Setting Things Down

When time is short the mind turns to accounts: what I did, what I failed to do, who I hurt, what I never said. And alongside the ledger, the closets and the roles, all of which now need deciding about.

The inventory

Longchenpa wrote a short list of what lets a person die without regret. Every item on it is within reach of someone lying in a bed.

Having done no harm that you could help, you die without regret.
With a mind that carries no remorse, you die without regret.
Having kept a sense of conscience and consideration for others, you die without regret.
Having kept the commitments you made as cleanly as you could, you die without regret.

— Longchenpa

Notice what is not on the list. Not having finished the work. Not having made the money. Not having been understood. Not having lived as long as you meant to. None of those were ever in your hands. What is on the list is all about the heart, and the heart can be attended to in an afternoon.

What can be done

If there is an apology you owe, make it. Not a long one, not one that explains and justifies. “I am sorry for that. I wish I had done it differently.” That is enough, and usually more than the other person expected.

If there is something that needs saying, say it. Thank you, I love you, forgive me, I forgive you, goodbye: you do not have to say all of them to everyone, but if one is stuck in your throat, it will not get easier later.

If there is a forgiveness you have been withholding, consider letting it go. Not because the other person deserves it, and not because what they did was all right. Because resentment is a weight, and you are about to travel light, and you do not have to carry it one more mile.

If there is a practical matter that will burden the people you love, a document, a password, a decision, take care of it or ask someone to.

What cannot be done

Then there is the rest. The person who died before you could make it right. The child who will not speak to you. The years spent in a way you now wish you had not. Every life has some of this, and the ledger never fully closes, and if you wait for it to close before you can be at peace, you will wait past the end.

Regret, honestly felt and honestly acknowledged, is itself the remedy. Not endless regret, not the same trial run every night. A single clear look: I did that. It caused harm. I wish I had not. And then release. Release is not pretending it did not happen. It is recognizing that the harm was done by a mind in confusion, and that beating that mind now does not undo one particle of it. There is no one keeping score against you. The score was always kept by you, and you are allowed to close the book.

Things, roles, and the body

Dudjom Lingpa goes through everything a person spends a life gathering, and after each one says: on the morning of death.

Pile up food the size of a mountain:
on the morning of death there is no time to eat one mouthful.

— Dudjom Lingpa

Whatever you own, you also carry, by a small thread of attention, and a dying person feels the threads pull because the strength to hold them is going. So give things away, now, by hand, while you can see the face of the person receiving them. The coat to the friend who admired it. The tools to the nephew. The books to whoever will read them. Each thing given is one thread cut, and people are surprised by how light it feels.

Harder than the objects are the roles. The one who handles things, the one who is strong, the person everyone calls. When you let someone else handle things, you are not failing the people who love you. You are giving them the last role, the one they will remember: they got to care for you. Let them bring the food, do the forms, sit in the chair.