What does it truly mean to be born?
You are here now because your mother gave birth to you.
You know that there was a time when no one was happier about your arrival into this world than your mother.
And of course, there was also a time when you, too, were overjoyed to have been born—
a time when you suckled at her breast, cradled in her arms, wrapped in a deep sense of peace and safety.
Even those who now proudly live their lives, believing they've made it on their own, began in the same way—
nurtured by a mother.
Yet most people have forgotten that origin—forgotten their own beginning.
And worse than forgetting is being unaware of how much resentment or blame they've projected onto that very mother.
But when I speak of your "mother" here, I'm not referring to the woman you've interacted with daily—
not the one with flaws, habits, and shortcomings, just like yourself.
Most mothers, after all, see their children as "mine"—as beings they brought into the world and raised—and they often project a controlling, possessive energy, even without realizing it.
They believe it's love.
They tell themselves, "It's all for your sake."
They're convinced that such involvement is a mother's duty—that it's an expression of care.
In truth, it is ignorance, but they don't know that.
And that makes it all the more tragic.
Yet even beyond that, there is something else—a distinct current of energy that flows from a mother.
If you truly open your heart to the real intention behind even the most flawed mother's being, I believe you will be changed.
It is not the desire to possess you.
It is simply the joy of having brought you into this world.
It is a vibration—pure and unwavering—that longs only for your happiness.
No matter how cruelly you may have spoken or how unreasonable your demands may have been,
you are here now because you have been forgiven.
You are allowed to exist.
If you truly believe that your success, your title, your wealth, your achievements are solely the result of your own efforts,
then you are, I must say, quite arrogant.
Of course, I don't expect you to admit to that arrogance right away.
But one day, I believe you will.
One day, I believe you'll find within yourself the words:
"Yes, I was arrogant. Mother, I'm truly sorry."
And in that moment, tears will come—tears of overwhelming emotion.
In that moment, you will recognize within your heart a mother you had long forgotten—
not the one you knew in daily life, but the essence behind her form.
And you will feel the vibration that came from that presence.
It will be a warmth and comfort beyond words.
And when that moment comes,
you will know that a mother's love has always embraced you—unconditionally.
It will spread through your heart as joy.
Please believe that it was through this deep, unwavering love that you were able to be born.
This is your true origin.
Some may say, "Children do not get to choose their parents."
But that is not true.
You chose your mother.
More precisely, you asked her:
"Please, give me a body. Please give birth to me."
You needed a physical body, and so you came into this world through your mother.
Of course, nearly everyone forgets this.
That's nearly a 100% certainty.
And because we forget, we begin to face hardship from the very moment we are born—
challenges intended to bring us back to that forgotten starting point.
Without remembering our origin, life becomes a burden, a struggle.
We come to believe that life is inherently suffering, and we take that belief at face value.
But of all the mistaken ideas passed down in this world, I believe that may be the greatest of all.
To be born is a joy. Life itself is joy.
When a child is born, we celebrate.
That celebration is a mutual message shared between parent and child:
"Through the experiences that await, may you awaken to your true self."
But the true birthday comes when one can say from the heart:
"I'm grateful just to have been born. Thank you, Mother."
That is when one truly begins.
Without standing at that starting line,
I believe we can understand nothing real.
"I ask you—please give me a body."
That was your earnest plea.
And in response to that wish, you were given form, supported by every cell that inherited your parents' DNA.
You waited with joy in your mother's womb for the day you would enter this world.
Even as you were influenced by your mother's bodily state and emotions,
you were full of joy, eagerly anticipating the moment of your birth.
And even if, before you could be born—or shortly after—you were no longer able to sustain life in that body,
your heart would still say,
"Thank you. I'm so happy. I'm grateful."
Why?
Because even for a brief time,
you had the chance to exist in your mother's womb.
You were wrapped in her warmth, feeling only peace—no dissatisfaction, no lack.
It was a time and space filled entirely with joy.
In that moment, you could feel your mother's presence completely.
