Monday Morning Greetings 2026 #16 – Death with Honor

April 20th, 2026

I just returned from India last week, and it became so clear to me that this dark age was accelerating. Mostly those thoughts arose as I reflected on the economic situation. I began to remember the price of things when I was growing up. Just a few:

 

  • Gas was nineteen cents a gallon
  • My college tuition for room and board was $800 dollars a semester
  • My two-family house in Brooklyn with large backyard was $36,000
  • Our family doctor, Ralph Burke, made house calls for $10
  • Our middle-class family rented a bungalow in the Catskills for the summer for a few hundred dollars
  • My graduation gift from my parents for college was a new Volkswagen Beetle that cost under $2,000

 

I could go on and on. The point is that even if you adjusted for inflation people were paying a fraction of what the same things cost today. The general standard of living of America has been going down fast.

 

When I was reflecting like this, I chanced upon an article that added to my pessimism. It highlighted another growing symptom of this age of quarrel and confusion — what happens when a society immersed in materialism loses all sense dignity. It discussed the gradual loss of death with honor.

 

I have never shared another author’s article on Monday Morning Greetings, but this so viscerally illustrated the thought I wanted to share this week on the increasing degradation of the quality of life today that I thought it was worth sharing.

 

It doesn’t directly refer to God or the eternality of the soul, but I couldn’t help but read behind the lines and feel that the author’s fervor for honoring death could never be maintained without some deeper spiritual outlook.

 

 

The Last Lesson My Mother Taught Me

By Dr. Joseph Varon (published by Brownstone Institute)

 

The sounds in my mother’s room during her final days stood in stark contrast to those that have defined most of my professional experience. There were no ventilator alarms piercing the air every few minutes, no overhead announcements echoing down hospital corridors, no infusion pumps demanding attention in the middle of the night. There were no teams rushing through doors, pushing carts full of medications, no physicians frantically adjusting machines that were temporarily holding physiology together, no organized chaos that defines the modern intensive care unit. Instead, there was quiet.

 

For decades in intensive care units, where noise signifies action and action equates to survival, quietness has felt unsettling. Intensive care medicine depends on urgency, real-time monitoring, and rapid decision-making to prevent death. I have lived my professional life in that environment. But in that room, I was not the physician. I was a son. And now, as I write this, I am a son whose mother has died.

 

My mother did not die in an intensive care unit. She was not surrounded by machines, alarms, or artificial light. She died at home, in a room imbued with the quiet weight of memory. Decades of life were embedded in those walls, which had witnessed birthdays, conversations, laughter, arguments, and the countless ordinary moments that, in retrospect, constitute the true foundation of a life. A peripherally inserted central catheter (PICC) line rested in her arm, serving not as a symbol of escalation but as an instrument of compassion. Medications were given to relieve discomfort rather than to reverse disease. Nurses entered the room with calm, deliberate purpose rather than urgency. Their voices were soft, their movements measured. Their objective was not to save her life, but to honor it. There was no battle being fought. There was acceptance.

 

And in that acceptance, there was dignity.

 

Around her, the people who loved her most gathered. Children. Grandchildren. Family members who had traveled from different places, not in panic, but in recognition that this moment, this final chapter, was one that mattered deeply.

 

Sometimes we spoke. Sometimes we sat in silence. Sometimes we simply held her hand.

 

There is a form of communication in those moments that medicine cannot teach or measure. It is neither physiological nor quantifiable, yet it is real.

 

Meanwhile, my phone would not stop. Dozens of calls. Hundreds of text messages. Colleagues from across the country. Students from years past. Friends, patients, acquaintances. All reaching out with genuine compassion. And almost every message carried the same underlying sentiment: “We are praying she improves.” “We hope she pulls through.” “Let us know what else can be done.” I understood the intention behind every one of those messages. They were kind. They were sincere. They were deeply human. But they were also revealing.

 

Because what they reflected, collectively and unconsciously, was something we rarely acknowledge openly: We have become a culture that no longer knows how to accept death.

 

Over the past century, medicine has achieved extraordinary success. We have extended life expectancy, eradicated diseases, developed technologies that can temporarily replace failing organs, and established systems capable of sustaining biological function long after the body can no longer do so independently.

