On Ephemerality 🔥
Three Things #153: January 19, 2025
At the end of December, I moved with my family out of a lovely home that we had been renting in Los Angeles. Seven days later I watched that home, and the entire neighborhood, literally go up in flames. And when I say watched, I do mean literally: I watched dumb struck on the security cameras as the house burned, which was a surreal experience. (I wasn’t alone.)
Since then I’ve been feeling a jumble of emotions. On the one hand, obviously, I feel incredibly fortunate for having dodged a bullet and having been luckier than our neighbors. Our luck was of the dumb variety: we might’ve chosen not to move, or to do so a few days later, and the decision had nothing to do with perceived fire risk (which was anyway considered low prior to this event).
On the other hand, a big chunk of my world for the past year vanished quite literally overnight: there one day, gone the next. The home I lived in, the block I lived on, the local schools, post office, and coffee shop are all gone, to say nothing of the lives, homes, and dreams of my less fortunate neighbors. I haven’t fully processed this feeling yet.
It seems as good a time as any to reflect on ephemerality.
Thing #1: Meaning 🪷
“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.” - Heraclitus
The Buddhist term for ephemerality or impermanence is anicca, and along with duḥkha (suffering or unsatisfactoriness) and anattā (no-self), it’s one of the three core tenets of Buddhism. For a Buddhist, the only constant is change. The Buddha was far ahead of his time in his ability to penetrate into and understand fundamental truths about the physical world that we’re still in the process of understanding today. As the Buddha understood, it’s a simple, scientific truth to say that no object remains unchanged from moment to moment.
Even defining the boundaries of an object is fundamentally impossible: where does a cloud begin and end? And once you do, you have to grapple with the fact that the individual atoms (to say nothing of what those atoms are composed of on an even more fundamental level) are in a constant state of flux: bouncing around, reacting and counter-reacting, exchanging energy, joining together and splitting apart.
The reality of our physical existence on the microscopic level is that everything around us is a Ship of Theseus: the particles that compose things are never twice exactly the same, yet we still find it convenient to use terms like “my house,” “my car,” and “me.” The Ancient Greeks understood this idea as well: Heraclitus wrote the above quote to describe how he saw everything in the world in a constant state of flux.
The river is never twice the same, nor are you. The you of yesterday is not the you of today, nor will it be the you of tomorrow. The individual cells that compose your body will be different tomorrow, as will your experiences, beliefs, desires, and very sense of self. In fact, followed to its logical conclusion, one begins to wonder if it even makes sense to talk about “me tomorrow”, since—in tight connection with the idea of anattā or no-self—there is no enduring self between the present and some future moment.
Buddhism considers all phenomena to be dependent or conditioned phenomena that exist only in the context of a clear chain of cause and effect. Phenomena arise, pass away, and give rise to other phenomena in their time. Nothing endures, and everything that exists goes through cycles of birth, life, death, and rebirth. This is true not just of people, but also of cities, kingdoms, empires, even planets and other celestial bodies. The clearest Buddhist metaphor for this is a wave in motion in the sea: it exists in a particular, arbitrary moment in time as a particular configuration of water molecules moving in a particular direction. This configuration is fully determined by the configuration that came just before, and will fully determine the configuration that immediately follows. Nowhere, however, is there a persistent, permanent wave. (You may be wondering, then, whether Buddhism allows for free will or is totally deterministic. As with most things, the Buddha took a middle path on this question.)
Understanding anicca is a critical part of the Buddhist journey to escaping suffering and unlocking happiness. The understanding must come not only on an intellectual but indeed an experiential level. Many Buddhist schools of meditation, including the one I’m the most familiar with, vipassana, are designed to allow the practitioner to experience anicca intimately within their own body.
The most important lesson here is that we should be mindful of the present moment and appreciate it fully, because it will never come again. The deeper lesson is that anicca is one of the major causes of duḥkha, or the feeling of suffering and unsatisfactoriness that is fundamental to all existence. This is the second Noble Truth of Buddhism. The only way to escape this suffering is to embrace the ephemeral nature of all things: this is part of the fourth Noble Truth.
Thing #2: Life and Death ⏳
“In the end, only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.” - Buddha
One of my favorite meditations is Maraṇasati, a meditation on the awareness of death. I’ve written about it before, and its resemblance to the Western memento mori tradition. In Buddhism, death is closely tied to anicca: in this meditation one recites the many ways in which life is uncertain and constantly changing, ultimately leading to the end of the single greatest perceived constant, life itself.
When I practice this meditation I first visualize a great, ancient empire: the greatest, biggest, most powerful empire the world has ever known, with an all-powerful emperor secure upon his throne. Today that emperor is gone, as is his empire, lost in the sands of time. After enough time has passed, the empire will have been reduced to literally nothing but dust and dirt, and hardly anyone alive today even remembers it or recognizes its name. The emperor has been forgotten, as has literally every other person alive at the time, no matter how rich, powerful, wealthy, intelligent, beautiful, haughty, prideful, or virtuous. There’s no shortage of such places in the world today, and some have truly been lost.
Next, I reflect on the fact that death is inescapable. Death, personified, is present throughout one’s entire life from the moment of birth: if you look over your shoulder, you might just catch a glimpse of her. To be born is literally to be sentenced to death; there is no other way. It’s the fate of every person who has ever been born or ever will be.