Whether or not your physical form made it into this world, the fact remains:
Your mother accepted you.
This truth never changes.
Even those souls who were miscarried, stillborn, or passed shortly after birth
still say from their hearts,
"Thank you, Mother."
They return from the womb with joy.
It is often the mother, not the child, who grieves the most—mourning the loss of a child that never came into the world.
Although we all came into existence this way,
we eventually forget what it means to be born, and we forget our mothers' presence.
As we grow older, we set out to live life on our own—but it is not so simple.
Life, with all its peaks and valleys, does not proceed smoothly according to our wishes.
In fact, those very peaks and valleys were part of the plan you made for yourself before you were born.
You even chose how you would face and pass through them.
But you forget that you longed for a body.
You forget that you chose the very environment into which you were born.
And so you begin to complain:
"I never asked to be born into this family."
"Why did you give birth to me?"
"Why is my mother like that?"
You direct all your dissatisfaction and blame
toward the mother standing right in front of you.
The more difficult your environment,
the more intense that blame becomes.
Even those raised in privileged, enviable surroundings find ways to feel unsatisfied,
to find fault—and once again, that frustration gets directed at the mother.
All of us, in one way or another, experience moments
when our unfiltered emotions come bursting forth—aimed directly at our mothers.
Have you ever wondered why this is?
Why is it that our rawest, most intense feelings
come out so easily when we face our mothers?
Isn't it true that, as children, we all said whatever we wanted to our mothers,
without restraint?
And yet, even when we cried, complained, or threw tantrums,
our mothers still accepted us in the end.
They may have scolded us, they may have been strict at times—
but somehow, it always felt different than when a father reprimanded us.
No one had to teach us this.
We just knew—somewhere deep in our hearts—that this is what a mother is.
Yes, it's the mother whose body was physically connected to yours by the umbilical cord.
And from the moment that cord was cut,
we began to forget the presence of the one who carried us.
Don't you feel that we're surrounded by so many so-called adults who haven't truly grown up?
We often use the word "adult", but what does it really mean?
If we look around, we might say that society is filled with immature individuals—people whose level of inner development remains low.
By "adults who never truly grow up," I don't mean those who preserve a childlike innocence or playfulness.
I'm referring to those who are self-centered and irresponsible—
people who assert themselves forcefully but conveniently blur the lines when it comes to taking responsibility.
Such people work in companies.
They get married.
They become fathers and mothers.
And the result?
We see it reflected every day in the countless scandals, crimes, and social dysfunctions that trouble even a single country like Japan.
Despite living in a world overflowing with information,
the pressures of a declining birthrate and an aging society continue to produce more and more adults who never fully mature.
Their bodies and intellect grow, but their hearts remain underdeveloped.
They are human beings out of balance.
When physical needs are met and the environment is comfortable, the body grows naturally.
And the mind, too, may be trained and tested through the pressures of academic competition.
But what about the heart?
Do people really know what the heart is?
The truth is, the world of the heart cannot be fully explained by religious scholars.
Nor can it be unraveled by academic theories or scientific perspectives.
Certainly, we can talk endlessly about emotions—
joy, sadness, anger, love.
We can even analyze these emotions through psychology.
But merely talking about feelings is not the same as understanding the heart.
And analyzing thoughts does not grant us true insight into the world of the heart.
Why?
Because both the speaker and the analyst are viewing the heart from the perspective of the physical world.
They do not know that the heart exists within a world of its own—a world beyond form.
In the end, most people try to understand the heart using their intellect.
They focus on outward expressions—words, behaviors, facial expressions—and try to measure or define the heart from there.
Books are written this way—guides, doctrines, manuals, even sacred texts.
The world is flooded with such materials.
Society today encourages us to pack our heads full of this kind of knowledge,
as if it will help us cope or succeed.
And all the while, we are surrounded by adults who never truly became adults.
When you give unbalanced information to unbalanced people,
you only create more confusion in the world.
And that is exactly what we're witnessing now.