 

Ventilators can breathe for failing lungs. Dialysis machines can replace kidney function. Vasopressors can maintain blood pressure when the cardiovascular system collapses. Extracorporeal support can oxygenate blood outside the body. Artificial nutrition can sustain metabolism indefinitely.

 

These are remarkable achievements. However, these advancements have also fostered a dangerous illusion: the belief that death is optional, and that with sufficient intervention, escalation, and technological force, the inevitable can be indefinitely postponed. We cannot.

 

Every experienced physician knows this. Not intellectually, but experientially. We have seen it. We have lived it. We have stood at the bedside when the machines are running, the medications are maximized, the monitors are active, and yet the patient is still dying.

 

There comes a moment when biology cannot be negotiated with. And when that moment arrives, the question changes. It must change. The question is no longer: How do we keep this patient alive? The question becomes: How do we allow this patient to die without suffering?

 

This is where modern medicine, despite its many strengths, often falls short. The failure is not due to insufficient knowledge, but rather a lack of cultural and institutional willingness to adapt. Comfort care has been mischaracterized, misunderstood, and in many cases, quietly stigmatized. Families are often led—explicitly or implicitly—to believe that choosing comfort care means “giving up,” that it represents abandonment, or worse, that it reflects a lack of love or commitment. Nothing could be further from the truth.

 

Comfort care is not the absence of medicine. It is the most honest application of medicine. It is the moment when we stop assuming that technology can reverse the irreversible, and instead use our knowledge, skill, and compassion to reduce suffering, preserve dignity, and support both the patient and the family through the most profound transition in human existence. In many ways, it is the highest form of care we can provide. And yet, despite this, we have built a system that often resists it.

 

Modern healthcare systems, particularly in the United States, are not neutral in these decisions. They are structured, incentivized, and organized to favor intervention over reflection, escalation over restraint, and procedure over presence. There are financial incentives associated with intensive care unit, procedures, and prolonged hospitalization. Institutional pressures often encourage clinicians to “do everything,” even when such actions no longer serve the patient. There is also legal fear: fear of being accused of insufficient intervention, fear of litigation, and fear of retrospective judgment. And there is something even more pervasive: A cultural refusal to acknowledge that death is not a medical error.

 

We have, in many ways, medicalized death to such an extent that we have stripped it of its humanity. We have transformed the final chapter of life into a technical problem to be solved, rather than a human experience to be understood. We measure oxygen saturation, blood pressure, and heart rate variability. We adjust ventilator settings. We titrate medications. We track and react to lab values. But we rarely ask the most important question: What does this person want? It is not what we can do, but what we should do.

 

Standing beside my mother in those final days, I reflected on the thousands of conversations I have had with families in intensive care units. I have explained mechanical ventilation, described dialysis, outlined survival probabilities, and guided families through decisions that carry immense emotional weight. But what I now understand more deeply than ever is this: The hardest part of those conversations is not medical. It is existential.

 

Families are not just confronting the decline of a loved one. They are confronting the limits of control. The limits of medicine. The limits of life itself.

 

In a culture that has spent decades reinforcing the idea that everything is fixable, that every problem has a solution, and that every decline can be reversed, this confrontation becomes almost unbearable.

 

At home, the experience was different. There were no alarms. No overhead pages. No artificial urgency. The pace slowed. The noise disappeared. And in that quiet, something essential emerged. Clarity.

 

There was time to remember. Time to speak. Time to sit in silence without feeling that something needed to be done. Presence became the primary form of care.

 

Holding a hand became more meaningful than adjusting a machine. A whispered word carried more weight than another intervention. The absence of chaos allowed something deeply human to take its place. We do not teach this in medical school. But we should.

 

My mother’s passing reinforced a lesson that extends far beyond medicine and into every household, every family, every individual. End-of-life conversations are not optional.

 

They are essential. They are not conversations to be avoided, postponed, or delegated to “later.” Because later, in medicine, it often arrives suddenly, and without warning.

