It snowed last night in central Virginia. It snowed in darkness. The snow was visible in the headlight beams of cars passing by my house. Today the sun is shining brightly and warmly, and last night’s snow is rapidly disappearing: first from the streets, then from the rooftops of houses, and lastly from the yards of those houses.
The morning passed, the afternoon arrived, and I decided to go for a walk. Everyone was snug in their homes. Other than an occasional, automobile passerby, I was the only person on the street. As I walked down Richmond Avenue, a hawk sailed silently over me at rooftop level. With wings spread wide and steady, it floated gracefully a mere fifteen feet from me. If I had had a stone in my hand I could’ve given that hawk a scare. Not that I would throw a stone at a hawk; at least not at my age. I’d much rather photograph it. But when I was a boy, I might have decided to give that hawk a fright and sail a stone past it.
There is something about walking through my neighborhood, seeing old houses and ancient trees, that puts my life into a kind of perspective, a kind of continuity. It connects me with ancestors I never knew, with grandparents who died a lifetime ago, with my father who died eighteen years ago, and with my mother who died nine years ago. Walking alone on a cold winter day or an early spring day puts me in touch with my mortality like nothing else. I feel death ahead of me, distance unknown. I know it’s there and I know its getting closer. Don Juan, Carlos Castaneda’s Yaqui Indian brujo, said that death is always over our left shoulder watching us. I heard someone say that death is our friend. He meant that when our situation becomes unbearable and no one can help us, death will always be our final rescuer.
I don’t think about death in a morbid way; at least, I don’t think I do. But I think too many people live their lives as if they think will never die. We all will, you know, so maybe we should live our lives accordingly. In Mitch Albom’s book Tuesdays With Morrie, Morrie Schwartz says, “Everybody knows they’re going to die, but nobody believes it. If we did, we would do things differently.”
On my solitary walks I can remember I’m going to die and I know that death is okay. My life is a blip in time. The universe has existed for billions of years – and I missed all that history. The universe will continue for billions of years – and I will miss all that future. I have the briefest slice of time in which to live. It’s like a blink of the eye. I’m here, then I’m gone – a link between a very long past I never knew and a very distant future I’ll never know; a single page in the middle of an impossibly long book.
The adult mayfly lives from 30 minutes to one day, depending on the species. Humans live only a tad longer. It might serve you well to live your life as if one day it will end. “How might I do that?”, you ask. The answer is simple. Live every moment fully. Appreciate every sunset, every walk around the block, every conversation with a friend. Don’t live in the past. Don’t live in the future. Be here now.
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