Chapter 1: Death and Satori

What follows is an account of how I came to pass, and the origin of some talents I possess. For those uninterested, you may skip on.

Dying is a horrible experience, and dying slowly is worse. I was neither young nor old when it came, and it was no surprise. I had an inoperable brain tumor, a slow but inevitable death sentence hanging over my head from a fairly young age. I didn't accept it, of course. It was my dream, my ambition to live forever; not out of fear of death, but love of life.

Life is just so interesting. There is so much to experience. And people are always creating new and interesting things to continue experiencing. Whenever I would read of immortals (all too often those damned vampires common in pulp teen novels) who lamented their ability to live forever, to keep experiencing new and interesting things, I would always think then you have never truly lived in the first place.

I had a fairly excellent life: a loving family, with two siblings and dogs, enough money for whatever luxuries or hobbies we really wanted, well traveled, and the winner of a genetic lottery that left me both physically fit and with an intelligence great enough to pursue whatever I wanted. And from a young age, that pursuit was magic.

Lacking magic on Earth though, I settled for martial arts, science, and stories.

I suppose part of my thoughts on immortality may be because of my interests: technology and stories and martial arts at the forefront, followed by a general love of information, the human condition, history and what shaped it. All of these things I adore. And all of these things are in constant flux, constant development. As a child of the new millennium, I knew these things would always be there for me; I could, and wanted to, search for perfection for a thousand years, and a thousand more in these things, and still there would be more to learn and improve. I had no need for a heaven, as I saw its potential on Earth.

My love of technology led me to authors like Kurzweil, who gave me the idea that an immortal life is not just possible at some distant point in the future, but potentially possible for those of my generation. I did all the right things. I slept right, ate an organic diet high in vegetables and low in red meat (generally unhealthy) and fish (some is ok, but many have heavy metals), took the perfect balance of vitamins and minerals and supplements, didn't drink or smoke. I meditated and practiced martial arts, partially out of preference and partially for health. I practiced a low-risk lifestyle as well; over an eternity, small risks add up, and I wanted to go into things with the right habits.

So, for me who loved life, for me who made a temple of my body, for me who loved above all else my mind, a slow progressive brain death was horrifying. I had several bouts of active tumor growth before it would slow or stop, losing mental ability and physical control each time. Each time, I clawed my way back, practicing meditation to regain focus, kata to regain strength, basic math and word games with family and friends to regain cognitive function; my efforts paid off, and I kept falling into an extremely rare number of people capable of recovering from such incidences.

And, though this crucible damaged my body, there were benefits for my soul. Before any of this, I had always been a bit aloof. Not because I disdained others, but because it was very difficult to empathize on anything other than an academic fashion. I didn't understand why someone might need a calculator to give the square root of any number less than a thousand (well, at least to three sig figs), or why others would miss things that were perfectly obvious if they just looked at the problem correctly. I knew I was physically capable in most scenarios, and mentally capable in any where I understood the underlying concepts. Further, I was somewhat divorced from my emotions. I had them, cherished them, but also refused to allow them any control. And so, I came off as somewhat arrogant, and at times condescending.

The illness changed that, to a greater extent. My mind and physical control shot to hell, my emotions highly variable, my feelings intense in a way they had not been before, I went through all the stages of childhood development all over again on my way to improve myself to what I considered an acceptable standard. I understood others far better. And, most important, my meditation yielded some very interesting results.

I had been interested in hypnosis and meditation from a young age. Here was a type of magic that did not use magic. I meditated, of course, for martial arts. Hypnosis, NLP, and other such topic I found somewhat fascinating, and I would pour over the works of people like Derren Brown, reading and watching the analysis posts of others online, going so far as to practice some basic tricks on other students at school. I myself practiced a combination of meditation and self-hypnosis following some training-related spine injuries as a pain reduction technique as I abhorred the concept of pain killers unless absolutely necessary.

The levels of meditation needed to deal with something like brain damage though, that forced me onto a different level.

I spent several hours, every day, meditating to keep control of my body and mind. When my reaction to crowds decreased sufficiently for me to be out in public, I used walking-meditation techniques to deal with the influx of new information. It was during the onset of this whole mess, several months in, that I first experienced Kensho, a fleeting momentary glimpse of self, the very first step towards enlightenment. It was, to be honest, somewhat addicting, terrifying, humbling, and exalting.

I was hooked, and tried for months to recreate the feeling; it would not come. The very act of trying to achieve it, having in mind as a possibility while meditating, made it impossible; I would not find it again until years later. Irritated, I turned to other, similar pursuits, mostly focused on the intersection of meditation and self-hypnosis.

Hypnotists in the past could have ordinary people stiffen their muscles so hard that they could be suspended across two chairs, feet on one, hands on the other, and walked across. This is not some lost secret either; merely, it turns out that after being brought out of the hypnotic state, the subject tends to have muscle damage, ranging from mild to severe, and possible joint and tendon damage as well. Houdini was supposed to use a similar technique on his own stomach muscles to resist the blows of even heavyweight boxers.

