Suzuki Roshi said, “Life is like stepping into a boat that will soon sail out to sea and sink.” He probably said it with a smile, because remembering that life and death are intertwined is a truth that is not intended to suppress, but to enliven, to remind us to value every moment of our lives, every relationship, every opportunity. Yet, especially in our culture, we tend to hide and deny death, as if it were something wrong to be feared. It is almost taboo to talk about it, so we use euphemisms such as: “Gone”, “He is no longer with us”. Or we hide our feelings with funny sayings like, “They kicked the bucket.” And this attitude towards death limits our children’s experience of life. I saw this so clearly when I worked as a site supervisor at a child care center in California.
My days at the center were filled with the pleasure and joy of working with a multicultural group of twenty-eight 3-5 year old children as they enthusiastically explored the world around them. One morning when I arrived, one of the teachers rushed over to tell me worriedly that our favorite goldfish had died. Out of breath, she said, “Hurry up, let’s flush it down the toilet before the kids see it!” I paused, grateful that as a supervisor I could ask for a different answer. “No,” I said gently, “let the children see and notice what has changed since he lived.” Let’s hear their comments and what they are wondering. And we can help them say goodbye to the goldfish, then we can bury it. He seemed taken aback by this plan. With her arms crossed over her chest and a grimace on her face, she watched as I quietly put the toys down from a low shelf in the middle of our classroom and put the fish on a paper plate where the kids could easily see it.
The fish lay on its side, one dark eye staring upward, its mouth slightly open, its fins sticking out stiffly from its body. I went from group to group of children playing, told them what had happened and invited them to come over to see the goldfish and say goodbye. Another teacher and I encouraged them to draw pictures of the goldfish and tell us what they have observed about it now, how it has changed since swimming in the aquarium. We gave them a chance to share what they thought, what happened to the goldfish, how they felt, and to ask questions if there was anything they wanted to know. Their answers ranged from what they observed – “He’s not moving”, “He’s cold”, “He can’t breathe” – to what they hoped and felt – “He’ll wake up soon”, “He’s gone to heaven”, “His life is going to heaven”, then “missing him”, “I’m sad”. We posted their drawings and comments on our bulletin board and shared them with their parents the same day. Many parents said they had no idea how to deal with death themselves and were unsure how to help their children deal with death, whether it was a pet, a grandparent or a friend. We suggested some children’s books about death and suggested keeping in touch with what the children were saying at home and at school.
After the day, the class began to notice that death was all around us. The flowers died, the plants died, the insects died, our pets died. In October, we saw our pumpkin lantern turn into mold, pulp and dirt. These endings of life have become a natural, ongoing part of life in our classroom. We created a “cemetery” where we buried our pets or small dead animals found outside, and the children got used to the poignant feeling of saying goodbye, drawing pictures, and memorial offerings on the graves. At the end of the year, when parents evaluated their experience at the Children’s Center, they generally expressed their gratitude and appreciation for open research on death.
Keeping quiet or communicating our own unanswered fears and discomfort about death to children teaches us that death is bad or something we can avoid, rather than an integral and natural part of life.
All day when the goldfish died, I was aware of the teacher wanting to “protect” the children by getting rid of their dead pet. Even though her posture gradually relaxed as she heard the children’s questions and comments, she still avoided their questions and often changed the subject, an all-too-common way of dealing with death in our culture. Keeping quiet or communicating our own unanswered fears and discomfort about death to children teaches us that death is bad or something we can avoid, rather than an integral and natural part of life. As an educator, I felt it was important to try to break through the silence about death. So when the annual state conference of teachers called for presentations, I plucked up the courage to submit my first proposal: “What do you do when the goldfish dies? Help children cope with death.” I was excited and nervous, I didn’t know if anyone would be interested in this topic at all. When I arrived about fifteen minutes early, every seat in the room, including the aisles, was full and several teachers were standing outside in the hallway hoping to get in. Dealing with death was clearly a hot topic for more than eighty educators that day.
I began by asking participants to move into small groups to share their earliest memories and experiences with death. The hum of conversation quickly filled the room as people leaned in, spoke and listened intently. I soon noticed tears running down many faces all over the room. When we returned to the whole group, I asked several questions: “What did the adults around you do when someone died, and is there anything else you wish they had done? What did you learn about dealing with death from your earliest experiences?” Through tears, one woman said: “I was 4 years old when my mother died. My relatives said she was gone, not dead. I couldn’t see my mother’s body and I couldn’t attend the funeral. I saw people crying or whispering around me, but I didn’t understand what was happening. I was so alone.” He went on to say that he did the same to the children in his classroom and tried to hide the death from them.
Next, I opened a flip chart on which I made two columns, one titled “Why should we talk to children about death?” with title. and the other with “Why not talk to children about death?” A lively discussion ensued as we filled in both columns. The affirmative side included: “Death is a natural part of life,” “Talking about it helps children learn to cope with loss,” and “If we don’t talk about it, we leave them alone to figure out what’s going on.” Hearing these, I once again wished that my own childhood experience had been framed by this kind of understanding. My reasons for not talking about death had more to do with what happened in my family growing up: “It will scare them. They’re too young to understand.” “What to say depends on your faith or religion” is a challenge in multicultural classrooms. Many heads nodded with the words “I don’t know what to tell them” and “Death scares me and I don’t want to talk about it” which seemed to come from deep sincerity.
At the end of the presentation, the teachers surrounded me, asked questions and expressed their gratitude for what they had learned and experienced. Whatever awkwardness, pain, or discomfort they had started with was no longer evident. I left the session with renewed confidence in how transformative it can be for us if we openly talk about death as an integral part of life.
By accepting the reality that I and everyone I love will die, I can open myself to death as an ally in my life. This encourages me to make good use of the time I have to reach out to her with love. It helps me face and heal any regrets that I have done or not done, that I have not forgiven or let go of. In the face of this mystery, I trusted in lasting love and deep relationships that never die. I feel the grace and constant presence of my deceased parents, friends and teachers. Although I have mourned their loss and still miss them, I experience their continued influence and support as they accompany me and help me grow.
However we interpret or frame the mystery of death, it is a part of our lives that can offer us gifts and teachings that awaken us to each moment.
However we interpret or frame the mystery of death, it is a part of our lives that can offer us gifts and teachings that awaken us to each moment. As Frank Ostaseskithe author and co-founder of the first Buddhist hospice in the United States puts it this way: “We cannot be truly alive without maintaining an awareness of death… He is the secret teacher, hiding in plain sight.”
When we allow ourselves to see and recognize this secret teacher, every moment offers an opportunity to appreciate and respond to life, even in the midst of loss and grief. Paradoxically, the more we open ourselves to grief—the reality that we and everyone we love and care about will die, that many species are dying across the Earth right now—the more we can embrace our ability to change with energy and vitality. Honoring our “secret teacher”, remembering that life depends – my life and all of my life – awakens us to the gift of being alive now, open to joy, delight and love.
♦
Extract from Back to our senses: Finding stability in an unstable world (Bell Ringer Press, April 2026). Used with permission.
