“Death is not the opposite of life,” wrote spiritual teacher Eckhart Tolle in his sublime meditation on nature and endless cycles of renewal. “Life has no opposite. The opposite of death is birth. Life is eternal.”

This profound insight into two quintessential states that frame our physical time on Earth is perhaps the most elusive one for our minds to grasp and comprehend. Not because of our incapacity to do so, but because of our innate tendency to push aside anything that threatens our solid sense of self, anything that goes against our illusion of control and security. When enforced stillness descended upon our planet in 2020, faced with limitations both physical and mental, many of us realized for the first time how blind and deaf we were to the elemental truth of our mortality.

So instead of getting ambushed and feeling unprepared, it’s essential for us to meditate on this subject often and remind ourselves that our bodies are frail, the world is unpredictable, and every day is precious. And what better way to do it than to contemplate awe-inspiring art in the form of Death and Life by an Austrian symbolist painter Gustav Klimt (1862-1918) included in an altogether dazzling volume Gustav Klimt: Drawings and Paintings edited by art historian Tobias G. Natter.

Painted around 1910, several years before the start of World War I, the first version of Death and Life features the Grim Reaper as a felt but passive presence opposite unceasing cascade of human shapes symbolizing different stages of life, from the innocence of a newborn baby to the graceful repose of old age. Facing the endless continuity of Life, death is dormant just as the figures in front of it.

It is unknown why Klimt decided to radically rework the painting in 1915¹. But it can’t be a coincidence that this decision coincided with the start of the Great War, accompanied by unimaginable loss of human life on a global scale and no-less-tragic loss in his personal life when in 1915 death took his mother Anna and his daughter Charlotte². In the second version of Death and Life, the Grim Reaper has a menacing look and ready to strike at any moment. Death’s presence and its threat can no longer be ignored; the artist’s perspective has changed, and so has the viewer’s.

“Whoever wants to know something about me — as an artist, the only notable thing — ought to look carefully at my pictures and try to see in them what I am and what I want to do,” Gustav Klimt said about his art and his life³. To get to know Gustav Klimt and immerse yourself more deeply into the details of his marvelous painting, treat yourself to this wonderful 3-minute art primer by Khan Academy’s Dr. Beth Harris and Dr. Steven Zucker. Enjoy:

DEATH AND LIFE
by Gustav Klimt

We’re in the Leopold Museum in Vienna and we’re looking at Gustav Klimt’s Death and Life.

Klimt is taking older traditional scenes and reworking them and making them wildly contemporary, wildly modern.

This is loosely based on the subject of the dance of death, which is a medieval subject showing death coming to people of all ranks. The idea that death comes to everyone, whether you’re a peasant or a priest or prince. Usually, death holds an hourglass or a scythe. But here, and I think this is very unusual, death holds a club and looks much more dangerous and menacing.

The skull is looking towards life eagerly. When I say life, I’m referring to this accumulation, this almost architecture of human bodies. Old and young and the newborn.

There’s this sense of generations and generations of human beings who have been taken by death.

If you look at the overlapping of those bodies, there really is a sense of a succession of movement forward in time but not towards anything.

They do seem to be swept along as though in a dream.

That idea of their eyes closed, of the dream, I think is really important. This notion of the subconscious or of the dream state was something that was being developed by Freud in Vienna at this time. We should say that there were two exceptions to those eyes being closed. One is the infant, and there is a kind of instinctual aspect there. This is not yet a learned consciousness. And the other eyes that are open are those of the young woman on the extreme left. She seems almost crazed, almost delusional.

To me, it reads like death on one side and pleasure or sensuality on the other.

There’s a real mirroring. And I think both figures are intensified because of the other. Their hands are even somewhat together. One holding the club one, one clutching her breasts.

We see on both sides that characteristic decorative patterning that we associate with Gustav Klimt so much. On the side of death, we see very dark colors and the shape of a cross, clearly an allusion to the church and maybe resurrection or afterlife. On the right, much brighter colors, shapes that suggest flowers, decorative patterns that suggest renewal.

That pattern, it really seems to flatten the entire image.

In Europe, at this time, we see it an interest in the interior, in dream states, in a removal from the everyday world, a kind of reaction against the materialism and quick pace of modern industrial life. This interest in instinctive drives has particular significance in Vienna even more than the symbolist movements in other countries at this time.

It does seem to me to be a really successful solution to a problem that artists have been grappling with for some time, which is, how do you rescue the profound qualities that art had been able to achieve in history without resorting to history painting or the traditional modes that had been so worn out by the end of the 19th century. Was it possible to find a new arena to explore? And they did, but that arena was an interior one.

Death and Life, an integral part of Gustav Klimt’s Drawings and Paintings, remains a transcendental work of art and a liberating reminder about our essential human condition. Complement this visual object of meditation with Eckhart Tolle’s audio meditation on nature, cycles of renewal, and our biggest misunderstanding about life and death.

