Chapter 2The Impermanence of Life

Seeing this threefold world as a fleeting illusion, You have left this life's concerns behind like spittle in the dust. Accepting all hardships, you have followed in the footsteps of the masters of old. Peerless Teacher, at your feet I bow.

In the first chapter we reflected on the extraordinary rarity of a human life endowed with freedom and opportunity. Now, having glimpsed just how precious this birth truly is, we turn to the question that gives it urgency: how long do we actually have? The contemplation of impermanence -- mi rtag pa in Tibetan -- is not meant to frighten or depress us. It is a kindness, like a friend shaking us awake when the house is on fire. Once we truly feel, in our bones, that nothing in this world lasts, our attachment begins to loosen of its own accord, and genuine spiritual practice becomes possible.

Patrul Rinpoche organises this contemplation into seven meditations, moving from the grandest cosmic scale down to our most intimate, moment-to-moment experience. Each one peels away another layer of our deeply habitual assumption that things are solid, stable, and reliable. Let us take them in turn.

The Impermanence of the Outer Universe

We tend to think of the world around us as permanent -- the mountains, the oceans, the very ground beneath our feet. Surely these will endure. And yet, according to Buddhist cosmology, even the entire outer universe -- Mount Meru, the four continents, the heavenly realms above -- all of it was fashioned by the collective karma of sentient beings over the course of a kalpa (an almost inconceivably long cycle of time), and all of it will be utterly destroyed.

The traditional teachings describe this destruction in vivid, visionary language. As the present great kalpa draws toward its end, the beings inhabiting each realm progressively disappear, migrating upward through rebirth until not a single sentient being remains in the lower realms. Then one sun rises, and another, and another -- seven suns blazing in the sky. The first burns away the forests and orchards. The next evaporates every stream and pond. One by one, the rivers, the great lakes, and even the vast oceans are consumed, shrinking from an unfathomable depth to a puddle that would not fill a footprint. The entire earth and its snow-capped peaks burst into flame. When the seventh sun appears, Mount Meru itself is consumed -- the four continents, the ring of golden mountains, everything fused into a single colossal inferno that burns downward through the hells and upward through the celestial palaces.

And it does not end there. After seven such cycles of fiery destruction, torrential rains dissolve everything that remains, like salt melting in water. Then the great wind mandala -- the crossed vajra of wind at the very base of the universe -- rises up and scatters what is left, as casually as dust blown from a windowsill. Nothing remains but empty space.

Now, this cosmology may feel unfamiliar to a Western reader, but the underlying point is profoundly relevant. Modern astrophysics tells us the same story in its own way: our sun will eventually expand and consume the Earth; even the stars will burn out; the universe itself tends toward entropy and dissolution. The point Patrul Rinpoche wants us to feel is this: if even a billion-world system with its own Mount Meru and heavenly realms -- a structure that endures for an entire kalpa -- cannot escape destruction, then what hope of permanence do we have? Our human bodies, he says, are like flies at the end of autumn. How could they possibly endure?

The Impermanence of All Beings Who Live in This World

From the highest heavens to the deepest hells, not a single being has ever been born who did not eventually die. This is stated plainly in the classic texts: have you ever, on earth or in the heavens, seen or heard of a single being who was born but never died? Has the thought even occurred to you as a possibility? It never has, because it is simply not how things work.

And yet, strangely, we live as though it does not apply to us. We know, in theory, that we are going to die -- but we do not really let that knowledge penetrate our hearts. We continue to plan, accumulate, and worry about our future as though we have centuries ahead of us. We remain absorbed in the pursuit of comfort, status, and security until, as Patrul Rinpoche vividly puts it, Death suddenly confronts us, gnashing his teeth and wielding his black noose.

At that moment, nothing can save us. No army, no decree, no wealth, no brilliance, no beauty, no athletic prowess. We could seal ourselves inside an impenetrable iron chest guarded by a hundred thousand soldiers bristling with weapons -- and it would not provide so much as a hair's breadth of protection. Once the Lord of Death has secured his noose around our neck, we are dragged helplessly down the road to the next existence.

