I want to be careful about what I claim here. I am not going to tell you that I have proof of an afterlife, or that I can offer you evidence that would satisfy a sceptic across a table. What I can tell you is that something in that room asked to be attended to, and that attending to it changed me, and that forty years of returning to that threshold has taught me more about how to live than almost anything else I have studied, including the philosophy I have spent my life stud

We usually speak of death as if it were the end of a thing. A person lives, and then that person dies. It sounds straightforward, almost tidy. But that clarity may be borrowed from an older picture of what a person is. If you are a substance - a distinct, enduring entity that inhabits a body - then death is the destruction of that entity. But if you are not a substance at all, and instead a pattern, the question becomes much stranger. What exactly dies when a pattern ends?