Interested, and having made my own initial forays into sustained meditation, self-hypnosis for pain reduction, and ki type manipulation (a combination of meditation and self-hypnosis, I believed), I began to practice. Eventually, I was able to surpass my own limitations. At first, I was able to focus, and punch fast enough that the speed was slightly painful to my body, even with my well-conditioned and flexible muscles and joints. Eventually, while working out with a friend of mine who was on leave from the US Marine Corps (and who had a perfect 100% on his physical fitness test), I used these techniques to keep up at least somewhat with my own much nerdier physique; I ended up with so many micro-tears in my arms, I was unable to move them for nearly a month. I was lucky I didn't injure myself more severely.

Somewhat less focused on these techniques after my brush with causing lasting physical damage to myself, I continued practice on and off, more maintaining my potential than increasing my talents, focused on my job as a researcher. At one point, I decided to try a deep meditation again; I fasted three days, meditating all the while. On the third day, once again, I achieved a brief moment of Kensho. This time, that was enough, and I went back to my work and life revitalized. Eventually though, all good things came to an end; I had a vicious resurgence of my illness.

This time, the damned thing would not stop. I was given a month to live. I quit work, moved home, spent some time with my family, came up with a perfect diet with Mom, and began to meditate like never before. At first, I would spend eight hours a day in meditation, another four on martial arts. As time progressed, and that first month came to a close, I was cleaner in mind and body than I had ever been before, and meditating close to 16 hours a day. The new MRI showed a much slower progression than feared, but that I was still getting worse.

A second month passed. I had achieved Kensho another two times. I was conscious enough of my body to know I was still getting worse, as was verified by the doctors. Near the beginning of the third month, I achieved Kensho once more, and in that moment of clarity I knew, this body of mine was doomed.

But, in that moment of clarity, I had a thought; I saw a possibility. Normally, the mind, the body, the spirit, are linked but somewhat separate. I saw the possibility though of changing that. While I may not be able to live forever, I was maintaining my mind, my self, through sheer focus and will at this point. With some more focus, some more will, I might be able to change things, to link mind so that it depends solely on spirit. And so, achieve a kind of immortality in reincarnation.

This was a gamble; I was wise enough even then to know I may be practicing self delusion, that this may all be a product of self-hypnosis rather than an actual, spiritual enlightenment. Further, I was gambling on reincarnation, and that my own enlightenment would be enough.

Though, let me make clear: I was not interested in Buddha-hood. I had no desire to transcend humanity entirely until I was finished experiencing what it had to offer. Nor was I arrogant enough to think I could achieve it, certainly not in the moments I had left to me. I had no desire for the final enlightenment of Daigo, but needed the persistent insight I thought of as Satori rather than a mere moment from Kensho. And so I prepared. In a symbolic step-back from the flesh, I went entirely vegan.

By the end of the third month, I was close. Close to the unison-of-mind-and-spirit. Closer to death. There was no point in an MRI, not for me, though I agreed that the doctors could have my body once the heart stopped beating. I made my goodbyes. I went into my meditation room, an empty, white walled space with wood floor attached to a restroom, bringing fourteen pitchers of water and a glass.

I sat, and meditated, and drank water when I felt it necessary. The moments of Kensho became somewhat less impactful, but more and more common, the distance between me and Satori vanishingly thin. I lost track of time, was only drinking now what I perspired, my body devoid of toxins, my mind and spirit the same.

I felt that I could abandon self, that I could become one with the world. But that was not my goal. Instead, drawing on everything I knew and had practiced, I reinforced it. My Mind, My Spirit, My Self. This was my mantra. I experienced the world, but I was not the world. Not yet. One day, perhaps. But for that moment, my mind was my spirit, and my spirit my mind. To be honest, I am not sure if this revelation, this Satori of insight on how to maintain identity through death, came while I was alive, or dying, or only just dead.

I vaguely remember the experience of something trying to take that-which-was-dark, and when I held on to my darkness, to take me, but I refused. I was not dark, though I possessed darkness, and thus that-which-consumes-the-dark may not consume me. Something tried to take that-which-was-light; again, I refused to surrender my light, and was not light myself.

There was the potential to become-that-which-you-may-be, but my self was that of a human, which I already was; I had no need to become what I already was. And, lastly, there was the call-to-be-at-peace-with-all.

This, I remember most. Perhaps, it was the strongest call, especially for me, who had struggled so long. Perhaps, it was the weakest call, especially for me, who had spent so many hours of meditation, fighting this peace to make my mind part of the identity of my spirit.

Then, for an age, there was merely nothing, the rare sensation of movement, perhaps a faintly heard noise. After, I believe this to have been the womb, with my spirit entered into my new body. At the time, especially at first, I was somewhat freaked out, worried that I had resisted the possible avenues of death and thus been consigned to the void. But my illness had not broken me, and death had not broken me, so neither, I resolved, would this new void. I continued my meditations, continued reviewing my memories of my past and making dreams for the future.

The experiences of the dead, and the spirits, and the different-from-human, are not part of the human experience, and thus are lost to one that holds onto humanity. I remember those poorly, though there are some fleeting concepts I still held onto, as I have related. Their validity, how they might be psychic constructs to make sense of a greater experience, or merely the last gasp of a dying mind, all these are things I did not and do not know. Nor are human minds and spirits, which I had focused so dearly on maintaining, meant to function well without a body to provide the processing of thoughts. I can only report on fragmented memories, and how I have reconstructed them.

All I know, is that my efforts worked.

I maintained my mind and self as part of my spirit.

I avoided the Paths of the Dead.

As I lived, I would live again.

And so it was.