Even the Medicine Buddha himself, appearing in person, could not postpone the death of someone whose lifespan has run out. This is a sobering thought. If even a fully enlightened being cannot override the natural exhaustion of a life, then the only sane response is to practise the Dharma now -- the one thing that truly accompanies us beyond death.

And here we should pause and ask ourselves the uncomfortable question Nagarjuna poses: life is more fragile than a bubble on the surface of a stream. In sleep, each breath departs and is drawn in again -- and yet there is no guarantee that death will not slip in between one breath and the next. To wake up healthy in the morning is genuinely miraculous, and yet we take it entirely for granted.

The Impermanence of Holy Beings

If impermanence spares no ordinary being, what about the greatest masters? In our present Good Kalpa, seven Buddhas have already appeared -- Vipashyin, Shikhin, and the others -- each accompanied by inconceivable numbers of Shravakas and Arhats. Each one turned the wheel of Dharma and brought immeasurable benefit to sentient beings. Yet all of them have passed into nirvana. Of the Buddha Shakyamuni's own teaching, only a diminishing remnant survives.

The great Arhats who compiled the Buddha's words, the Six Ornaments and Two Supreme Ones of Indian philosophy, the Eighty Mahasiddhas -- all of them possessed extraordinary powers and realization. They had mastered clairvoyance and miraculous abilities. And yet today, nothing remains of them but the stories of how they lived.

In Tibet, too, the great master Padmasambhava -- often called the Second Buddha -- turned the wheel of Dharma for the benefit of beings. His twenty-five heart disciples, the Eighty Siddhas of Yerpa, and the later masters of both the Ancient and New traditions all attained extraordinary levels of accomplishment. Many of them had mastery over the four elements: they could not be burned by fire, swept away by water, crushed by earth, or harmed by falling from cliffs.

Patrul Rinpoche recalls the famous story of Jetsun Milarepa meditating in silence in Nyeshang Katya cave in Nepal. A band of hunters, finding him sitting there utterly still, could not tell if he was a man or a ghost. They shot poisoned arrows at him, but none could pierce his skin. They threw him into the river; he reappeared, sitting exactly where he had been. They pushed him off a cliff; again he returned. They piled firewood around him and set it alight, but the flames would not burn him.

And yet -- and this is the point -- even beings of such extraordinary attainment chose, in the end, to demonstrate impermanence by passing from this world. Like the Buddha himself, they are considered to be beyond ordinary birth and death, yet they departed nonetheless, precisely to remind us that nothing in samsara lasts. If such masters could not or would not remain forever in this world, how can we, with our bodies made of the four coarse material elements, expect any permanence at all?

The Impermanence of the Powerful

We might also look at those who held the greatest worldly power. In India, innumerable emperors ruled entire continents, beginning with Mahasammata. The Pala and Chandra dynasties held sway over vast kingdoms. In Tibet, a lineage of divine kings began with Nyatri Tsenpo, an emanation of a great Bodhisattva. Under Songtsen Gampo, Trisong Detsen, and Ralpachen, Tibet's power and influence extended across much of Asia. Ambassadors from China, India, and Central Asia came to Lhasa to pay their respects.

And now? All of it is gone. The kingdoms dissolved, the armies dispersed, the palaces crumbled. Nothing remains but historical accounts.

Even the great gods -- Brahma, Indra, Vishnu, Ishvara -- beings who live for an entire kalpa, whose radiance outshines the sun and moon, who possess immense power and stature -- even they cannot evade the Demon of Death. Even the rishis with five kinds of clairvoyance, who could fly through the sky, never found a land where immortality holds sway.

Compared to such past splendours, Patrul Rinpoche says, our own homes, possessions, servants, and status are no more significant than a beehive. We should meditate deeply and ask ourselves how we could ever have imagined that such things would last.

