Dear Disciples, do not forget that death is only the disappearance of the physical body.
Our body was born from parents and nourished by food, so sickness and death are unavoidable. But the true Buddha is not a human body. The true Buddha is enlightenment. A human body must disappear, but the Wisdom and Compassion of Enlightenment (Amida Buddha) exist forever in the truth of the Dharma and the practice of the Dharma. Those who see only my body do not truly see me.
During the last forty-five years of my life, I have withheld nothing from my teaching. There is no secret teaching, no hidden meaning; everything has been taught openly and clearly. After my death, the Dharma will be your teacher.
Dear disciples, this is the end. In a moment, I shall pass into Nirvana. This is my instruction.
Death: Rites of Passage
Revs. Arthur Takemoto, Masao Kodani, Russell Hamada
Nirvana Day is the day Buddhists remember the passing of Shakyamuni Buddha. At our temples, we usually hold it in February, along with our Pet Memorial services. There are some who have wondered why I hold the two together. For me, Nirvana Day is a quiet day of reflection, not only about death, but about what continues beyond death. It invites us to reflect on impermanence, gratitude, and the teachings that remain alive long after a physical life has ended.
Near the end of his life, the Buddha told his disciples, “After I am gone, let the Dharma be your teacher.” He also reminded them that to truly see him was not to look at his physical body, but to see the truth of the teaching itself. In this way, the Buddha showed that death is not the end of learning, but another way the teaching continues to guide us.
One Shin Buddhist text, the Tannishō, expresses this tension clearly: how difficult it is for us to leave this familiar world, even when it is filled with suffering, and how hard it is for us to imagine the peace of the Pure Land. We cling to what we know, even when it hurts. And yet, when our karmic bonds to this world are fulfilled, we are carried beyond it. These words remind us that reluctance, fear, and love are all part of being human.
Often, we learn these truths not in grand moments, but in ordinary, deeply personal experiences.
My friend Rev. Mauricio Hondaku Ghigonetto had told me that he know of some ministers were working with hospice as Death Doulas. Doulas are usually in reference to non medical persons who assist with birth, something similar to midwives. Death doulas, assist in death and the psychological process of death and grieving.
For many families, the death of a pet is a child’s first encounter with loss. Pets are not “just animals.” They are members of the family. They greet us with joy, stay close without conditions, and offer love without asking for anything in return. Through them, children learn something tender and lasting: love does not protect us from loss, and yet love does not disappear when someone is gone.
I remember this clearly from when my daughter Kacie was very young. Our dog Sammy had grown old and was suffering from frequent seizures. When the veterinarian explained that Sammy would need to be put to sleep, we struggled with how to explain this to our children. In trying to soften the moment, Sammy’s passing was described as going to “La La Land.”
When Kacie heard this, she took it very seriously. Later, after we had said goodbye to Sammy and held a simple service at home, I asked her to imagine what Sammy was doing. She said she could see him running through green grass in the sunshine. I gently explained that this was the Pure Land, where Amida Buddha’s compassion embraces all beings.
That night, something quietly beautiful happened. Kacie placed Sammy’s picture inside the Obutsudan, next to Amida Buddha. When I asked her why, she said she was worried Sammy might feel confused or afraid in a new place. She wanted Sammy to be close to the Buddha, so he would feel safe and cared for. In that moment, a child expressed a truth deeper than any explanation I could have offered: love wants comfort for those it cares about, even beyond death.
Years later, I encountered this same teaching again, in a much more painful way, when we had to say goodbye to Miso.
On a bright spring day, after a long winter, I spent time with Miso in the backyard. The sun was gentle, the air was calm, and I did not yet realize that this would be our last afternoon together at home. Soon after, the veterinarian explained that Miso was suffering from a serious illness and recommended that we let her go that same day, so she would not suffer further.
Holding Miso as she was put to sleep was one of the hardest moments of my life. Grief did not arrive quietly. It came as shock, anger, confusion, and a deep ache that made it hard to breathe. Even knowing all the teachings about impermanence did not protect me from that pain.
And yet, slowly, something else began to surface. I remembered Sammy. I remembered Kacie’s concern that Sammy might feel lost in a strange new place. And I realized that just as I had held Miso with care and love at the end of her life, she was now held by a compassion far greater than my own.
I placed Miso’s ashes in the Obutsudan for a time. Not because she needed protection, but because I did. It reminded me that love does not end at death. It changes form, but it continues to shape us.
In February, our temple will hold both the Nehan-e service, commemorating the Buddha’s passing, and a Pet Memorial Service. Holding these services together reminds us that remembrance is not about clinging to what is gone, but about honoring what has shaped our lives. The Buddha continues to teach through the Dharma. Our loved ones continue to live in our hearts. Our pets continue to guide us in kindness, patience, and care. They may be our best death doulas.
On Nirvana Day,
we remember the Buddha.
We remember our loved ones.
We remember our pets.
And we give thanks for the love that continues.
Namo Amida Butsu.