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I Was Never Mine
On the wisdom of no-self, Christianity, and Eastern thought
I was never mine; I was always God’s.
That’s the thought I have — the feeling that becomes a thought — as I stand looking out at an overcast morning in autumn. When I feel the tugging of a cold north wind.
It’s not unusual for me to think about death this time of year. Probably a lot of people do. Things are dying; winter is coming.
This thought, though — I was never mine; I was always God’s — in not unpleasant. Many times, when I think about death, it feels unpleasant. A preemptive grief, a loss. There is occasionally some fear, there is always almost a sense of bafflement, like How is it possible to die? But this morning it feels like I’ve hit on something approaching truth. A little more of the dharma.
I’m not religious. When I say “God,” it is a word to describe the universe, nature, everything. Looking at the last few orange-colored leaves clinging to the maples on my front lawn as the wind shears against them, I’m mostly thinking of nature. While our bones may contain stardust, I live on Earth. When I die, my body will remain aground.
