Crossing A Threshold

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡

“22,000 days
22,000 days
It’s not a lot
It’s all you got
22,000 nights
22,000 nights
It’s all you know
So start the show
And this time, feel the flow…and get it right…”

The above song, titled 𝟮𝟮,𝟬𝟬𝟬 𝗗𝗮𝘆𝘀, written by Graeme Edge and sung by his seminal rock band The Moody Blues, has been part of my life since I was 16 years old and I asked for their album “Long Distance Voyager” for my birthday in 1982.

I played that entire record a lot, start to finish, for many years. Before fixating on it, I don’t recall that I’d ever paid much attention to any music of that era that so blatantly talked about the finiteness of our lives. I mean, how many 16-year-olds do you know who think about such a weighty subject at that age? I wouldn’t say I thought about it a lot, and certainly, I think about it more now, as I approach 60, than I ever have.

But the lyrics were not lost on me back then. The song has a somber quality to it, which always appealed to me; it begins with steady military-sounding percussion and minor notes that give way to slight upturns of hope occasionally, and the opening stanza doesn’t clue you in to what the song is about.

Once the 2nd stanza begins, though, you are hearing them remind you that you have about 60 years on this planet. And then, in the bridge, my favorite line: “Time’s the only real wealth you have got.”

Heard, Sir. Heard.

You may have heard of the “𝗠𝘆 𝗟𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝗪𝗲𝗲𝗸𝘀” poster. You can order them online, or print one out (see pics and comments).

It’s a concept popularized by blogger Tim Urban of “Wait But Why” that gives you a clear, concise visual of how much time you have left* in a no-nonsense graphic. It’s not a calendar, really, but a countdown tool, a timer, and a device for reflection and prioritization. I suspect that, for some, it could even be a trigger. (They come with the already-passed bubbles pre-filled for you--which is sobering.)

I first heard about “My Life in Weeks” from author Oliver Burkeman, who penned one of my favorite books ever: 𝑭𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑾𝒆𝒆𝒌𝒔: 𝑻𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝑴𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒔. Both Urban and Burkeman base their calculations** on a life that lasts 80-90 years or so, as opposed to the bleak 60 years that The Moody Blues sing of. (One might breathe a sigh of relief here; don’t get too cocky, though*. That will trip you up.)

Neither Urban or Burkeman shy away from the truth: our lives are finite. Time to focus on the things that matter, yes? None of us, whether we are 16 or 60 or 89 and a half, should be putting off what we want to accomplish. And all of us should be thinking about that sobering fact, frequently.

Sadly, most people only think about it when they are dealing with the death (or near death) of someone they love…and when that grief begins to fade, so does the urgency of what to do with their remaining weeks. Life takes back over. Focus shifts to getting days back on track and putting food on the table and shoes on the children—as it must.

I’m of the belief that we push aside our “Weeks” calendar at our peril. It will likely not take center stage for us very often, but it should never leave our periphery. Whether we measure it with a printout on the wall, the day-to-day subtle (often maddening) changes in our physical bodies, an app on our phone ***, or the march of the seasons, the truth does not change.

“Time’s the only real wealth you have got.”

How will you spend this most precious coin?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*Of course, it’s only a guesstimate, since no one truly knows how much time they have left. It’s folly on our parts to believe we do, isn’t it? Life can change in an instant, and there are zero guarantees—which is why we should never assume we will have more time. As I often say, there’s a last time for everything, and it won’t be known to you.

**Again, only a guesstimate

***“We Croak” is a app that delivers quotations and aphorisms about the finality of life to your phone regularly throughout the day

Last week at a dinner party, I interrupted the chatter happening between the main course and dessert by asking everyone, “𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡?”

For a brief moment, you could hear all of the ambient sounds of the house quite clearly, as time itself screeched to a halt in the deafening silence.

(I have no issues with silence, mind you. To quote Amy Poehler’s Maura in the movie 𝑺𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔, “good things live in the quiet.”)

Most people would be mortified (see what I did there?) if this level of silence descended at a dinner party, but I knew my question was going to get people thinking. The topic is heavy and fraught, but I assumed, correctly, that our crowd could balance the weight.

The question itself is a multi-faceted one, which is one reason I chose it. I wanted to see what elements stood out, which ones took center stage. Anyone’s answer could have been either just a few thoughtful words, as in a list, or each speaker could have waxed on for several minutes and still not covered all they wanted to say. I also knew my question would make a few people uncomfortable, possibly uncomfortable enough to not want to participate (they of course had that option).

The thing is, I figured that the topic, having multiple layers, could easily have been the subject of a full weekend retreat, but given our time constraints, people’s answers would have to be distilled down into the concentrated heart—a framework that hinders, but also helps crystallize our thoughts.

For some, the elements were about physical comfort, or alleviating pain or trauma at the end. For others, it was about knowing the survivors were ready, and cared for, and all of the dying person’s legalities were covered and funeral wishes were known and recorded. Others focused on dying with honor, or on their own terms, or being surrounded by loved ones, or having time to say what needed to be said. Some said location mattered. One said that they hoped everyone would be singing and laughing as much as they were crying, as stories were swapped and whiskey consumed. Not a single person in this gathering mentioned heaven per se, but one did confide that they hoped this wasn’t “all there is.”

In general, I think everyone approached the question from the standpoint of their own future death, though their answers might have been informed by “not-so-good” deaths that they had been witness to in the past.

We all know we are going to die, and some of us want to be prepared so that our deaths are easier on us and on the ones we love. Imagining our own dying circumstances can wake us up to life, and help us use the finite time we enjoy on this mortal coil to its fullest. The prospect of our own mortality gives our lives the ultimate meaning.

The vast majority of Westerners, however, would rather pretend that death is something that will happen 𝗩𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗙𝗮𝗿 𝗜𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲, and there will be plenty of time to talk about it and plan for it later. Now is not that time. As they kick the proverbial can down the road, they reason that death is too somber a subject for 𝗥𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗡𝗼𝘄. Blocking it from their minds will effectively delay the discomfort, and many people live to push discomfort far, far away as opposed to befriending it even for a few minutes around a cozy dinner table, surrounded by safe people they can trust.

My companions and I picked up that can the other night, and I imagine a few of us are still carrying it as we separately ponder the question to even greater depths, not shying away from the heavy lifting it requires.

It is my hope that you can do the same, sooner rather than later.

Tempus fugit. Memento mori.