Thoughts for the New Year: Making the most of my one wild and precious life
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?
~Mary Oliver
It’s New Year’s Day and at the risk of sounding morbid, I’ve been thinking a lot about the idea that time is running out. Literally and metaphorically, we are all moving through our lives and rapidly spending down the precious and finite—yet undisclosed—ration of time we have been allocated here on this earth. It’s a sobering thought, really, but not necessarily a tragic one. It’s more like a consistent and incontrovertible truth—one that is always there in the background, but increasingly demands center stage as we grow older.
We don’t have all the time in the world. Let’s not forget that, please.
Death teaches you this lesson over and over again. Four years ago on this very day, my Mother’s soul began its long trek home. It took four full days, with my siblings and I and our children, sitting bedside, holding her hand, playing her favorite music, praying her favorite prayers, and quietly reassuring her that she was free to let go. We learned quickly that the extinguishment of a flame as bright as hers was no quick business and even our prayers and loving acceptance couldn’t move things along. So, it was four long blurry days that she lingered between this life and the next and finally, her resilient little body decided to call it a day.
It took forever. And just like that. All at the same time.
In the months that followed, I was consumed by equal parts grief and equal parts relief, and most surprisingly, a capacity for the deepest joy and gratitude I have ever known, even amidst a mother-shaped void that made my whole being ache. My faith grew exponentially, as did my courage. Just as the country was beginning a chaotic battle with its own mortality, I was feeling some strange form of invincibility. Everything was literally closed and closing, and with that, I was granted more time and space than ever to ponder the things I desperately needed to ponder. It seemed a miracle of timing—and to be honest, I took it personally, as if God had planned my Mother’s passing, not only to save her the pain and the confusion of the year ahead, but also to afford me the sacred time to grow into my own soul.
What is the thing I learned—and continue to learn? That it all ends. Just like that. All at once.
Last year on this very day, I wrote a tribute to the life of my dear sister-in-law, Jeannie, who was born on this day and who passed without warning only a few weeks earlier. Her death was sudden and devastating, but in her life’s wake were hundreds of loving family members and friends and their subsequent outpouring of love and gratitude not only reminded me of a life lived to the fullest, but also that we just never know how much time we get.
And then, two days ago, just as I was finishing this post, I received the heartbreaking news that a former colleague of mine, a woman younger than me, passed away suddenly and unexpectedly. It was another earth-shattering loss, for so many reasons, not the least of which was that she was an extraordinary person and had only recently made the decision to retire from teaching because she had so many other passions she wanted to pursue. Erin Schneeweiss, lovingly known as ‘Schnee’ in our school community, was the rare teacher who saw only the best in each of her students. She taught communications, directed our school plays (dozens over a 30-year career) and helped thousands of students honor their creativity and find their voices. Probably her most profound contribution to our school, though, was that she always provided students a soft place to land. Quite simply, she loved our students with a pure and generous heart and in doing so, gave generations of teenagers the kind of support and understanding that made them feel seen and safe. The news of her passing has shaken our community to its core—and shaken me to my core. Over these past few days, I have lost myself in the reading of messages to her on social media—messages of love and gratitude from a legion of former students and colleagues whose lives she touched.
Erin’s life was quite literally a testament to the main idea of this post—and a model of a life fully realized, despite the fact that it ended long before we all thought it would or should.
And that leads me to consider what exactly made it so? What will make it so for my life? Of course, it’s the people we love, our families, our children and our dearest friends, our communities. But I think at the end of the day, it might be more than that. I think we should also pay attention to the seed of our own deep truth. Are we watering it enough to grow fully into the truest version of ourselves? Have we found and pursued our life’s work? Have we honored our deepest passions? Have we seen all the things we dream of seeing? Have we developed our gifts and used them to make the world a better place? Have we loved fully the things we were meant to love?
As I go into this new year, my heart is heavier than it’s been in a long time, but my intentions are clear. I’ll look to the wisdom of the lives—and deaths—of these people I’ve loved so dearly and to the simple question posed by my favorite poet: What is it that you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