What does it truly mean to die?
Every human being who is born will one day die.
There is no medicine that grants eternal life.
Eventually, every physical body will decay and return to the earth.
This, at least, is a truth that most people accept.
But the real question is this:
During the time between birth and death,
did you discover what you were truly meant to do?
Did you find your life's true purpose?
There are those who devote themselves passionately to work in various fields,
believing that they've found their calling.
But can they say, with certainty, that this is truly the purpose of their soul?
Perhaps, toward the end of life,
one begins to wonder—was there something more?
Was there something deeper I was meant to do?
When we're young and full of energy, we pour ourselves into whatever environment allows us to shine.
If we're given opportunities, we may feel we're living a fruitful and successful life—
gaining titles, wealth, social recognition, and influence.
When such a person dies,
they may be praised even more in death than in life.
Memorials may be held.
They may be called a "great person" or even revered as a kind of deity.
Those who knew them may tell stories with admiration and fondness.
Festivals may be held in their name, celebrating their legacy.
But that's all from the perspective of those who are still alive.
As for the one who has passed on—
the moment they shed their physical body,
all those worldly glories vanish.
The festive atmosphere, the admiration, the legacy—
all of it belongs to the time when they were still in the body.
For the departed, it's an entirely different reality.
At the very moment the body is left behind,
they are plunged into a heavy, suffocating darkness—
a world far removed from the glamour and praise of their earthly life.
They may cry out. They may scream.
But that crushing weight closes in on them nonetheless.
This is the truth for those who have lived their lives without ever coming to know what truly matters.
And no one—absolutely no one—speaks from the other side about what that world is like.
Why not?
Because they can't.
The idea of peacefully ascending to heaven is, quite frankly, a fantasy.
So—
Is death suffering?
And if so, why?
The truth is, we were all born from suffering.
We were born in order to free ourselves from suffering.
If you live your entire life without knowing that,
then yes—death will be suffering.
For most people, the original purpose of life—awakening to the self—is never realized.
They are distracted by illusions, chasing fleeting things, and the plan they created before birth is derailed.
They may not think they've lost their way.
They may believe they've lived their lives to the fullest.
But in truth, they were never aware of this:
"I was born because I was suffering."
"I was born to free myself from that suffering."
Most people also believe that death means the end of the self.
That everything they've loved, achieved, or built will vanish.
And beyond that, they're haunted by the deeper fear:
"When I die… will I cease to exist?"
This fear—of losing the very self—is overwhelming.
Someone burdened with such fear cannot possibly welcome death with joy.
For them, death is only suffering.
And if illness is involved—if the body is in pain and they're forced to wait for death—
that suffering only deepens.
Inside, they whisper:
"I don't want to die. I'm afraid of dying."
But outwardly, they try to convince themselves:
"Well, I'll be leaving this world soon."
No matter how much they try to encourage themselves,
the moment of death draws closer with every passing second.
Those who have relied on faith in outside powers turn desperately to gods and buddhas,
pleading for guidance, for mercy.
Even those who've never believed in anything beyond this world may find their hearts in turmoil at the end.
And rightfully so.
Why?
Because they've been cruel to themselves.
They may not realize it,
but if they lived their whole lives without ever freeing themselves from suffering—
if they only added more suffering to their own path—
then they have been unkind to their own heart.
What remains at the end of such a life is a sorrowful regret that fills the heart.
But while still wrapped in the physical body,
they likely won't be aware of this.
Even up to the final breath,
most people never realize just how troubled their inner world has become.
After you die, how would you like your body to be treated?
Would you want a grand funeral?
A respectful burial?
Do you hope your loved ones will stand before your altar and bid you farewell, keeping you in their memories forever?
When the cells of your body have fulfilled their role and you release your thoughts from the physical form, what remains is the body—now simply a shell.
To me, a dead body is nothing more than a remnant.
It is a lifeless husk from which consciousness has departed.
The one who once inhabited it—the true self—has quietly left the body and still continues to live on.
