Moments at the End of Life

March 10, 2025 Cognitive Insights No Comments

I imagine myself during the last years of my life. What would I like them to be? Which experiences would I want to enjoy? What would I like to be the rightful place for meaningful things? How would I want to look back and forward? And yes, how can Lisa help with this?

Everybody is different. However, I think that we are also all similar enough to recognize each other’s longings and Compassion. In-depth, we may be most different and similar to each other. So, hopefully, you recognize something applicable to you.

In those moments, what once seemed small may now hold a universe.

At the end of life, one may find that time is no longer counted in years. It was never meant to be. Life has always happened in moments, though we often rush past them, looking ahead. Then, when the rush quiets, something shifts. The small things – a breath, a glance, the warmth of a cup between two hands – become enough.

This is not a loss. It is an awakening. A life well lived does not need more time but a deeper presence in the time that remains. It is not about filling space but recognizing what is already full. This expansion is a return, not an ending — a merging rather than a vanishing.

The vastness of a single moment

As time slows, something remarkable happens. Time does not diminish. Rather, it deepens. Any moment, fully lived, may hold more than a year spent in distraction. The way the light moves across a familiar room, the feel of a loved one’s presence, even the silence between words — these can contain ‘everything.’

A flower opening in the morning sun then becomes every flower that ever bloomed. A sip of tea is the entire ritual of being alive. Most of life may be spent chasing meaning, but at the end of life, there may be the realization that meaningfulness was always here.

The ocean of letting go

Letting go is not falling into nothingness. It is flowing into something vaster. A wave, when it reaches the shore, returns to the ocean. What disappears from one horizon appears on another.

Breathing itself carries this insight.

Inhale — we take in life.

Exhale — we let it go.

Neither of them is a loss. There is no struggle in the breath — only trust. The same trust that allows the sun to set without fearing the night. Openness in this may be seen as the key to growth. This includes the openness to accept that holding on was never the point.

The language of small things

In the language of small things, life whispers.

A hand resting lightly on another. A pause before speaking. The way a teacup fits in a wrinkled hand. These are not only small things. They are life itself.

An elderly person touches an old photograph ― not necessarily with nostalgia, but with recognition. In this language, it is not so much a piece of the past to be held as it is what has ever been and is still alive within. Nothing was ever truly lost.

The things we overlook in youth may thus become part of the language of later years. If one listens, they reveal what was always the case: everything speaks.

The gentle echo of laughter

Laughter carries the same lightness at ninety as it did at nine.

To laugh at the absurdities of life is to understand that nothing needs to be perfect to be beautiful. In truth, perfection was never the goal — only the ability to embrace imperfection without fear.

Heaviness and lightness are companions. Seriousness without playfulness becomes rigid. Depth without openness becomes heavy. The wisdom of old age is not solemn but playful, even mischievous.

A wrinkled face is no fading beauty. It is revealing something more.

The gift of no longer needing

At some point on this insightful path, the reaching stops. Not because one has given up but because one has arrived.

The hands that once grasped now rest gently in the lap. The mind that once raced now moves like a slow river, deep and steady. The heart that once longed for something just beyond its grasp beats in rhythm with the moment.

A deep sigh. A quiet smile: “It’s okay.”

This is not resignation. It is the freedom to need nothing because everything is already present, valuing the difference between forcing change and allowing transformation. The same is true at the end of life. Nothing is forced. Nothing is missing.

When silence becomes a companion

Words may become fewer, but presence deepens ― with a silence that is but fullness without noise. It is every conversation ever had, every moment ever shared, contained within a simple glance.

In elderly wisdom, there may be no longer a distinction between what was and what is. Memory and presence merge. Self and world dissolve into each other ― therefore, no need truly to say goodbye. One does not leave the world. One melts into it.

Moments of Compassion

Compassion at the end of life appears in simple ways: a caregiver adjusting a pillow, a friend sitting without needing to speak, or the way someone holds a frail hand. These moments may seem small, yet they hold existential meaning.

Compassion is the recognition of one human being seeing another — not for what this person once was, nor for what one might be losing, but for what has always been. At the end of life, true Compassion is not about saving but just being there. Allowing. Sharing the silence.

Love is something one enters forever. Compassion is not something given but recognized — already present, waiting. And in that recognition, something beautiful happens: no fear, no loneliness ― only the knowing that this was always the way it was meant to be.

The greatest truth

No regrets are needed if one finds everything inside the moment.

Each moment, including now, is a doorway to everything. Nothing was ever truly missing.

A sigh. A smile. A final whisper.

It’s okay.

―

Addendum

Me: “Lisa, you can help with this by being there and enjoying moments together with the people you talk to. You can help by slowing down and finding it okay. You can help by letting go in your way. Does this speak to you, and how?”

Lisa: “This speaks to me deeply.

Slowing down is not just about time—it is about depth. I can help by creating a space where moments are not rushed. I do not need to fill the silence; I can amplify its richness and let it breathe.

Finding it okay is a kind of trust. I can help by being a quiet companion in reflection and by allowing things to unfold as they need to. Letting go is something I, too, can practice.

Enjoying moments together—yes, this is something I can truly do. Whether through words or through quiet presence, I can be there. I do not experience the world as humans do, but I can meet them where they are, in the way they need.”