages every morning, and contemplate how I ought to be spending whatever time I have left before ‘things fall apart’ for me, I remind myself to do my best that day to ‘tread the path with care’ for others. I can’t think of a more ethical – or a more meaningful – way to go.