Today I want to talk about mindfulness and the fact that one day we’re all going to die. The point of the post isn’t to make people depressed, but rather to get you to stop and take a minute to appreciate the now.
Life is one long road trip. We get so focused on the road ahead that we never take a minute to look at the scenery. We’ll be at our destination before we know it. I’m afraid a lot of us will get there only to realize we never took the time to look out the window.
Imagine waking up on a Sunday morning only to be hit with the crushing realization that you died the previous evening. You always knew you’d die one day, you just didn’t think it would be yesterday. You want to make coffee and sit in bed reading like you always used to on Sunday mornings. Unfortunately, that’s not an option.
You tried to not take your morning coffee for granted, but now that it’s gone you wonder what you would trade for one more sip. What would you give for one more chance to do your morning routine? Now that you’re no longer alive you wonder what you would give for just one more day of life, one more day to experience everything.
Maybe, instead of worrying about a work deadline, you’d take a moment in the shower to notice the feeling of hot water spraying your back or the tingles of goosebumps running up your arm as the water rushes over you. Maybe you’d notice the instant relief of getting off your feet after a long day. You might even appreciate the ache in your back or the clicking sound your knee makes when you bend down too far.
I think if we could relive the road trip of our lives we’d spend the majority of the time looking out the window. The idea of spending even a moment worrying about the road ahead would seem completely counter-productive.
Maybe after all the moments are gone, we’ll finally appreciate the moment.
A guy I grew up with died recently.
Anytime someone dies out of the blue it’s always a punch to the gut, even if you only vaguely know them. He made breakfast and smoked a cigarette in the morning and by the evening he was completely gone. He likely gave no thought to the idea that he might be eating his last plate of scrambled eggs. That could easily be me, or you. Any one of us could wake up tomorrow only to find we’re actually dead.
He died at the age of thirty-five. I can’t help but wonder how differently I’d choose to live if I knew I only had a couple of years left.
I wonder how many experiences I’d take the time to fully notice.
If we knew exactly when our time would run out I think we’d appreciate each day a lot more, no matter how much time we had left.
I think we’d all approach life differently if we knew the end of the line was coming up. Maybe we’d let stuff go more easily, or spend less time on social media. Maybe we’d relax more and think about politics less. I certainly wouldn’t still be doing the job I’m doing now. Travel would take up a much larger portion of our budget and I’d want to spend as much time as possible with family.
Time marches on and it seems to be speeding up. Sometimes I feel like I’m already an old man and this existence is just my life passing before my eyes as I slip away. I mean, it feels like life is passing by about that fast.
Whether you die young or live to a ripe old age, the road trip won’t last forever.
I don’t know why the thought of living to forty makes me want to pause and notice the world around me, but the thought of living to one hundred allows me to let the moments pass without my acknowledgment.
We tell ourselves that one day we’ll be happy. One day we’ll take the time to enjoy the scenery. Happiness isn’t reaching retirement age, getting a promotion, or really achieving anything. Happiness is a warm bathrobe just out of the dryer on a cold winter day. It’s noticing the green on the trees even though you pass them all the time. Happiness is noticing the moments pass, whether monotonous or extraordinary. It’s looking out the window.
Dying at the age of forty or at the age of ninety-five won’t make a difference. They’re both going to pass incredibly quickly.
This isn’t one of those “Go out and conquer the world!” type of motivational posts. Instead, it’s a gentle reminder that you are alive. So take a breath and take a minute to think about how extraordinarily lucky you are to be here in 2019.
Take the time to notice the small things.
If we’d allow ourselves to be happy I think we’d start to find reasons to smile everywhere we look. We own a couch that I can sit on. I can turn on the faucet and get either hot or cold water instantly. There’s ice cream in the freezer that I could eat if it wasn’t 9 am. We don’t eat ice cream at 9 am. I’m not sure why.
This has been the best year of my life. My daughter was born in December of 2018 and I’ve spent all of 2019 watching her grow and learn. This year has had more moments where I was so happy I could burst than all of my previous years combined.
Despite this, I find myself upset when life gets minor details wrong. It’s easy to get overwhelmed when I stop focusing on the present. Some days I feel like I’m in a funk even while my daughter’s hilariously fat face is looking up at me. Whatever I was upset about wouldn’t be able to hold a candle to the sheer joy I feel when she smiles at me if I’d only take the moment to notice it. If I don’t take the time to notice the moment it passes, and I remain upset about some trivial nonsense. Humans, man.
There is no there there, there’s only now
One day I won’t be able to have coffee. I won’t be able to hug my daughter, do a few rounds of Wim Hof breathing, or even stub my toe. I also won’t be late for work, forget a deadline, get popcorn stuck in my teeth, make love, have a good laugh, or eat ice cream at 9 am. One day all the individual moments of my life will be over.
When you do those monotonous things that make up your life, try to take a minute to appreciate them. Although it feels like we’ll turn the faucet on countless times in our life, we really won’t. There is a finite number of times you’ll turn on the faucet during the course of your life, and each time you do is one less time you have left. After you die, you won’t ever turn on the faucet again.
My daughter is starting to wake up. I’m going to go pick her up and hold her. Then, I’ll change her diaper. The day after I die, I’d give anything to do this simple task just one more time.
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“The Dsy After You Die” was one piece that spoke to me. On the day after I die, I won’t get up at the crack of dawn —-if not earlier—- to feed the eight cats that have come to live with me. The day after I die I won’t get back to that book I wanted to finish. And I won’t get that wonderful Mexican Pizza Meal at Taco Bell or the wonderful coffee from Dunkin. On the day after I die, there won’t be any Morrison on my cd player, nor Barbarolli conducting Sibelius. No Sibelius on the day after I die. That day and every day thereafter to the end of time. Thank you Mr. Burrito Bowl for starting me off.