This, I believe, is our true form as human beings.
In other words, our real identity is consciousness, and once the physical form is no longer needed, we naturally leave it behind.
We do not remain bound to it.
However, most people continue to cling to their physical bodies.
That is because they believe—mistakenly—that the body is who they are.
They assume that when the body disappears, they themselves disappear.
And so they say,
"Please give me a proper burial."
"I want a renowned monk or priest to guide me to the afterlife."
"Please remember me on the anniversary of my death."
But during my time within this body, I've felt warmth and kindness from the very cells that sustain me.
And when the time comes for those cells to say goodbye,
I believe we will exchange our final thoughts:
"Thank you."
I imagine gently parting from the body, whispering,
"Goodbye, thank you."
I do not exist with my remains.
Even if my body lies there, I continue to exist here and now.
That is how I perceive myself.
From this state of mind,
once I've released my consciousness from the body,
I see the remains as nothing more than something to be disposed of.
Handling them is simply a small task left for others.
I don't believe it should require much money or ceremony.
When someone continues to mourn the dead for years,
clinging to sorrow—
is that because they are deeply compassionate and kind?
If the two of us, while alive, were able to look into each other's hearts and connect,
then yes, there may be a period of deep feeling after parting.
But even that feeling, I believe, should not be one of sadness or loneliness—
rather, it should be a sense of joy in remembering that person.
If you find yourself reflecting on someone you've lost,
then do so with joy in your heart.
"Why are we born? Why do we die?"
These have long been considered difficult questions.
But when the heart begins to feel the presence of eternity in the now,
the answers become clear:
Both birth and death are events of joy.
Why?
Because we are born and we die in order to awaken to our true selves.
But awakening to the true self is no easy task.
The fact that we've viewed both birth and death as painful experiences throughout history
is proof of how difficult and profound that journey truly is.
That's why spiritual seekers of the past sought to escape the endless cycle of rebirth—samsara.
They believed that reincarnation itself was suffering,
and that liberation from it—moksha—was the path to happiness.
So they devoted themselves to extinguishing desires and attachments.
But that belief, I now see, was a deep misunderstanding—
a result of ignorance.
And this truth cannot be understood until one begins the process of turning consciousness inward.
No matter how rigorous the discipline or how devout the practice,
without this inner shift, the result is always the same: an unending hell.
In modern times, many people are busy struggling with the demands of daily life.
They are preoccupied with survival,
trying to build happiness, prosperity, and fulfillment—each in their own way.
But a time will come when that constructed life begins to collapse.
That time always comes.
Throughout history, this has been the case.
Natural disasters, social upheavals, and personal tragedies have always been part of human experience.
But because we never made the inward shift—never turned our consciousness—
we died again and again, filled with resentment and curses.
And then, carrying those unresolved thoughts,
we returned once more to this world.
This is how the belief was born:
"Life is suffering. Death is suffering. Rebirth is suffering."
In such a state, we cling desperately to life.
We fear death.
We obsess over our physical form.
We refuse to let go.
We blame others.
We place the responsibility for our pain on the world around us.
And indeed—we've done just that, lifetime after lifetime.
But no matter whom we blamed, no matter what we cursed,
in the end, we were simply sinking deeper into the darkness of our own hearts.
And even when we tried to climb out,
our hearts—still full of curses and grudges—pulled us back down.
Even if one was born into a luxurious and peaceful era,
even if one ruled a nation, or lived humbly by the roadside—
the inner world, the world of consciousness, remained dark.
And so, darkness met darkness—
again and again through intimate, entangled relationships.
That is the nature of reincarnation.
We carry within us countless human dramas—
and still, we are born again.
Again and again, we are given the chance to awaken.
There are many who believe in reincarnation.
And yet, most have not yet realized that each lifetime is interconnected—
that their many lives are part of one continuous stream.
Why not?
Because they have not yet turned their consciousness.
They remain unaware of what it truly means to awaken.
Do you know what it means to connect with yourself?
