Raccoon

Today I watched a raccoon die.

As I walked through the woods, I bent down to inspect a plant, as I often do. And, just as I did, I heard a rustling in the leaves just a few paces ahead of me. I looked up, and, to my surprise, I was face to face with a racoon. I gazed at his soft fur and masked face, and as I looked into his big beautiful eyes, I knew right away his fate: death was coming for him today. 

I find it curious that when death is idling nearby, patiently awaiting her next love affair, we sense her there. Though we cannot see her, we observe her. Though we cannot touch her, we feel her. Though we cannot hear her, we recognize her song. And though we have never met her, we know her intimately.

I realized quickly that life had placed a unique opportunity before me. So I sat with my new raccoon friend, watching as life’s grip slowly loosened him from her tentacled clutches. 

He paced in circles for many hours. Exhaustion would intermittently overcome him, and he would collapse to the earth for several minutes to rest…to let go more deeply. I sat in silence, and I watched. At times, he was no more than just a few feet from me, but taking nearly no notice of my presence. 

***

Initially, sadness tumbled through me like an ocean wave. I felt sorry for him. It hurt to watch him suffer. And so I cried. As the tears flowed freely down my cheeks, I cried for his life. I cried for his death. I cried for his pain. But, most of all, I cried for my own life, for my own fear of the inevitable, for my own yearning for life.

I felt his aloneness penetrate the expanses of my heart. To die alone — this, I knew, is the very deepest aloneness. Although my presence meant he was not physically alone, he was alone all the same. He was the experiencer. He was the one struggling to breathe. He was the one being cradled in death’s loving embrace. 

And I realized then that my own destiny — and the destiny of every being in creation — is to ultimately face death alone. Completely and utterly alone.

Although I could not detect the stench of death on him, nature did. I observed quietly as flies began to swarm shortly after he and I became acquainted, increasing in numbers as the hours went on…beginning to bite him and feast upon his expiring flesh in impatient anticipation. I gazed up into the sky and watched as two vultures flew low, just above the canopy of the trees, sensing their approaching feast. And I sat in awe — of nature, of the raccoon, of life itself. 

I fought the urge to intervene, to try to “help” him in some way — although I knew my efforts would be entirely in vain. And as I wrestled these urges, I began to question their origin.

***

Over the hours, my sadness gradually gave way to curiosity, and I sat quietly in peaceful inquiry. My tears dried up, and so did my stories, my ideas, and my beliefs about the raccoon’s suffering, leaving behind nothing but pure witnessing, pure perception, and pure observing of his experiencing.

I realized that it was me who was creating this raccoon’s suffering. That is the great power of the human mind, you see. We perceive with our senses, and then the mind creates an illusion, a story of make-believe, about what it is we perceive. The mind assigns value, assigns duality — good / bad, right / wrong — to perception, ultimately constructing an experience of unnecessary suffering.

But the raccoon, like all animals in struggle, was not suffering. Perhaps there was an experience of physical discomfort, even pain. However, he, unlike me, did not have a story that his demise shouldn’t be happening, that it should be different. He was simply experiencing the death of his body. It was my mind, my beliefs, my ideas about death, and my fear of death which created a story of suffering in my mind. But, in truth, he was not suffering. He was simply carrying out life’s will, experiencing the slow release of life’s stranglehold on his physical form.

I, on the other hand, passed through each of the stages of grief on his behalf, as he fully embraced his experience. I was the one suffering, not him.

As he edged nearer to death’s threshold, he became more peaceful. He spent less time pacing as the day went on, and more time laying on his side, his breath slowly becoming labored and shallow. Every now and then, his dying body would suddenly twitch, as though a deep sleep was waiting to envelope it. He dipped in and out of awareness of the world around him, at times becoming conscious of and curious about my nearby presence, sometimes even looking me in the eye for several minutes on end, as though to tell me something. And then, at other times, he was completely cloaked in the experience, blind to life around him. 

It eventually became obvious that death was very close. I could feel her closing in, and I suddenly knew that I needed to leave him. I needed to allow him to travel this last leg of his long journey fully alone, as we all must. 

***

Before I departed, I spent several minutes sitting in gratitude. I was humbled by the profound gift he had given me. What a gift it was to witness this most vulnerable transition. To witness a creature die with no stories being clung to, with no suffering — and with a heart truly as light as a feather — that was the biggest blessing of all. 

That is real vulnerability, and the real meaning of an open heart. 

I thanked the raccoon. I thanked nature. But, most of all, I thanked life, for she had shown me what it truly means to die free. And so I left him, gratitude pouring from my being.

As I walked out of the woods and the experience settled into my bones, I heard life whispering sweetly into my ear. I paused to listen, and realized that the words which sung from her lips were words of liberation. She was challenging me, presenting what was perhaps the most important invitation she is capable of offering: to die before I die.

So that I too, like the raccoon, may die free when my time comes.