When archaeologists recently examined a Neanderthal grave that was more than forty-four thousand years old, they found traces of ancient pollen from hyacinth and hollyhock flowers, apparently the remnant of a garland left by a mourner. It was a poignant reminder that grief, loss, and bereavement have been part of the human experience for a very long time.
Some say this will change. Experts are predicting a sensational increase in human longevity in the near future. There is heady talk about postponing death indefinitely, as scientists unravel the mysteries of aging. So far, however, the statistics are compelling—everyone dies, no exceptions—which means that the primal sense of loss is unlikely ever to be eradicated.
Although death remains a constant, our attitudes toward it are changing. One of the most significant developments in Western cultures during the twentieth century was our increased willingness to confront death openly. Books on death and dying are best-sellers. Courses in “death mentoring” and compassionate care for the dying have become standard fare in medical schools, hospitals, and secular institutions. Hospice care of the dying is helping medicine reestablish contact with its spiritual roots. Talk of a “natural,” “good,” “peaceful,” and “graceful” death abounds. Baby boomers, now in their fifties, who once wrote their own wedding vows, are now writing their funeral scripts in an attempt to personalize their departure and ease the grief of those left behind.1
One reason for these developments is the recognition that painful emotional experiences such as grief and loss can best be dealt with by entering them fully instead of ignoring them or burying them in the unconscious mind. As Buddhism says, “Welcome everything, push nothing away.” This is where Moody and Arcangel’s Life After Loss excels. There is no better practical guide for confronting pain and loss than their fine book. They write from personal insight and experience, and they have immense wisdom to share.
During the reign of materialistic science in the past two centuries, it became fashionable to consider human consciousness the equivalent of the brain. This meant that, with the death of the brain and body, consciousness was annihilated and total personal destruction was assured. This view not only deepened the experience of grief and loss for survivors; it reminded them of their own impending destruction as well. Today, however, many lines of evidence suggest that we must rethink the assumption that mind equals brain. The reason, in a nutshell, is this: scientific evidence shows that consciousness can do things that brains cannot. Quite simply, brains and consciousness are not the same.
In his investigation of near-death experiences (NDEs), Raymond Moody, Jr., has illuminated some of the evidence suggesting that consciousness may transcend the physical brain and body. Like the academic philosopher that he is, Moody is careful not to overstate the case for the survival of consciousness. Yet hope for survival is clearly in the air.2 As a team of British physicians recently put it, “The occurrence of NDE during cardiac arrest raises questions about the possible relationship between the mind and the brain.”3
When we speak of grief and loss, what, actually, is lost? The physical body obviously dies, but what about consciousness? John Searle, one of the most distinguished philosophers in the field of consciousness studies, has said, “At our present state of the investigation of consciousness, we don’t know how it works and we need to try all kinds of different ideas.”4 Philosopher Jerry A. Fodor has observed, “Nobody has the slightest idea how anything material could be conscious. Nobody even knows what it would be like to have the slightest idea about how anything material could be conscious. So much for the philosophy of consciousness.”5 Recently Sir John Maddox, the former editor of Nature, soberly stated, “The catalogue of our ignorance must…include the understanding of the human brain…. What consciousness consists of…is…a puzzle. Despite the marvelous success of neuroscience in the past century…, we seem as far away from understanding…as we were a century ago.”6 These observations show that we are appallingly ignorant about the nature of consciousness, the relationship of mind and brain, and the origin and destiny of consciousness. It is important to acknowledge our ignorance, because this permits a greater openness to the new views of consciousness and perhaps for survival.
We are entering a renaissance in which scholars are investigating how consciousness operates beyond the brain.7 For example, the evidence for distant healing and intercessory prayer is compelling and continues to increase.8 As a result of this and many other lines of evidence, we are beginning to realize that some aspect of consciousness transcends the physical brain and is apparently nonlocal or infinite in space and time, thus eternal and immortal.9
Why emphasize these developments? Nothing, I believe, could be more important in annulling the sting of death and the sense of loss and grief following the death of loved ones.
I love the ambiguity of this book’s title, Life After Loss. Life for whom? For those who remain? For the deceased? My answer is: life for both.
Many people still believe that grief and loss are brute experiences that must be borne in isolation, solitude, and silence. Life After Loss demonstrates that this assumption is wrong. Practical steps can be taken to diminish the pain of grief, mourning, and bereavement, as the authors show.
This book is a work of love and caring, and only someone capable of deep compassion could have written it. The authors deserve our collective gratitude for nudging us toward the realization that, although we cannot annul death, that is not the final chapter for those who remain—nor, perhaps, for the departed as well.