I awoke. When I opened my eyes I was six, maybe seven. I became aware that I was living a Life, and that this Life was a thing unto itself. Before this awakening I had simply been experiencing a series of moment-to-moment events. Each was strung together with the next in what felt like random succession.
But this Life had recognizable patterns. It had a past and it had a future. I began to reflect on the past and plan for the future. This was a wholly different perspective altogether.
I appreciated waking up and having my family near. Each morning I would get up to the same rhythms of food, noise, people being late and sometimes not, as each day launched.
When I was nine I became fully awake. I realized these rhythms were not eternal. They were ephemeral. I immediately understood the consequences of my thinking. All of the plans for the future would ultimately have an ending. More importantly, mistakes from the past would become forever irreparable.
Like being struck by lighting, I became aware that I and everyone I knew would be gone some day; and others would take our place. Death was unavoidable. It was coming for us. A sure thing.
I was scared. For weeks that leaden cloud hung over my head, darkening everything I did.
I finally went to my father with this troubling realization. Unfortunately, I was lacking a more important, deeper insight — or perhaps I would have waited. I’ve had to forgive my nine year old self.
My dad was great. He explained to me that knowing this unavoidable ending ultimately could give us meaning. It meant we had a clock ticking and we should use our time to commit ourselves to do the best we can to leave our mark in the world and positively impact the people around us.
Although he put on an air of cheerfulness as he shared this wisdom. I could sense something more foreboding hidden in his words. Perhaps it was in his searching eyes or his brow as it lowered. It was subtle and I was too young. He seemed concerned with thoughts more profound than my own.
For me, the rhythms continued, plans were made, the future came — and a surprising bit of it went. Years later I would again reflect on this thing, this Life.
One evening I sat quietly, working, glasses low on my nose. I was writing something. I can’t remember what. There was a knock at the door. My son entered.
I looked up and studied him. It was after bedtime — his blond hair tussled from laying on his pillow, his eyes red. He looked tired and worried. He walked in with his fine features and innocence all about him like a warm blanket. Youth had its comforts.
He asked me, “Dad, what’s it all about? It’s gonna end . . . everything, someday.”
As I passed down the wisdom I had been given, I realized what I had seen in my father’s eyes years before. That troubled look . . . I wondered if my son could see that same look in my eyes. The deeper, harder truth as I age is that I tell my son these things to protect him — and in turn, me.
But time doesn’t stand still, and I (like my father before me) can’t protect myself forever.