For example, when I turn my thoughts to my future life,
I feel this message arising within me:
"I will leave behind this physical body and take on another in my next life.
But we are still the same—we will live together once again.
Only the outward form has changed.
Nothing about us has truly changed."
I can sense the presence of that "me" speaking within me.
This awareness also extends to my past lives.
That sense of continuity is alive in my heart.
That's why I am certain:
I am a being who continues across time, from past to future.
Let me share more of what I feel within:
"I have been connecting myself—linking through the darkness.
I can feel this clearly. And now, I've reached the time of this present life. I was born carrying a deep, unwavering resolve. And I am still in the process of connecting to my final incarnation.Right now is 250 years later.
And 250 years later is right now.This awareness brings me nothing but gratitude and joy.
Simply being given a body is a joy.
Being born and dying—both are for the sake of awakening to my true self.Realizing this has brought about a profound change within me."
Out of suffering, out of breath, out of despair—
I finally reached this understanding:
"Even when I had nothing, I was happy. I was joy itself."
And that joy—my own being as joy—has always spoken to me from within.
None of us are exceptions.
We have all been connecting ourselves.
It is the deep desire to encounter our true selves that has kept us connected.
As beings of energy, we originally existed in a non-physical form.
And it is out of the yearning to reunite with our true essence
that we take on the shape of human life again and again.
The outward form may differ each time,
but the inner core remains the same.
In other words, the energy that is our true nature takes on form,
driven by the longing to reconnect with the real self.
In this present life, I have come to know this truth clearly, from the depths of my heart.
Our lives are supported by the cells of our bodies.
When abnormalities occur in those cells and the survival of the body is threatened,
we are faced with what is often considered the most terrifying illness of all: cancer.
To put it simply, cancer is the result of having continually poured intense, damaging energy into those cells—
an energy that leads to cell death and destruction.
But this isn't something that applies only to cancer patients.
Rather, it is through the experience of cancer that people are given the opportunity to realize something important—
not only the person affected, but also their family and those around them.
However, in most cases, people cannot receive the situation that way.
Instead, fear of death and financial anxiety rise to the surface of the heart.
Cancer becomes the enemy.
People believe, "This is what destroyed everything. If only we could eliminate it…"
Doctors, patients, and families alike wage war against the cancer cells.
We speak of "fighting cancer," "eradicating cancer," and pour forth enormous energy in that battle.
But here is the crucial question:
Do we ever pause to recognize the nature of the energy we're releasing?
In the heart that fights cancer,
there is not even a fragment of kindness toward the very cells that have endured our energy all this time.
You can cut away the diseased area, and the body may indeed recover.
Medical science has made great advances, as have pharmaceutical treatments.
Removing part of the body might be enough from a physical standpoint.
But what about the cancer of the heart?
That is not so easily dealt with.
A heart that sees cancer only as an enemy cannot hear the messages flowing from those cells.
It cannot feel the gentleness coming from the damaged tissue that's about to be discarded.
Before pleading "Please save me,"
wouldn't it make sense to first turn your heart toward those very cells—
the ones you are about to abandon?
Even if it is at the very end—at the final flicker of life's flame—
if one can begin to feel the warmth and kindness that their own heart has shut out for so long,
then that person, in that moment, has saved themselves.
When that realization dawns,
one may begin to understand that living a long life is not the only form of happiness.
If both the person and their loved ones can feel the gentle vibrations
being offered by the cancer cells—
then cancer has become a teacher,
and they are truly fortunate.
What is it that binds a husband and wife together,
or connects members of a family?
We often use the word kizuna—a bond that cannot be severed between people.
But don't you feel that nowadays such bonds are becoming fragile,
easily broken?
We may not want to believe it, but it seems that more and more couples and families are living apart emotionally,
even while sharing the same roof.
They avoid interfering with each other,
each living freely in their own space, doing as they please.
Perhaps that's what a modern family looks like.
Now, imagine tossing a small pebble into that space.
The ripples created by that pebble will stir something in the hearts of everyone in the household.