 

What do you want when your body begins to fail? Not in abstraction. Not in theory. But in reality. Do you want aggressive life support if recovery is unlikely? Do you want prolonged mechanical ventilation, invasive procedures, extended hospitalization, if the outcome is survival without quality, without independence, without dignity? Or do you want comfort? Familiar surroundings? The presence of those you love? A peaceful transition rather than a prolonged struggle? There is no universal right answer. But there is a universal mistake: Not asking the question at all.

 

When these conversations do not happen, families are left to guess. And in that space of uncertainty, decisions become heavily burdened by guilt, fear, doubt, and the haunting question of whether they are doing the right thing. I have seen families fracture under that weight.

 

I have seen individuals carry that burden for years. And all of it could have been alleviated by a conversation that never took place. Advance directives, living wills, open discussions. These are not bureaucratic exercises. They are acts of love. They are gifts we give to those who will one day have to speak on our behalf.

 

Medicine today stands at a crossroads. We possess unprecedented technological capability and can extend biological life in ways that were once unimaginable. However, we have not developed an equally sophisticated cultural framework to guide how and when to use this power. We have confused capability with obligation. Just because we can do something does not mean we should. And yet, increasingly, our systems behave as if intervention is the default, and restraint requires justification. That inversion is dangerous.

 

My mother’s final days, and her passing, brought that reality into sharp focus.

 

There was no chaos. No unnecessary suffering. No prolonged medicalization of a process that, at its core, is deeply human. There was dignity. There was peace. There was acceptance.

 

And in that environment, I was reminded of something that medicine must never forget:

 

Our role is not only to extend life. It is to honor it.

 

We fight when fighting makes sense. We intervene when recovery is possible. We deploy every tool we have when there is a reasonable chance of restoring meaningful life. But when that chance disappears, wisdom must replace reflex. At that moment, the role of medicine does not end. It transforms. It becomes quieter. More deliberate. More human. And, perhaps, more important than ever.

 

My mother’s final lesson was not spoken. It was lived. It was in the stillness of the room. In the presence of family. In the absence of unnecessary intervention. In the quiet dignity of a life reaching its natural conclusion. She taught me that death is not the enemy. Suffering is.

 

She taught me that acceptance is not surrender. It is understanding. She reminded me that the measure of medicine lies not only in how long we can prolong life, but also in how well we can guide its final moments.

 

In the end, we cannot stop the circle of life. But we can decide how we meet its final turn. With fear or with clarity. With chaos or with dignity. With denial or with truth. My mother chose dignity. In doing so, she imparted one final lesson, which I will carry into every intensive care unit, every patient encounter, and every difficult conversation. Not how to fight death. But how to respect it.

 

About Dr. Joseph Varon

Dr. Joseph Varon is a critical care physician, professor, and president and chief medical officer of the Independent Medical Alliance. He has contributed to over 1,000 peer-reviewed publications and serves as editor-in-chief of the Journal of Independent Medicine.

 

 

Monday Morning Greetings 2017 #26 – Hare Krishna! The Mantra, the Movement and the Swami Who Started It All — Coming soon to a theater near you!

June 26th, 2017

I never thought I would be so proud to be a Hare Kṛṣṇa. Of course, I am proud of the tradition and the philosophy to which I belong and proud of what it has accomplished. But I am talking about a different pride—a more public pride. The pride one feels walking north up 2nd Avenue to attend the premiere of Hare Krishna! The Mantra, the Movement and the Swami Who Started It All and seeing the crowds of people waiting to enter the Village East Theater under the marque that announced its abbreviated title Hare Krishna. This pride swelled further when I entered the posh lobby as several photographers were flashing away trying to capture and document the excitement of the moment. The feeling of satisfaction continued to expand as I entered the ornate 400 seat theater and saw the people of New York pack the event, all to hear the inspiring story of Śrīla Prabhupāda, the founder of the Hare Kṛṣṇa movement! And my pleasure continued even while leaving the theater. There were long lines waiting to enter for the next showing.
 
