The Beginning
“To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.”
~j. k. rowling, harry potter and the philosopher’s stone
Beginnings are nothing more than endings, and endings are nothing more than beginnings. The beginning of your new magical life with Death could not be possible if this book didn’t end. And the new adventures that await us in the great unknown of the afterlife could not be possible if our physical lives here on earth didn’t end. That is the supreme lesson of Death: destruction is the necessary precursor to creation. Without the destruction of the egg and the caterpillar, how could the miracle of the baby chick or the glory of the butterfly even be possible?
This is why death, the mystery school of La Santa Muerte, and everything in this book is a philosophical study of life. It is said that the Buddha began his spiritual journey after his first encounter with a corpse, a sight that forced him to confront the impermanence of all life.
When we can truly see the world and everything in it as a temporary experience, we appreciate it more. The tourist sees and appreciates a location on a much more profound level than the local inhabitant. For the tourist, the sights and sounds of a city or the natural beauty of a landscape must be lived fully here and now and observed in detail because the tourist knows that his or her time there won’t last forever. For the local, the sights and sounds of the city and the beauty of the landscape are taken for granted because he or she has “forever” to enjoy them. But that is the supreme irony; the locals never do enjoy it as much as the tourists. Did the city or the landscape change? No. It was only their perspective.
Our awareness of death is what makes life all the more enjoyable. We are all nothing more than tourists here on earth in these physical bodies. We won’t be here forever, and neither will anything else. Next year will be different, next month will be different, next week, tomorrow, an hour from now, a minute from now, now. Even if it doesn’t seem like it, everything is constantly changing, breaking down, and becoming something new.
Imagine filling a glass to the brim with water. If you take a look at it an hour later, it will still seem to be the same glass with the same amount of water. But it’s not. At the most microscopic level, that water began to evaporate the moment you filled the glass. There is actually less water there now, and all those water molecules that left the glass are now in the air you are breathing, possibly already in your lungs, nourishing the cells of your body.
Those cells are also continuously being transformed. Our cells die and are replaced in a constant cycle. The bodies we have now are physiologically not the same bodies we had even a month ago. Every single cell we had a few years ago is dead, and our current cells are brand-new cells that didn’t exist back then. Their deaths are what allows us to live. If these cells did not die and weren’t replaced, our bodies as a whole would never make it to old age, a privilege that is denied to many. Then, of course, this process slows down, and, like everything, our life ends.
When looked at through the lens of the Santa Muerte Mysteries, this inspires us to take advantage of the here and now. I’m not talking about being reckless, because those who truly appreciate themselves, their bodies, and the world around them would never dare to be careless about these gifts. I’m talking about doing those things you’ve always wanted to do. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. So take that vacation, learn that skill, paint that painting, write that book, compose that song, and open up that bottle of champagne you’ve been saving for a special occasion. Today is special.
While you’re at it, take the time to appreciate those around you. Their time here is also limited. No matter how expected a loved one’s death may be, it’s still surprising because we’ve convinced ourselves right until the end that “it could never happen.” How many times have words gone unsaid, hugs not been given, and precious moments not experienced with a loved one because of their physical death? How many of these stolen moments were actually never stolen but rather withheld due to some argument, disagreement, or misunderstanding that let pride get in the way of a wonderful relationship? How important and serious they seemed to be while our loved one was still alive, and yet how trivial and unimportant they truly are now that the hindsight of a death has given us clearer vision.
Treat those you love with La Santa Muerte’s teaching of impermanence always in the back of your thoughts. Keep the bigger picture in mind whenever an argument or spat manifests—and they will manifest because that is part of life. Do as much as you can with your loved ones while you still can. No one on their deathbed has ever said, “I wish I had spent more time in the office” or “I wish I had slept more and spent more time watching TV on the couch.”
Nothing lasts forever. All good things and all bad things are only temporary. The time is going to pass no matter what we do or don’t do. And I guarantee that you will be more regretful for the things you never did than the things you tried that just didn’t work out.