“I knew my woods and my fields; I knew every bend in the creek and dip in the beaten dirt paths. I wandered those woods even in my dreams,” writes Richard Louv in the opening chapter of his book Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children from Nature-Deficit Disorder. “A kid today can likely tell you about the Amazon rain forest — but not about the last time he or she explored the woods in solitude, or lay in a field listening to the wind and watching the clouds move.”

It is disheartening that we live at a time when the young spend less and less of their leisure time in nature. Their senses narrow down, both in their bodies and their minds, reducing their capacity for the true unmediated joy of reconnecting with the source of life. It is indeed a symptom of a nature-deficit disorder, a term Richard Louv coined to describe the dear price we pay for our alienation from Mother Earth.

But what happens if we teach our kids to go out in nature? What happens if we nourish the inborn sense of awe in the mysteries of the living world all around us? The answer can be gleaned from a story a ninth-grader told Richard Louv about his trip to the forest where he found The Spot, as he called it, and a subsequent inexplicable spiritual moment of amazement:

As long as I can remember, every time I heard the word “nature” I thought of a forest surrounded by mountain peaks seen off in the distance. I never thought too much of this until one year when I was on a family vacation at Mammoth Mountain. I decided I would try and find a place that was similar to the place I have thought about since I was a kid. So I told my parents I was going to go on a walk. I grabbed my coat and I left.

To my surprise, it only took about five or ten minutes to find The Spot. I stood there in awe; it was exactly how I imagined it. Dozens of massive pine trees were visible. Maybe one hundred feet from where I stood, snow lightly covered the ground; pine needles were scattered about. Out in the distance above the trees was a breath-taking view of the mountaintop. To my side was a small creek. The only sound I could hear was the trickling of the water (and the occasional car on the highway not too far behind me). I was in a star-struck daze for what seemed to be five or ten minutes, but that turned out to be two and half hours.

My parents had been looking for me because it was getting dark. When we finally met up, I told them I had gotten lost, for how could I share such an experience, such an overwhelming religious experience? This episode really made me think about the real meaning of nature. I have come to the conclusion that one’s idea of nature is also their idea of a paradise or a heaven on earth. In my case, I felt perfect when I was at The Spot.

Complement this particular portion of the Last Child in the Woods, an enlightening read in its totality, with philosopher and transcendentalist Henry David Thoreau on why he went to live in the woods, and then revisit Deborah Underwood and Cindy Derby’s watercolor meditation on our inseparable link to nature.

“Patience is a form of wisdom. It demonstrates that we understand and accept the fact that sometimes things must unfold in their own time,” wrote Jon Kabat-Zinn while reflecting on the seven most vital ways to improve our meditation practice. “A child may try to help a butterfly to emerge by breaking open its chrysalis. Usually, the butterfly doesn’t benefit from this. Any adult knows that the butterfly can only emerge in its own time, that the process cannot be hurried.”

When we find a few minutes of spare time to sit down and meditate, despite all our genuine efforts, we can’t help but feel rushed, to get it over with as soon as possible. At the core of this debilitating mental habit lies our inability to be fully present, to step out of “psychological time” of wanting to be somewhere else, of feeling discontent with what we already achieved. If not addressed, with time this may result in doubt that our meditation really works, that we are making steady progress on the path to inner calm and freedom. This inescapable feeling of impatience and reservation that every spiritual seeker faces at one time or another, is what Nobel-Prize-winning writer Herman Hesse (1877-1962) takes up in a passage from Siddhartha, his 1922 classic novel about a young man’s quest for enlightenment.

In the chapter titled “With the Samanas,” following Siddhartha’s departure from home to join the wandering ascetics leading a life of complete renunciation and extreme austerities, after “he traveled the way of self-denial through meditation, through the emptying of the mind of all images,” but finding, again and again, the “return” was inevitable and feeling “the torment of onerous life cycle,” Hermann Hesse writes:

What is meditation? What is abandonment of the body? What is fasting? What is the holding of breath? It is a flight from the Self, it is a temporary escape from the torment of Self. It is a temporary palliative against the pain and folly of life. The driver of oxen makes this flight, takes this temporary drug when he drinks a few bowls of rice wine or cocoanut milk in the inn. He then no longer feels his Self, no longer feels the pain of life; he then experiences temporary escape.

But then, as if seeing through this habitual pattern of doubt, impatience, and discontent, Hesse reassures his protagonist through the lips of Govinda, Siddhartha’s childhood friend and loyal companion:

You speak thus, my friend, and yet you know that Siddhartha is no driver of oxen and a Samana is no drunkard. The drinker does indeed find escape, he does indeed find a short respite and rest, but he returns from the illusion and finds everything as it was before. He has not grown wiser, he has not gained knowledge, he has not climbed any higher. … We have learned much, Siddhartha. There still remains much to learn. We are not going in circles, we are going upwards. The path is a spiral; we have already climbed many steps.

