A YEAR OF LIFE
Week 52 of 52
You’re taking a sip of coffee or tea.
You’re driving.
You’re laughing with friends and family.
You’re alone.
You’re in pain and awaiting reprieve.
You’re well and unaware.
You’re fighting for justice (again).
You’re at peace.
Wherever you are, whoever and whatever surrounds you, take a moment to imagine this breath, right now, is your last.
It is not scary, it does not hurt. It simply is.
When Death Comes
Mary Oliver When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn; when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse to buy me, and snaps the purse shut; when death comes like the measle-pox; when death comes like an iceberg between the shoulder blades, I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness? And therefore I look upon everything as a brotherhood and a sisterhood, and I look upon time as no more than an idea, and I consider eternity as another possibility, and I think of each life as a flower, as common as a field daisy, and as singular, and each name a comfortable music in the mouth, tending, as all music does, toward silence, and each body a lion of courage, and something precious to the earth. When it's over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms. When it's over, I don't want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real. I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument. I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
That last line again, Mary Oliver.
"I don't want to end up simply having visited this world."
We made it the full year. If you’re stopping by this blog for the first time, you might want to start by clicking the 52 weeks link above.
If you’ve been with me, or you’re just experimental enough to fully commit, practice with me now. This will only take a moment.
Imagine this final inhale, and indulge the idea that you can look back on your life in its totality. This doesn’t take more than a moment.
Now, I invite you to write.
Final prompt: “When I look back …”
[Now, fill in as many lines as you can in one sitting, allowing whatever comes—be that concrete and sensory rich or delightfully vague but resonant; don’t try to make it poetic, just be honest. Guttural. True.]
When I look back …
I see humor, angst, joy and love.
I find the time I closed my eyes and went deep, the times I pushed ahead when I wanted to stay at home.
I revisit the connectivity and moments of solitude in equal measure and with understanding.
I tap into that lightness in my cheeks, however weighed down they may have been at times, and I remember those around me, those who lifted them.
I hear laughter and tears that are unmuffled and too close.
I can see the exact moment I lost my way, and the moment I realized that losing the way was the only way.
I feel the honesty of a confidence pose as I use my crooked pinky finger to hit the Enter button on a new paragraph.
I see the brilliance of the woods near my house and the slow gait of my dying dog and the aging of my own body.
I see the worry with an onslaught of news and the true loss of my uncle and the ever-new and never-new beginnings in the stories I’d never heard.
I see the falls that became crashes and awkward steps and remembrances that allowed me to dance.
I smell the dog food on my pup’s breath as she sneak-attacks me with a kiss.
I consider timelessness. I sit with what is timeless in me.
I feel the closeness of a hug, the gentleness of a head tilt, the kindness of a soft light in someone’s eyes that reminds me of so many lights, a single light.
I feel the giddiness of release, total release—the humor of the entirety of the thing—and I believe that to be possible.
I feel release.
I taste release.
I release.
I feel the fullness of a single breath, and I trust the release.
“Death is perfectly safe.”
― Stephen Levine, A Year to Live
I hope this thought experiment helped you to appreciate something new about your journey, and I hope you had even one moment of realization or shift of perspective that introduced you to something deeper in yourself.
You are invited to start this journey anew (which I will be doing in my private journals) by going straight to the prompts. I may compile them some day, but it’s also very possible they’ll simply remain here.
We had a year to live. Now, here we are in this moment.
And that’s all we have.
Though we are beyond death at this point, trust me, I will have a lot to say until I don’t. And whether you let me know it or not, your presence this year has been felt. I’ll still be here to explore creativity, philosophy, and leadership.
I invite you to share what you come up with below. I adore you, and I adore sharing this life with you.
—Jen
Beautiful, Jen. Thank you!
Congrats on the year!