Sometimes, despite having been emotionally distant,
the event triggered by the pebble may cause people to come together,
to match their steps once again.
Other times, it may deepen the rift even further,
widening the emotional gap between them.
That pebble can prompt one to reflect:
"Why this husband?"
"Why this wife?"
"Why this family?"
It's okay if no clear answers come.
You don't have to force yourself to find them.
Just thinking, just feeling—
that alone can be enough.
"I am who I am because of this husband."
"I am who I am because of this wife."
"What a wonderful family I have."
If the pebble brings about such thoughts,
then maybe you could even say,
"Thank you, little pebble."
What is that pebble, really?
And what are the ripples it creates?
Through your relationship with your husband, wife, or family,
if you begin to reflect on your own life
and feel joy or gratitude for the fact that you are here now—
then that alone is a step forward.
In this way, people begin to awaken to something deeper.
And if they don't notice it this time,
perhaps next time the pebble will be larger.
And the time after that, even larger still.
Gradually, through these experiences,
you may begin to feel something that goes beyond the surface:
"It's not just that I have this husband."
"It's not just that I have this wife or family."
"There is a deeper bond—one that can never be severed—between me and something far more essential."
And so, you may come to sense it:
A bond not with others, but with your own true self.
"Whether you cry or laugh, you only live once. So if it's all the same, let's live brightly, joyfully, and fully."
There is certainly some truth to this idea.
But if you only focus on the surface—putting on a happy face and striving to live a cheerful, fulfilling life—
eventually, the facade will wear thin.
The real question is:
What gives that joyful, fulfilling life true substance?
Because life only happens once,
some might say, "We must enjoy it to the fullest."
Others may say, "That's why I work so hard to make the most of it."
Still others live in the moment, thinking, "It's fleeting, so I'll live for now."
Perhaps some take each day as it comes,
saying, "Let's just do our best for now,"
and slowly, the days slip by.
But I, having confirmed within myself that I am a being who has been continuously connected across lifetimes,
see life not as a series of disconnected moments,
but as a continuous stream.
This awareness is my starting point.
When I view this present life from that starting point,
I see it as merely one section within the flow of time that stretches from past to future.
When you understand the whole, and look at just one part in that context,
your perspective on that part changes entirely.
If you see the present life as merely a part of the greater whole,
you'll realize that even the smallest change in that part affects the entire stream.
But if you focus only on this one lifetime,
you will either struggle to make it meaningful or let it slip by aimlessly.
If you begin to think of yourself as a being who exists in eternal time,
your relationship with the present moment will also change.
Why not try reflecting once on the "you" from the past,
and sending your thoughts toward the "you" of the future?
Then, turn your attention to the "you" in the here and now.
Certainly, your current life is important.
The people around you are likely very dear.
But can't you feel that there's something more—
a wider, deeper world of self waiting within you?
Can't you sense that something is waiting for you—
needing you—beyond what you see now?
Perhaps it's difficult for those who believe life is "only once" to sense this.
For such people, their awareness stops at that idea.
They don't realize they're living within the narrow confines of a dead-end world.
Think about it.
Even the most dazzling life lasts, what—eighty years, give or take?
But I feel something more: eternity.
There is a vast difference between those who feel that eternity
and those who do not.
And in the end, those who believe "life only happens once"
are often the ones who fail to truly cherish themselves.
Because when you live without a sense of connection to your eternal self,
you become irresponsible toward your own being.
I believe this:
If you think your life happens only once,
then you cannot truly treasure yourself.
What do you think?
These ten themes have been my attempt to express what I feel.
Would you also consider reflecting on them—
organizing your own thoughts and feelings as you go?
As you write or contemplate your responses,
there is one thing I hope you will pay special attention to:
Your own internal standard.
Why do you feel the way you do?
There must be something deep within you that is forming the foundation of your thoughts and emotions.
Yes, what you feel and think is important.
But just as important—if not more so—is understanding why you feel that way.
Please shine a light there.