Live

It was a beautiful day in my neighborhood today. Just gorgeous. The heat finally broke and, though it was still pretty humid outside, there was enough of a breeze to make it feel just about perfect. Consequently, I spent a good chunk of the afternoon sitting outside with my dog trying to get some reading done for one of my graduate classes, and then went on a lovely walk with her in the evening. It was on our walk that I got the photo at the top of this page–how lucky am I, that I get views like this on a regular basis? I try to practice gratitude regularly, and this week I got another reminder to appreciate life as often as possible.

I got a Facebook message from my first college roommate the other day, letting those of us who lived on the same dorm floor know that one from our ranks had passed away. She was an incredibly joyful person who was a friend to everyone she met and, though we didn’t keep in touch after college, I have fond memories of her. My thoughts are with her family and friends, because I’m sure this has been a devastating loss.

It’s scary to consider your own mortality, but I think it’s an important thing to do sometimes. When someone you know passes away, especially someone so young, it really makes you stop and take stock of your life. I do practice gratitude, and try to focus on the good in my life. There’s so, so much good in my life, and I feel lucky every day to be living it. But getting this news also prompted me to think about what I don’t love about my life right now, and what I can do to change it. We all get such a limited amount of time on this planet, and we never know which day will be our last. I think we should all live intentionally, spending our time and resources on the things that are important to us. It’s easy to get caught up in other people’s expectations and not do the things we really want to do, but how sad will it be if we get to the end of our lives without having really lived them? These kinds of thoughts always lead to me thinking about the poem by Mary Oliver called The Summer Day, which I’ll leave you with:

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean–
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down–
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?