Siddhartha in a wonderful translation by Hilda Rosner remains a kind of book that reveals its wisdom with each subsequent reread along with your own progress on a spiritual path. Complement with mindfulness teacher Gil Fronsdal advice on how mindfulness works when it doesn’t work and then revisit meditation teacher Jon Kabat-Zinn’s list of seven essential meditation tips we need to know.

“Love that only which happens to you and is spun with the thread of your destiny. For what is more suitable?” wrote Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius in his timeless collection of wisdom called Meditations. I often go back to this quote to draw upon the strength it gives us to live our lives unapologetically while facing every obstacle with complete acceptance unburdened by self-pity and egoic resistance. It reminds me that we are ultimately a part of the bigger whole, an interdependent tesselation of the cosmos, an entire chronicle of perceived reality brought to fruition in this single instance, the unfathomable vastness of the present moment.

This simple, yet profound instruction written thousands of years ago is more relevant now than ever before. At the time when our world is plunged into global chaos and disarray, it’s becoming vital that we learn how to function and hold on during a time of crisis. This is exactly what American Buddhist nun Pema Chodron explores with soulful wisdom in her book When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times. In this book, she outlines three techniques for dealing with chaos, difficulties, and unwanted events in our daily lives.

The first of these methods is called no more struggle; the second, using poison as medicine; and the third, seeing whatever arises as enlightened wisdom. The first of these techniques is directly related to our daily meditation practice. Echoing mindfulness teacher Jon-Kabat Zinn’s advice that in meditation “we try not to impose our ideas about what we should be feeling or thinking or seeing,” Pema Chodron writes:

When we sit down to meditate, whatever arises in our minds we look at directly, call it “thinking,” and go back to the simplicity and immediacy of the breath. Again and again, we return to pristine awareness free from concepts. Meditation practice is how we stop fighting with ourselves, how we stop struggling with circumstances, emotions, or moods. This basic instruction is a tool that we can use to train in our practice and in our lives. Whatever arises, we can look at it with a nonjudgmental attitude. …

It’s like inviting what scares us to introduce itself and hang around for a while. As Milarepa sang to the monsters he found in his cave, “It is wonderful you demons came today. You must come again tomorrow. From time to time, we should converse.” We start by working with the monsters in our mind. Then we develop the wisdom and compassion to communicate sanely with the threats and fears of our daily life.

The second method, using poison as medicine, is intended to train our minds to see everything that happens to us as a tool for growth, something that can change from an obstacle to the path itself. We start to use everything that occurs — thoughts, emotions, outer circumstances — to show us the areas where we live unconsciously and how to wake up and start seeing clearly again. Pema Chodron writes:

When anything difficult arises — any kind of conflict, any notion of unworthiness, anything that feels distasteful, embarrassing, or painful — instead of trying to get rid of it, we breathe it in. The three poisons are passion (this includes craving or addiction), aggression, and ignorance (which includes denial or the tendency to shut down and close out). We would usually think of these poisons as something bad, something to be avoided. But that isn’t the attitude here; instead, they become seeds of compassion and openness. …

This poison is not just our personal misfortune, our fault, our blemish, our shame — it’s part of the human condition. It’s our kinship with all living things, the material we need in order to understand what it’s like to stand in another person’s shoes. Instead of pushing it away or running from it, we breathe in and connect with it fully. We do this with the wish that all of us could be free of suffering. Then we breathe out, sending out a sense of big space, a sense of ventilation or freshness. We do this with the wish that all of us could relax and experience the innermost essence of our mind.

The third method for working with chaos is seeing whatever arises as a manifestation of enlightened wisdom. Overcoming our habitual thought patterns of denial and looking directly at the essence of things all around us, we acknowledge that suffering exists, that darkness exists. The chaos is the basic energy, facetiousness of unfathomable wisdom. Pema Chodron writes:

Traditionally the image used for regarding whatever arises as the very energy of wisdom is the charnel ground. In Tibet the charnel grounds were what we call graveyards, but they weren’t quite as pretty as our graveyards. The bodies were not under a nice smooth lawn with little white stones carved with angels and pretty words. In Tibet the ground was frozen, so the bodies were chopped up after people died and taken to the charnel grounds, where the vultures would eat them. … Perhaps the closest thing to a charnel ground in our world is not a graveyard but a hospital emergency room. That could be the image for our working basis, which is grounded in some honesty about how the human realm functions. It smells, it bleeds, it is full of unpredictability, but at the same time, it is self-radiant wisdom, good food, that which nourishes us, that which is beneficial and pure. …

The world we find ourselves in, the person we think we are — these are our working bases. This charnel ground called life is the manifestation of wisdom. This wisdom is the basis of freedom and also the basis of confusion. In every moment of time, we make a choice. Which way do we go? How do we relate to the raw material of our existence?

Complement When Things Fall Apart, a healing read during times of uncertainty and chaos, with spiritual teacher Eckhart Tolle’s advice on three powerful ways to overcome challenges in life.