Too many people never truly live their lives. They allow their dreams to slowly die within them rather than step out of their comfort zone and experience life at its fullest. With this book, you now have introductory knowledge into the mystery school of La Santa Muerte and you have the tools to manipulate the natural forces of energy to co-create miracles. You no longer have an excuse not to live the life you’ve always wanted. Just keep going and stay in motion. Remember, death is rigidity. Death is stagnation. Life is fluidity. Life is movement. A thing that is dead is hard, unbending, and unmoving. We see this in the withered leaves that fall to the ground, the overturned trees that refused to bend during a storm, and in the rigor mortis of a corpse. A thing that is alive is constantly growing, flexible, and always in movement. We see this in the softness of leaves still in their prime, the survival of the trees that were humble enough to bend during a storm, and the dynamic movement of our bodies in motion.
Those of us who are hard, inflexible, unbending, prideful, and unwilling to grow, learn, or change might as well already be dead. That is not life. To be truly alive is to be soft, flexible, willing to bend when necessary, humble, and always striving to grow, learn, and change. The moment we stop doing these things, we begin to die spiritually from the inside out.
Of course, death is inevitable, but as discussed before, that doesn’t mean it is something to fear. For all we know, it could be more amazing and wonderful than anything we can imagine. No one can guarantee this, but no one can disprove this either. So why not focus on death being a positive experience? It seems too much of a “coincidence” that all people all around the world who briefly died on the operating table have described a similar story: a blinding, white, alluring light radiating peace. Even more “coincidental” is the fact that both the Tibetan Book of the Dead and the Egyptian Book of the Dead (two manuals of funerary rites and the afterlife) describe the same scenario, written thousands of years ago and apart from each other in very different cultures.
I will end this book with a brief story regarding death, passed down through the ages from the sages of ancient China to your hands right here and now. Before I do, I would like to welcome you to the beginning of your new magical life. You will never see the world the same way again, now that you’ve seen Death herself. Be confident, because you have gained a powerful friend. It’s better to do so now, anyway, because we will all meet her sooner or later. That is the one thing I can absolutely promise you.
The Distant Kingdom
Once upon a time in ancient China, there was a youthful girl. She was one of the emperor’s most beloved daughters. She lived in a beautiful palace, surrounded by beautiful gardens, talented entertainers, and lots of friends. As she grew older, she became jaded by the same flowers and entertainers, and some of her former friends were becoming too preoccupied in their own endeavors to spend time with her anymore. It was around this time that the emperor announced that he had arranged for her to be married to the prince of a faraway kingdom beyond the western borders of the empire.
The daughter was saddened by this. She spent her last weeks in the beautiful palace locked in her room. When the day came for her to leave, her handmaidens assisted in making her as beautiful as she could be for the prince. They put on her makeup, styled her hair, and dressed her in the finest silk robes.
“I don’t want to go,” the bride-to-be said as her handmaidens fussed about her.
“Why not?” asked the girl who was applying the makeup. “I hear he is very handsome. I’m sure you will be most pleased.”
“But what if he’s not?” the bride countered. “No one in the kingdom has ever seen him.”
“I hear he is very rich,” said the hairdresser. “I’m sure it’ll be a comfortable life.”
“But what if he is cruel?” the bride worried. “How can I be comfortable with a cruel man?”
“Don’t worry,” comforted the elderly seamstress, “for many generations your ancestors have gone to marry people in that faraway kingdom. You will not be alone there.”
“But what if they are unhappy there? None of them have ever returned to tell us anything about that place.”
They continued to talk, but then the moment came. The caravan was ready to take the bride away to the faraway kingdom, never to return. As she left the palace, she noticed how beautiful the gardens had suddenly become, how talented the entertainers were, and how sad she felt that she would be leaving her friends and family.
The journey was long, but it seemed to pass so quickly for the bride. When she arrived, the prince greeted her and helped her down from her sedan chair. She stood in awe of the faraway kingdom and instantly knew why none of her relatives ever returned to the empire.