Other Examples of Impermanence

Patrul Rinpoche then turns our attention to the cycles visible all around us. Over the course of a kalpa, humanity itself waxes and wanes. In the first age, human beings radiated their own light, could fly through space, were several leagues tall, and fed on divine nectar. Gradually, through the accumulation of negative emotions and harmful actions, the human race has declined to its present state -- and will continue to decline until humans live no more than ten years and stand only a cubit tall. Then, slowly, the cycle reverses, and life spans increase again. Even on this vast cosmic scale, nothing is beyond the reach of impermanence.

But we need not look so far. Simply watch the seasons change. In summer, the meadows are lush and green, alive with flowers, and all beings seem to bask in warmth and contentment. Then autumn comes, and the leaves change colour, the flowers wither one by one. Winter locks the earth in ice, the rivers freeze, and glacial winds scour the landscape. You could ride for days and never find a single summer flower. Each season gives way to the next, each one different from the last, and each just as fleeting.

Look at your own community. People who were prosperous and secure not long ago now face ruin. Others who were poor and helpless now speak with authority. In your own family, generation after generation of parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents have passed away -- they are only names to you now. Of the powerful and eminent people who were the envy of all just last year, many are already gone. Who can say whether those who seem so important today will still be here next month?

Patrul Rinpoche draws from this a series of contemplations that deserve to be committed to memory:

Whatever is born is impermanent and bound to die. Whatever is stored up is impermanent and bound to run out. Whatever comes together is impermanent and bound to come apart. Whatever is built is impermanent and bound to collapse. Whatever rises up is impermanent and bound to fall down.

Friendship and enmity, fortune and sorrow, good and evil, even our own thoughts -- everything is always changing.

He illustrates the instability of friendship with a striking story about the Arhat Katyayana, who one day, while on his alms round, came across a man sitting with a child on his lap, eating a fish with great relish and throwing stones at a dog that was trying to get at the bones. But with his clairvoyant vision, Katyayana saw the truth: the fish had been the man's own father in that very lifetime, the dog had been his mother, and the child on his lap was an enemy the man had killed in a past life, reborn as his son through karmic repayment. Katyayana cried out at the absurdity and tragedy of samsara's show.

The point is not merely that relationships are strange, but that friendship and enmity are utterly unreliable. Sworn enemies become family; beloved partners turn on each other over trifles. Since all relationships are so impermanent, we should treat everyone with love and compassion rather than wasting our brief time together in anger and conflict. As the great Indian siddha Padampa Sangye said to the people of Tingri: families are as fleeting as a crowd on market day -- do not bicker or fight.

The Uncertainty of the Circumstances of Death

We know we are going to die. But we do not know when, where, or how. This uncertainty is itself a powerful contemplation.

There are very few conditions that sustain life and an enormous number that threaten it. Fire, water, poisons, precipices, wild beasts, accidents of every kind -- mortal dangers abound. Even the things we rely on for survival can become causes of death. Food can be contaminated. Medicine taken in the wrong circumstances can become toxic. The pursuit of wealth and fame drives people into battles, reckless river crossings, and countless other perilous situations.

Furthermore, the timing is completely unpredictable. Some die in the womb, some at birth, some before they learn to crawl. Some die young, others old and decrepit. Some die suddenly while eating or talking or working. Some linger for years, watching the living through hollow eyes, their bodies reduced to skeletons wrapped in skin. There is simply no pattern we can rely on.

Surrounded by so many causes of death, Patrul Rinpoche says, our life has as little chance of enduring as a candle flame in the wind. There is no guarantee that death will not strike right now, and that tomorrow we might not be reborn as an animal. When we are going to die is utterly unpredictable, and where we will be born next is anyone's guess.

Intense Awareness of Impermanence

Having reflected on all of this, how should we actually live? Patrul Rinpoche's instructions are direct and practical.