Next, I reflect on the fact that every moment that passes in my life brings me one step closer to the time of my inevitable death. I visualize the progress of the sun moving across the sky on a bright summer day: inexorably creeping from dawn to day to dusk, in its constant procession, never halting or slowing down, as symbolizing this progression through a life.
Next, I reflect on the ways in which my own death is uncertain: I don’t know when, or where, or how I will die, though death will surely come. I visualize various ways it might play out, in various times and various places, as a way of preparing for death and also surrendering myself to its inevitability.
Finally, in the hardest and most important part of the practice, I reflect on all of the important things that I can’t bring with me beyond death. I can’t bring any of my possessions or achievements, tangible or intangible: no money, no investments, no assets, no reputation, no likes or follows, no awards or accomplishments. Nothing I’ve built or earned or saved or been gifted. I can’t bring my physical body, which is at the center of my sense of self and identity. And, hardest of all, I can’t bring anyone else with me, even the people I love most: death is a journey we must all take alone. This, above all, is a sobering thought and forces me to reflect on the fact that even the things that are nearest and dearest to me—my health, my wealth, my family—will eventually and unavoidably be taken away from me.
Reflecting regularly on the fact that absolutely everything in my life, even the things that feel the most secure, the most important, the most valuable, and the most intricately part of my identity, will one day be lost, is extremely helpful in helping me stay focused on the present moment and appreciating all that I have. It helps me understand that the feeling of suffering or unsatisfactoriness that I experience every day has a cause, and that cause is an attachment to things that are impermanent and imperfect (“things not meant for you,” in the words of the Buddha).
Thing #3: Change 🌹
“When the winds of change blow, some build walls while others build windmills.” - Chinese Proverb
We often say that the pace of change today is faster than it’s ever been before. I’ve said this myself at least a dozen times in conversations recently. Whether the pace is truly that much greater than it was in the distant past I don’t know, since I wasn’t around then, but it’s certainly fast today and it does feel like, over the course of my own lifetime, it’s gotten faster.
Technology is the most obvious reason for this, but it’s not the only reason, and simply blaming “technology” isn’t a satisfying or complete answer. Second order effects such as cheaper and faster communication, climate change, changing cultural norms, increased market volatility, loss of trust in traditional institutions and media, and increased travel and global migration are also at play.
By embracing anicca, you must also embrace change, regardless of the pace. This isn’t easy for a lot of people; most people are quite averse to change. I understand this aversion, which isn’t unique to older folks and other conservatives. We all experience this feeling sometimes. I feel this way literally every time I visit my old neighborhood in New York City, which is where I was born and which has always been my permanent home. New York, like other thriving metropolises, is constantly changing. Literally every time I visit, I notice all sorts of changes: shops and restaurants that come and go, changing traffic patterns, changing fashion trends. Not all of these changes are positive.
There are lots of things I don’t want to let go of, whether I realize it or not. I had a routine of running in the park every morning when I lived in the big city, and it was very difficult to leave this behind when we left the city. Similarly, I had a routine of visiting a particular gym and working with a particularly great trainer over the past year. It was really hard to accept when this, too, came to an end recently.
Like anyone else, I like walking familiar streets and eating familiar food. I love the feeling of home, especially when returning from far away. I love holiday traditions, the changing of the seasons, and the taste of a familiar beverage. I love catching up with old friends. I’m the kind of person who even likes to wear the same clothes every day. As much as I like working from home, I miss the good old days when I had a commute and an office and could suffer together with my colleagues every Monday morning. Most of all, of course, I like finishing work and spending time with my family and playing with my son.
These routines define who we are and, as in the meditation described above, form the basis of our identity and sense of self and reality. In short, they form the world we know and inhabit. But, like everything else in the world, these things, too, shall all pass, sometimes gradually, one by one, and sometimes in a big bang. Sometimes a shop closes or relocates. Sometimes a colleague departs or a new one joins. And, sometimes, the entire neighborhood burns down overnight.
Even when we attempt to embrace it, change isn’t easy. I never had any issue embracing change when I was younger, but as I get older it gets harder. I’m more set in my ways, despite my best efforts to the contrary, and I have quite strong opinions about things. Most of all, I find change increasingly disruptive to the helpful, familiar, positive patterns in my life. And I find that it gets harder and takes longer to adapt to change as I get older.
Nevertheless, it’s a losing battle and I know it. As described in the meditation above, all of the things I love in my life, including my youth, my health, and eventually my life itself, will one by one be taken away from me over time. There’s absolutely nothing I can do to prevent this from happening. As I struggle to embrace and respond to change, it’s helpful to constantly remind myself of this, through reflection and meditations like the one I shared above.
The best way to respond to change is with a strong sense of equanimity, which is the only antidote to duḥkha. Indeed, my present challenge is to respond to the change I’m experiencing, and more broadly to the trials and tribulations in my life, with greater equanimity.
Equanimity, too, is difficult and complex. Naively, it’s easy to mistakenly equate it with passivity. But responding to change with equanimity doesn’t mean that I approach change, especially undesired change, passively or fatalistically. On the contrary, it means the exact opposite: enjoying every moment, acknowledging every experience and every sensation, pleasant or unpleasant, and being absolutely present, especially with the people in my life. It means appreciating every moment because I know that precisely that moment will never come again, and that I may never see that person or have that experience again. I can’t think of a way to live with greater agency, or a better recipe for happiness.