It was a watershed moment for the Hare Kṛṣṇa movement. I believe that was the term used in the film to describe the moment in 1977 when the Supreme Court of New York issued the verdict in response to a serious court case backed by the anti-cult movement that the Hare Kṛṣṇa movement is a bona fide religion. I sensed the film was again that type of moment. In fact, in the introduction before the film, the co-directors, John Griesser (Yadubara dāsa) and Jean Griesser (Viśākhā dāsī), mentioned to the audience a review of the film describing it as the second coming of Śrīla Prabhupāda. It certainly felt that way. Śrīla Prabhupāda was not only manifest through such a powerful medium, but the fact that it would to be shown worldwide if the opening was successful—and by all reports it was—is certainly, dare I say, a watershed moment for the Hare Kṛṣṇa movement.
 
I had a good view of the arriving audience from where I sat. I not only saw committed members of ISKCON parade in, but many others also, including people that have been touched in New York by the force of our kīrtanas and teachings around the city, but who have not yet really met its founder in any profound way. I saw many such familiar people from a subway conductor to the heads of several major yoga studios in New York. Yesterday I received a letter from Sybel Sierra, a former vice president at Morgan Stanley, who I met at the premiere. Sybel initially came in touch with devotees through a bhakti seminar I gave at a major New York yoga studio. What she wrote reflected what I had hoped the effect of the film would be:
 
“I was so happy that I could attend the premiere. I especially loved how the film captured the impact of a person’s strong faith on the hearts of everyone he touched. I knew something of Śrīla Prabhupāda from being around the devotees, but the film gave me an intimate view into his life and elevated his teachings to a much more personal level.”
 
It is hard to be this film’s critic when just about everything about Śrīla Prabhupāda inspires his followers, but I also tried to watch and study it carefully. Those of us who knew Śrīla Prabhupāda knew the expanse of his preaching. I marveled at the austerity it must have been for the directors to pick and choose a fraction of his life to communicate his whole life, but in a sense that highlighted his glories, because as I watched I could also reflect on how many wonderful aspects of his life and accomplishments had to be omitted. If I had a chance I would have liked to ask the directors why certain scenes were chosen over other important scenes, such as the omission in the film of Śrīla Prabhupāda’s dramatic journey on the Jaladuta, but I think the answer is obvious: just how much of Śrīla Prabhupāda’s rich life could be packed in an hour and a half? No matter how hard you try significant events would have to be omitted. Still I felt that still the film captured, summarized, and communicated quite effectively his personality and accomplishments.
 
A good film or drama has the very difficult task of creating a single mind out of an audience of various types of people. In classical Indian dramaturgy, for example, it is stressed that the purpose of a drama is to create this shared experience. I felt the film did an excellent job of creating a shared experience or understanding for its wide range of viewers. I liked how towards the beginning of the film an interview of Śrīla Prabhupāda is shown where he is asked what he thinks of the Bible potentially pigeonholing him as sectarian. Śrīla Prabhupāda immediately responds that any scripture is good as long as it promotes love of God and recommends the chanting of God’s names. I think his answer was far better than my memory of it, but I am sure his answer had a powerful and unifying effect on the audience, many not of our faith, especially accompanied by clear subtitles dramatically highlighting his speech. At the same time the film did not shy away from vintage Śrīla Prabhupāda speaking directly and boldly the philosophy of Kṛṣṇa consciousness, exposing the real problems of life and promoting the necessity to spread Kṛṣṇa consciousness. At the Bhakti Center reception after the show, I mingled with the crowd, especially to gauge the reaction of people who were not members of ISKCON by asking them what in the film struck them the most. I especially liked the answer of Katie, which surprised me, as I thought her answer was not what most people influenced by the post modern world would appreciate:
 
“I liked that he was so straight and direct. All successful people have a clear mission. He knew what he wanted and articulated it clearly, directly, and consistently.”
 
I spoke to Rāma Rāya, of Union Square harināma fame, yesterday about the film. He liked it so much he saw it four times over the last week. He loved how it directly promoted Śrīla Prabhupāda’s mission of chanting and spreading the holy name and he added an extra special appreciation of the directors who have dedicated their whole lives to Śrīla Prabhupāda by communicating his glories through film. He described their accomplishment in producing this film as a “triumph!” I also strongly felt that. The accomplishment of producing this excellent film is the example of two humble and dedicated disciples of Śrīla Prabhupāda, who gave their whole life to promote Śrīla Prabhupāda’s mission through media, and now at the twilight of their careers succeeded against all odds with the perfect offering of that service at their spiritual master’s lotus feet.
 
