For my daughter’s 40th birthday party, her friend created an epic cheese board, a cornucopia of delights — cheese, crackers, salami formed into roses, fruit, nuts, honeycomb and more — so overflowing with delectables no trace of the board below could be seen. We stared in wonder at this masterpiece, forbidden to dig in until photos were snapped.

Soon enough, the cheese board was demolished, resembling aerial shots of a Midwestern town laid waste by an unrelenting tornado — from beautiful to barren, in a mere three hours.

I was reminded of the Tibetan Buddhist practice in which monks create an intricate mandala using colored sand, then, once complete, dismantle it. I’m not a Buddhist, but I’ve learned enough from my own reading and programs at Marin’s Spirit Rock Meditation Center to understand that impermanence — the concept that all things are in flux, that nothing is permanent — is a cornerstone of Buddhist teachings.

The dismantling of the mandala is a way for the monks to remind us of the transitory nature of life, that nothing lasts. Even the sun, I’m told, will eventually sputter out and die. (But I’m not sweating it. Old Sol promises to be around for a few billion more years.)

As I grow older, my understanding of impermanence becomes more real — no longer an abstract Buddhist principle, but one based on personal experience. I notice my emotions coming and going, just passing through. I see my body changing, becoming less flexible. My muscle mass shrinks. My balance is less certain. I tire more easily. Friendships I assumed would last forever have waned, new ones have emerged.

But impermanence was not something my parents valued — quite the contrary. Their escape from the Holocaust and perilous journey through several countries — with me born along the way — before finally arriving in New York City, produced in them a desperate longing for stability and permanence. No more change, they vowed; we’ve had more than enough, thank you. In the years I lived with them, they moved just once — but only to a larger apartment in the same uptown Manhattan building.

Their beliefs ordered my life for many years. I learned to avoid change, to value security, to stay safe, to not take risks. It took half a lifetime, and lots of therapy, to lighten this weight on my shoulders. Yet my parents’ legacy — that need for stability and certainty — still lingers deep within me.

Not long ago, a friend and I started a men’s group for guys in our 80s. We meet once a month to explore our changing lives, celebrate our wins, joke about our health concerns and wonder how much time we have left.

We don’t shy away from talking about death. One of us has no fear of death; he sees it as analogous to the period before we are born; I’m less sanguine. While I accept the reality of death intellectually, I’m not yet there emotionally.

In an effort to move closer to the emotional acceptance of death I seek, I’ve attended a number of death cafes — events at which a facilitator-led group meets to share their understanding, thoughts, fears and other aspects of death and dying. The aim of these cafes is to reduce the fear of death and enable people to live their lives more fully.

Am I there yet? Have I fully accepted death’s certainty in my heart and gut? It’s a long game, and I’m still working on it.

Tom Ucko is a Novato resident. He is the author of “Born on the Run: How the Holocaust Shaped My Life and Other Stories.” He can be reached at tom@ucko.com. IJ readers are invited to share their stories of love, dating, parenting, marriage, friendship and other experiences for our How It Is column, which runs Tuesdays in the Lifestyles section. All stories must not have been published in part or in its entirety previously. Send your stories of no more than 600 words to lifestyles@marinij.com. Please write How It Is in the subject line. The IJ reserves the right to edit them for publication. Please include your full name, address and a daytime phone number.