Recently, I joined a podcast to speak about death. (If you understand Swedish you can listen to it here. ) Both symbolically and philosophically. But primarily—as the inescapable fact it is.
It’s not a subject I shy away from. In my world, death is a companion, not a threat. I’ve sat with people who were dying. I’ve guided meditations on impermanence. I’ve conducted memorials. And when I speak of it, people often become very still. Some weep. In this conversation, the host did. Because there’s something intimate and wild about talking openly about death in a culture that’s built to deny it. And most people hold on to their loved ones and lack tools to deal with the pain of loss—not to mention how to speak about it.
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We live in a time and place—industrialized, hyper-distracted, progress-obsessed—where death is treated like a failure. We disguise it with softer words. We sterilize it, tuck it away behind hospital curtains, or outsource it to silence. We speak of productivity, but not of passage. We speak of growth, but not of release. And yet death calls us back to what is essential.
When I was in my early twenties, I died.
Not metaphorically. My body gave way. My breath stopped. I left.
And then, I returned—because the momentum of karma pulled me back.
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There was no tunnel of light. There were no angels singing. But there was clarity—vast, silent, unmistakable. In that moment, everything unnecessary fell away. The illusions of control, permanence, identity—all gone. What remained was the bare hum of being. A memory too large for words, and too precise to forget.
Buddhist teachings tell us that all things—bodies, mountains, stars—are composed of five elements: earth, water, fire, air, and space. These aren’t poetic symbols. They are the deep anatomy of everything. Earth is form, structure, weight. Water is connection, fluidity, feeling. Fire is energy, transformation, desire. Air is movement, breath, thought. Space is awareness itself—the vastness that allows all else to exist.
At the moment of death, these dissolve. One by one.
The earth of the body loses its firmness.
The water of the cells dries out.
The fire of metabolism flickers and goes dark.
The air, our breath, leaves.
And then, space remains. Open. Undivided. Clear.
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But these elements are not only what our bodies are made of. They are also how wisdom moves. In the Vajrayana tradition, each element is associated with a Dakini— a sky dancer. Often depicted as a luminous feminine principle, a wisdom force that dances through the body and mind, guiding dissolution not as destruction, but as revelation.
The Earth Dakini is stability, presence, the ground of being.
The Water Dakini is flow, compassion, and adaptability.
The Fire Dakini is clarity, wrathful love, and transformation.
The Air Dakini is movement, breath, subtle insight.
The Space Dakini is the vast, unborn knowing that holds all things without grasping.
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Dakinis are not distant deities. They are the faces of nature when she is awake. They are the movements of our own mind when we are unguarded. They rise in meditation, in dreams, in the forests and rivers, in the rising and falling of breath. They are what remains when all mental constructs dissolve. And they are what return us—not to doctrines, but to direct experience.
To live aligned with the elements, to recognize the Dakinis in our own being, is to live close to our inherent nature. It is also to live in contradiction to the dominant culture. We are taught to dominate nature, not to listen to her. We build systems designed to outwit the very cycles we belong to. We speak of nature as it, when in fact it is we.
Our bodies are not standing on earth—they are earth.
Our bodies do not just breathe air—they are air.
We do not pass through space—our bodies are space.
We rise from her, dissolve into her, and rise again.
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Among the foundational teachings in Buddhism, there are verses designed to turn the mind toward the Dharma. They are stark and simple:
“Death is certain. The time of death is uncertain.”
When we remember death, we remember what matters in life.
When we accept impermanence, we return to the true existential terms.
When we befriend the elements, we find our place again—not above nature, but within her rhythm.
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My hope is that these kinds of conversations find their way into more homes. That we speak of death not just in spiritual spaces or at the edge of grief, but also at kitchen tables, in cafés, and while walking through the forest. That we remember, together, how to meet the end of life as part of life.
If you’d like to listen to the full conversation, in Swedish, you can do so here. I hope it brings reflection, grounding, and maybe even a sense of quiet acceptance.
Yours in the Dharma,
Lama Chimey
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Lama Chimey 