Zhuangzi treats death not as a grim finale but as just another turn in life’s winding river. One famous parable has him asking, “If you fear what comes after death, why don’t you ask those who’ve already crossed over?” It’s like worrying about tomorrow’s weather when you haven’t even stepped outside today.

In the Butterfly Dream, waking up unsure if one is Zhuangzi who dreamed of being a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he’s Zhuangzi, the boundary between life and death smudges. That “which is real?” moment shows how rigid distinctions—alive versus dead, here versus there—are mostly made up. When life and death become two notes in the same melody, the fear of the final note loses its power.

Another scene involves Cook Ding chopping oxen. His blade never needs sharpening because he follows the natural grain of the meat. Likewise, Zhuangzi advises syncing with the Tao’s rhythm: death isn’t a wall but a door you glide through if you stop wrestling with it. These stories foreshadow today’s mindfulness craze on apps like Calm—letting thoughts pass without latched-on fear.

In a time when social feeds buzz about digital avatars and “life after death” NFTs, Zhuangzi would probably chuckle. Stockpiling gadgets to cheat mortality misses the big picture: reality is constant flux. Just as leaves fall without regret to nourish new soil, so do people transform without clinging to selfhood.

By viewing death as part of the cosmic dance—no more scary than sunrise after a starless night—anxiety dissolves. Letting go of the reins and going with the flow of change becomes the real art of living.