I beg you—please go see this triumph!
 
 

An Excerpt from Correspondence on My Seminar on Humility at Yogamaya

May 15th, 2014

Below is some of the interesting correspondence I have received after my seminar on humility at Yogamaya last month.

From Amanda:

Last Saturday morning at breakfast, I dropped this question on a friend… what do you think the difference is between humility and self-esteem? I wanted to share his answer not only because of its succinctness, but it takes it out of a spiritual context making it totally inclusive.

“A lack of self-esteem is thinking yourself lesser than others. Humility is to not see yourself greater than others.”

I’m not sure that a requisite for humility is a belief in something higher than one’s self, although I do think it is an important part of any spiritual path. I have met and know many “atheists” that are more genuinely humble than some I have crossed calling themselves “spiritual”.

Look forward to hearing what others have been chewing on about this the last week!

With love,
Amanda

My response:

The initial quandary that my seminar attempted to tackle was how to not be inhibited in spiritual pursuits that are founded in humility when often the feelings and expressions of a truly humble person parallel one with low self-esteem.

My conclusion was that the feelings and expressions of a person who sees people as better than themselves does not have to be just a result of psychological trauma (low self-esteem). They can also be an expression of a genuine spiritual experience, where one feels the majesty and love of God, an experience that makes one feel happily small and naturally invokes a mood of reverence and service towards others. As God is everywhere one tends to be humbled (less) before everything.

Sri Caitanya (my lineage) instructed his followers that the following was so important that one should wear it around ones neck:

One should chant the holy name in a humble state of mind
Think oneself lower than the straw in the street
More tolerant than a tree
Devoid of all sense of false prestige
And ready to offer all respect to others
In such a state of mind
One can chant constantly

So that’s how I reconcile the feelings of humble person that often parallel expression of low self-esteem.

I think what Amanda is pointing out is that there is another type of humility where one doesn’t necessarily feel less than others, but just not greater than others. If humility is a modest feeling of one insignificance then that is obviously a valid definition. What I was trying to discern is if there is a type of humility where one feels even lower than others that is not a product of low self-esteem. I think there is.

Humility is certainly not the property of those who believe in a deity.

I think an atheist with high moral values is connecting with something higher than themselves.

If they don’t accept absolute moral values can they be humble?

Radhastami at The Bhakti Center

Bhakti In Essence – Narada Bhakti Sutra – Sutra 4

September 4th, 2012

Narada Bhakti Sutra

Sutra 4

yal labdhvā pumān siddho bhavaty amṛto bhavati tṛpto bhavati

Having attained divine love, a person becomes perfect, immortal and satisfied.

The first three verses introduced the subject of bhakti. In the next three verses, beginning here with text four, Sri Narada describes the effect of such divine love on the soul.

First he says that by it one becomes perfect. To understand why this is so, one must understand what dharma is. Dharma means duty. It also means essential nature, for unless we understand what we are made for (our essential, intrinsic nature), how can we understand what we are meant to do (our dharma or duty)? According to the bhakti tradition, the soul is part of the supreme consciousness. As all parts are meant to serve the whole, the dharma of the soul is bhakti — to selflessly serve God.

But what does this have to do with perfection?

 

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Bhakti Immersion Retreat 2012 (video)

Bhakti Immersion Retreat at Pumpkin Hollow

August 27th, 2012

During August 23-26, 2012, dozens joined Dhanurdhara Swami, Raghunatha, and Visvambhar and Vrinda Devi for a weekend of sat sanga, meditation, kirtan, and yoga at the Pumpkin Hollow Retreat Center in Craryville, New York.

The following pictures are just a glimpse of the activities that took place.

 

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Krishna-lila: How to Relish and Understand the Krishna Story

Lotus Festival: The Bewilderment of Lord Brahma

Sri Krishna Janmastami