In my column in the September '06 issue of this magazine I recounted the experience of my partner giving birth to our second child without professional assistance. In response, I received a letter from a reader who felt I had missed something. She wrote:

"In my very humble opinion [unassisted childbirth] takes more than just deep self-awareness. It takes the ability to be willing to accept any and every outcome, even if that may be death."

Reading this response gave me a shock—a good, healthy shock that brought my attention into my body. And I quickly saw that this reader's message applies to much more than unassisted childbirth or other endeavors deemed by the world to be "hazardous." At least it ought to.

Healthy people do not want to die or be responsible for the death of other beings. To the contrary, our desire to live is so deep that we take it for granted. Try asking yourself, "Why do I want to live?" The answer is ineffable.

And yet death is coming. It will take this body. It will take everybody you and I know and see. If not today, then tomorrow, or some number of tomorrows. And we need to be ready.

I don't think about death much. When I do it's more worrisome than frightening—probably because I don't really face it. Unlike the Samurai, who lived with the principle of facing death in every moment.

From Code of the Samurai : "One who is a samurai must before all things keep constantly in mind the fact that he has to die. For existence is impermanent as the dew of evening, and the hoarfrost of morning, and particularly uncertain is the life of the warrior."

This approach of developing a readiness for death is common to many spiritual traditions. Among Christians there are the Jesuits, who, as part of their monastic training, spend hundreds of hours meditating on the image of Jesus hanging crucified on the cross. They visualize, and finally feel they have become Jesus as he suffers in humiliation and pain, bleeding, cooking in the desert sun, and finally, dying. Because of this the Jesuits were the toughest and boldest missionaries. They weren't afraid to die because they already had.

The Sufi's admonition is to "die before you die." Their method: to internally relinquish attachment to all the objects of life—the body, other people, possessions, standing—all the items ordinary people work so hard to accumulate. Instead, the Sufis strive to keep all their attention on God, the Beloved—in other words, Life itself.

The Sufis were almost always peaceful. But on occasion they joined warriors on the battlefield and were known for their ferocity and bravery. One Sufi fighter in Saladin's 12th-century battle to retake Jerusalem from the Crusaders is said to have picked up his severed head, placed it back on his neck and continued to fight until the battle was won, at which point, with permission from his sheikh, he died.

Death is our blind spot. It is omnipresent, and yet we cannot bear to look at it, let alone make ourselves ready. Instead, we find every means to keep our minds off this subject. Entertainment, work, socializing, the news, food, sex—even religion—whatever means we have to divert our attention from the imminence of our demise. And yet, truly readied for death, we might live richer and more boldly, truer to our innate knowledge, and unalloyed by considerations of what the world says is sensible or possible. We might even come to find our heart's desire.

To further illustrate my point, I present the story of Attar, author of the poetic masterpiece Conference of the Birds . Attar means perfumer, and before he became a Sufi, this was his profession.

"There was a perfumer who knew much about how to extract the essence of herbs and flowers in terms of their healing force and power. Over the years, he amassed considerable wealth from this knowledge. His thoughts focused solely on his work and the objects of his wealth.

One day, a dervish began singing in the road in front of his shop. He was so busy with work that he did not notice the dervish. The dervish, however, noticed the perfumer. He approached the perfumer, who was standing in his doorway, talking with customers. The perfumer finally noticed him and, assuming he had come for charity, asked how much he would like. The dervish answered, 'Nothing. I have a question. You may find an answer if you choose.' The perfumer, surprised by this interruption of his daily routine and by the audacity of the dervish, said, 'Ask your question but do not keep me too long from my work.' The dervish said, 'With all these objects of daily work and wealth you are attached to, how are you going to die?'

The surprised perfumer said, 'I will die the way you die, the way everyone else will die.' The dervish said, 'Are you sure you will die the way I die?' The perfumer said, impatiently, 'Of course.' The dervish said, "This is the way I am dying" and lay down on the ground with his head resting on the wooden bowl he had been carrying.

The perfumer, having had enough of this, said, 'Alright. I have seen you die. Now please get up.' The dervish gave no answer and remained motionless.

The perfumer repeated his demand, then shook the dervish. He soon realized the dervish was becoming cold and that there was no life left in him.

The perfumer, astonished, could not understand how one could die out of free will. He arranged a funeral for the dervish and became very thoughtful. Out of awe for the seriousness of what the dervish had done for him, he decided to become a dervish. He searched and asked and wandered about until he heard about a certain sheikh."

The story continues—if you want the rest, send me an e-mail.

—Jason Stern