Death is the only wise advisor a warrior has.

Today, I began lightly with some of my daily activities, observing myself as I went, and wondering how I could become more present in the ordinary moments of life. The repetitive, unimpressive, sometimes boring tasks we do every day.

Once we do the same thing over and over again, something happens. The novelty fades. We become so familiar with the movements that our bodies can perform them without our attention. We brush our teeth, get dressed, prepare our tea, walk from one room to another, while our minds wander somewhere else entirely. We start living inside our thoughts, letting the body carry us through the motions of a life we already know how to navigate.

And I began wondering how to bring presence back into these moments. How to rediscover the spark in something so familiar that it seems to have nothing left to reveal.

And from there, I arrived at death

Quite an interesting connection, isn’t it?

Think about it. When we become mechanical in our lives, where does our attention go? For some of us, it travels into the past. We revisit memories, replay conversations, return to old wounds and familiar beliefs, carrying entire worlds of yesterday into the present moment. For others, the mind rushes into the future. We plan the next day, imagine the next year, anticipate challenges, prepare for possibilities, organize the next trip, and rehearse lives that have yet to happen.

Our bodies remain here, while our attention lives elsewhere.

The practice, then, is to return. To come back to the life unfolding today, inside the smallest, most ordinary activity we are doing right now. To bring our entire being into the simple act of getting dressed, drinking tea, washing a cup, or taking a breath.

And if we contemplate this deeply, what is the one force capable of dissolving the grip of both past and future, bringing us back to the immediacy of existence?

Death.

Death makes the present impossible to postpone.

I encountered this idea in one of Carlos Castaneda's books. "Death is the only wise adviser that we have." Don Juan teaches Castaneda to regard death as a constant companion and the wisest advisor a warrior possesses. The teaching is simple in its words and immense in its implications. Death is always beside us, close enough to remind us that our time is finite. When we allow ourselves to remember this, our habitual concerns begin to lose some of their power. We become more discerning about where we place our attention, what deserves our energy, and how we choose to live.

Death lends weight to every decision because every decision belongs to a life that will eventually end. It reminds us that our attention is precious, that our energy is limited, and that the moment passing before us is part of a journey we cannot repeat.

A warrior who remembers death walks differently through the world. Ordinary things become worthy of attention. Every action becomes an opportunity to be fully alive. Even the most insignificant task can become a place of discovery, because the person performing it is awake.

And this teaching reaches far beyond the pages of magical books or the shamanic traditions Castaneda describes.

People who have experienced clinical death or near-death experiences often return with a changed, wider perspective on life. AMany people describe a renewed appreciation for existence, a deeper sense of connection, and a desire to spend their time differently. They speak of treasuring ordinary moments, loving more openly, and refusing to take their lives for granted.

It is like an encounter with a threshold, a moment in which they had to choose whether to return to earthly life or continue beyond it. One thread runs through many of these stories: the return to life comes with a renewed awareness of its preciousness. Those who come back often carry a powerful intention to live more fully. They have looked at life from the edge of its disappearance, and when they return, the familiar world shines with a different light.

Every one of us is here now. We have been given this extraordinary opportunity to experience life on Earth, to inhabit a body, to love, to learn, to discover, to participate in the mystery of existence. From a spiritual perspective, I like to imagine that the soul’s descent into earthly life begins with an immense willingness to experience it all. That somewhere within us lives the memory of an original enthusiasm, a sacred yes to being here.

Over time, we become absorbed in the material world. We grow attached to our routines, our problems, our ambitions, our fears, and the countless details that demand our attention. The wonder becomes familiar. The extraordinary becomes ordinary. We forget the preciousness of the very experience we once embraced so wholeheartedly.

Our sacred duty is to remember.

To remember the wonder of having a body that can move, hands that can touch, eyes that can see, lungs that can breathe. To remember that the people we love are here with us now. That the light entering through the window this morning, the warmth of a cup between our hands, the simple act of walking across a room, are all taking place within a brief second of the eternity.

Our lives are made of these moments. We spend so much of them preparing for the next one that we can miss the one we are actually living.

Today, I decided to invite death into my ordinary activities as a companion. I began contemplating the possibility that each familiar action could be the last time I would ever perform it. I imagined this being the last time I dressed myself, the last day I would walk upon this Earth, the last cup of tea I would ever hold in my hands.

And something beautiful happened.

For a moment, my heart opened completely. My whole being seemed to open with it. I began seeing beauty in the smallest objects, in the simplest interactions, in every breath. Things I had passed by countless times without really seeing them suddenly revealed the treasure they had been carrying all along.

There was some melancholy in the contemplation, a tenderness that came with recognizing how temporary everything is. Yet this was not the feeling that remained at the center of my experience. What arose most powerfully was gratitude. A deep, almost overwhelming gratitude for being here, for participating in this moment, for having the privilege of experiencing life while it is still unfolding.

I wanted to be present. I wanted to taste every second, to inhabit my actions completely, to receive the world with an open heart. I wanted to stop rushing through the very things that make up my life.

And time seemed to dilate.

The day felt immense. There was more life inside each moment, more depth inside each experience. It was as though I had lived several lifetimes in a single day, simply because I had been there to experience them.

This is what I want to explore further. To carry this awareness into tomorrow, and the day after, and all the ordinary days that follow. To let death remain beside me as a quiet advisor, reminding me that this life is happening now, and that my opportunity to experience it is finite.

Death is always walking beside us. And its greatest gift is the way it teaches us to walk beside life.

Fully awake. Fully present. With an open heart.

Today, I remembered how precious it is to be here.

And tomorrow, I want to remember again.