I recently came across those familiar words, “For everything there is a season.” Many know it is from the Bible, some know it is from Ecclesiastes, and a few know it as the 3rd chapter. Almost no one knows anything else about that book except it paints a bleak picture of life. Twenty-five hundred years later, it’s pretty much the same.
That verse put me in mind of an ancient Kodak ad from the Sunday night TV show, “The Wonderful World of Disney.” The commercial song had a line, “Where are you going my little one, little one? Turn around, turn around and you’re two; turn around and you’re four; turn around and you’re a young girl going out the door.” The object was, of course, for you to turn around and buy an Instamatic to capture those fleeting moments.
As young immortals we had little reason to think about death and dying. To be sure, there were terrible things that happened to innocent people, but along with being immortal we thought we were invulnerable: it would happen to someone else.
The awakening to the danger of that falsehood can come in many ways. Too often, it’s a tragic death of a young friend or loved one. If we escape that, it will be only a temporary reprieve; each passing decade becomes a reminder that the clock is ticking. As John Donne has it, “Send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.”
With the airways and print still be saturated with the disaster of Haiti, anyone who thinks should realize the capricious nature of the unexpected. The orphans and the homeless never expected to find themselves suddenly lost and alone. The only redeeming feature is the overwhelming worldwide response to bring help. We all know things will never be the same for those most severely affected, but at least the effort is being made.
Years ago, Robin Williams’ film, The Dead Poet’s Society, opened with a memorable scene. At the tony prep school, the new students were shown the entrance way to a building where hundreds of photographs of former students were displayed. The teacher, aka R. Williams, asked his charges, “Gentlemen, what do all these former students have in common?” The answer, which was not forthcoming, was “They’re all DEAD!” The object lesson was, carpe diem, seize the day.
I have lived 26,971 days. Google “How Long Have I Lived?” and you will find out some astounding facts. You can calculate how many times has your heart has beaten. (For me, 2,797,433,380 . . . and, like the Energizer bunny, still going.) How many of those days have I seized? Not enough, I’m afraid. It would be convenient to know how many more I have left . . . but not a good idea. If there are thousands more, there would be no compelling reason to do anything extraordinary tomorrow. If there are only 3, then I wouldn’t even have time to arrange my affairs, let alone shore up my doubts about an afterlife.
Gandhi said it best, “Live as if you were to die tomorrow; learn as if you were to live forever.” Some nameless wag corrupted that by deleting the second phrase and substituting, “One day you will be right!”
Having been at this a long time, the idea that it won’t last forever is constantly at hand. That’s an important learning, even when you’re young, but it gains traction when really old people start calling you, “Sir,” and hold the door for you.
None of this is new information. Recently, there have been so many unexpected deaths of friends, so monstrous a disaster, that it’s important to realize that capturing the moment, seizing the day, or whatever works for you needs to be more than a catchy phrase; it’s a call to action.
If, in opposition to the advice of Dylan Thomas, we choose to go gently into that good night, we can hope there’s still time enough to make the most of what is left and not find it dark on the other side.
By Hayden Hollingsworth [email protected]