But that's not the way I’m thinking about death now. Instead, I'm using it to hone my understanding of the gift of life.
What wwould we do if this day were our last? Most of us would choose to spend it with loved ones. Some might want to listen to music, play the piano, visit an art museum, or make art themselves.
It’s easy to know what we’d do on that one day. But chances are we’re going to have more than one, so what do we do with that?
There are times when I’ve been happy to just “get through the day.” That was especially true during Adrian’s long decline with physical problems and Alzheimer’s. It was also true in the months after he died.
There’s nothing wrong with doing what you have to in order to get through the day. But when there’s an opening—a breathing space to imagine something more—then I’d like to do it with a true knowledge of life’s fragility.
I know we have only this moment to live in, not the past or the future. But that doesn’t rule out making plans or choosing to change our daily lives.
I’m always planning. It takes over my mind the second it is not intensely focused on something else.
I love to plan. It’s part of my optimism—planning to make things better.
Now I’d just like to add the knowledge of my inevitable death to the mix of factors that I account for when I do it.
I’m not talking about preparing for physical decline, financial planning, and drawing up a living will. Those are all useful, but I’m talking about the quality of my life now.
What do I want to do when I really understand how short a time I have left?
It’s not about regrets or fear. It’s about opportunity.
Every week I get a short inspirational email from the Buddhist teacher and author, Pema Chodron. Today, I received one titled “Life is Short.” It began:
Every act counts. Every thought and emotion counts too. This is all the path we have.
That’s what I’m talking about when I talk about death and dying: the preciousness of each act, each thought, each emotion. They are in limited supply.