Meditate on death all the time. While standing, sitting, or lying down, tell yourself: this may be my last act in this world. On your way somewhere, say to yourself: perhaps I will die there -- there is no certainty I will ever come back. At night, when you lie down, ask whether you will die during the night or whether you can be sure of waking up. In the morning, ask whether you might die during the day.

This is not morbid pessimism. It is the practice of the great Kadampa masters, who turned their bowls upside down each night -- a Tibetan symbol that the person had died -- because they were genuinely uncertain whether they would need them again. They never covered the evening embers, thinking there might be no need to light a fire the next day.

But simply meditating on death is not enough. You must also practise the Dharma, because Dharma is the only thing of any use at the moment of death. You cannot take your wealth, your loved ones, your status, or even your body. As Patrul Rinpoche puts it with devastating clarity: when death comes, you have no choice but to go, naked and cold, your empty hands clenched under your armpits. You might be the head lama over thousands of monks, but you cannot take a single one with you. You might govern tens of thousands of people, but not one will serve you on the other side. All the wealth in the world would not buy you so much as a needle and thread to carry with you.

Even your own body -- the body you wrapped in fine clothes, kept well-fed, and groomed to look distinguished -- becomes a corpse that inspires nothing but horror. As Milarepa sang: this thing we call a corpse, so fearful to behold, is already right here -- our own body. After death, those who loved you will feel nothing but relief at having managed to dispose of your remains.

The appropriate response to all of this, Patrul Rinpoche teaches, is to channel everything toward the Dharma. Since all roads are impermanent, direct your steps toward practice. Since food and drink are impermanent, nourish yourself with deep concentration. Since sleep is impermanent, purify the delusions of sleep into clear light. Since wealth is impermanent, cultivate the seven noble riches -- faith, discipline, learning, generosity, conscientiousness, modesty, and wisdom. Since loved ones are impermanent, seek solitude and arouse the desire for liberation.

A note on practice: Patrul Rinpoche mentions that those who practise the teachings of the Radiant Great Perfection -- Dzogchen -- can sever the link between death and rebirth entirely, capturing the citadel of true immortality. These are advanced practices within the Nyingma tradition that require proper empowerment, transmission, and guidance from a qualified master. They should not be undertaken casually or without the proper foundation.

The Fruit of This Contemplation

The Buddha himself declared that to meditate persistently on impermanence is to make offerings to all the Buddhas, to be rescued by all the Buddhas, to be guided and blessed by all the Buddhas. Of all subjects of meditation, he said, the contemplation of impermanence is unsurpassed -- just as the elephant's footprint is the greatest of all footprints.

Geshe Potowa, when asked which single Dharma practice was the most important, answered without hesitation: to meditate on impermanence. At first, he explained, it makes you take up the Dharma. In the middle, it fuels your diligence. In the end, it helps you realise the sameness of all phenomena.

Padampa Sangye echoed this: at first, conviction in impermanence makes you take up the Dharma; in the middle, it whips up your diligence; and in the end, it brings you to the radiant dharmakaya -- the luminous nature of reality itself.

The chapter closes with the story of Geshe Kharak Gomchung, who went to meditate in the mountain solitudes. In front of his cave grew a thorn bush that kept catching on his clothes every time he entered or left. At first he thought of cutting it down, but then said to himself: I may die inside this cave -- I cannot be sure I will ever come out again. It is more important to get on with my practice. When he came back out, the same thought arose: I am not at all sure I will ever go back inside. And so it went on for years until he was a fully accomplished master. The thorn bush was never cut.

This is the level of conviction Patrul Rinpoche asks of us. Not a vague, intellectual acknowledgement that things change, but a bone-deep certainty that permeates every thought. When we truly feel impermanence, Patrul Rinpoche's own master said, all the ordinary activities of this life become as revolting as a greasy meal to someone already nauseated. There is no deeper instruction than this.

The chapter closes with a prayer that could be our own:

Impermanence is everywhere, yet I still think things will last. I have reached the gates of old age, yet I still pretend I am young. Bless me and misguided beings like me, that we may truly understand impermanence.