A few weeks ago, my friend Cari died in a tragic bike accident. It was sudden, it was senseless, and it took a bright light from this world. In the days and weeks that followed, I vacillated between being in denial and finding myself lost and immersed in her Facebook page, which had become a living tribute and memorial. I actually ended up uninstalling Facebook from my phone (hence apologies if it correspondingly seems I have gone AWOL) -- feeling too much of a cognitive dissonance seeing the heaviness of her death and the lightness of all-else-that-is-Facebook.
Like all tragedies, Cari's death forced an internal reckoning and deep introspection. I realized over the last few weeks that much of the "fun" reading I've been drawn to these last few years has actually been about dying: "Chasing Daylight", "The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying," "The End of Your Life Book Club", and quite possibly one of the most impactful books I've read in recent years, "When Breath Becomes Air" -- about a 36-year old neurosurgeon who is diagnosed with stage IV lung caner (our good friend, Terence, recommended this book and I devoured it in one day, doing little else). Far from a fascination on the macabre, I realize that this focus on death is because the coming of death starts to make life -- and what most matters in life -- perfectly clear. For someone like me who tends to do one million things (and who tries to do those one million things "perfectly" -- with predictable results), the potential for this type of laser-sharp recognition of what is most important in life is a lesson worth learning. For it is through death that life comes into sharp focus.
One powerful article I recently came across is called: "Regrets of the Dying", written by someone who worked for many years in palliative care (link here). Her patients were those who were sent home to die. She wrote an article about the common themes that came up when questioned about lingering regrets. The top five:
1. I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me. -- the most common regret of all
2. I wish I didn't work so hard.
3. I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings.
4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.
5. I wish that I had let myself be happier.
Of course, we all know that we're going to die. What we don't know is when. Paul Kalanithi, the author of "When Breath Becomes Air", writes about this in a New York Times Op-Ed, "How Long Have I Got Left?" (as it turns out, he died one year after his diagnosis at age 37):
"The path forward would seem obvious if only I knew how many months or years I had left. Tell me three months, I'd just spend time with family. Tell me one year, I'd have a plan (write that book). Give me ten years, I'd get back to treating diseases. The pedestrian truth that you live one day at a time didn't help: What was I supposed to do with that day? My oncologist would say only: 'I can't tell you a time. You've got to find what matters most to you."
And that's the key question, isn't it? What matters most to each of us? After reading "Chasing Daylight", written by a former KPMG CEO told he only had three more months to live, I contemplated and meditated on what I might do in the same situation. I remember journaling that if I only had one month to live, I would stop working, fly out my family and the people most important in my life and go to El Nido -- possibly my favorite place on earth -- to live out the rest of my days surrounded by those I love. In fact, it was through a meditation on dying at a silent meditation retreat in NYC that I made the definitive decision to move out to Korea with Tyler (we had been contemplating doing distance for a year so we could each pursue professional goals and ambitions). We were asked to think about our last breath -- picture where we would be, who we would be with. And then move back from there: picture our last day, our last week, our last month on this earth. Each of those answers was "with Tyler" (and none of those included doing work), so it made the decision to come to Korea an easy one.
There's a quote by Mahatma Gandhi I've always liked: "Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever." The learning part I've long ago embraced. But what I continue to struggle with is the first part and all versions of the mantra: "live like this is your last day on earth." How does one even begin to execute on that while also being a responsible citizen?
While I don't see myself doing work on my final day, week, or even month, work is something that gives me great joy and enables me to be of service and have an impact on this world. I am grateful to be able to earn an income for my family and even more grateful to do work I know is having an impact on improving lives. Stopping this to "live as if I were to die tomorrow" seems excessively hedonistic, as does draining my bank account to live for now, instead of saving for our future.
Over the last couple of days, I seem to have stumbled onto one piece of the answer, when Tyler reminded me (as always) that I tend to way over-plan and over-pack my schedule when I head home to the US. This time, I massively cut out plans (each day having at most three scheduled events). But I realized that perhaps even this wasn't enough, as not all events are created equal (e.g. doctor's appointment vs time with parents -- both important, only one that I'll likely remember with fondness). Inspired by the "bullet journal" that Andrew had introduced me to, I started drawing out a calendar of the next month. With a hot pink pen (easily found in Korea), I drew out "heart groundings" -- spelling out one key event across most days that had the ability to ground me and connect me to those I love most. What I realized is that very few of these had huge price tags attached. There's the house I am renting with my parents in Rhinebeck or the boat we are renting with Katie and Andrew on the lake in WA... but for the most part, they are free or nearly so: sunrise walks with Elliot and Tyler on the Santa Monica beach; long lazy BBQ dinners at Dan and Kris's Christmas tree farmhouse; riding the Central Park carousel with my parents and Elliot in NYC.
The next morning after drawing out these "heart groundings", I got an email about an "algorithm for happiness", in large part inspired by the "Chasing Daylight" book referenced above. In this, author and coach Robin Sharma, spells out in a very compelling way what I had been trying to do with my "heart grounding". He calls on us to become "Perfect Moment Creators" -- whether these are multi-hour long family sunset dinners or a trip to Florence "to witness Michelangelo's David before sharing the city's best pizza in an off-the-path trattoria." In an earlier blog post, I talked about these "kairos" moments of motherhood (inspired by the much-discussed "Don't Carpe Diem" Huffington Post article). While the recovering perfectionist in me doesn't resonate with the term "perfect moment" ("don't do anything that breaks the perfection of this moment!!!"), this idea for me bridges the gap between "living like you may die tomorrow" and living the rest of your "normal", responsible life.
Because as the tragedy of Cari's early death reminds us, who knows how long we all have. If there's any silver lining to this, it's that Cari seems to have lived her last year on earth largely as though it would be her last year on earth (of course, without actually knowing this). About a year ago, she left Google and from what I could see on Facebook, led a life filled with these "perfect moments" and "heart groundings" -- traveling to Myanmar with our friend Noha, walking the El Camino de Santiago pilgrimage, becoming a yoga teacher and Eucharistic minister for the elderly... Close friends shared that in her email announcing her "big news" of leaving Google, she wrote: "Happiness is a state of being; a feeling of calmness and deep inner peace, of feeling rested, grounded and connected to myself. Happiness is having the time, energy and space to connect more deeply with my family, friends and community."
We miss you, Cari. There is peace in knowing you lived this life of happiness so fully; as well as inspiration -- even after your death -- in your bringing this message into the hearts of others.
Life is eternal
And love is immortal
And death is only a horizon
And a horizon is nothing
Save the limit of sight.
-- Rossiter Worthington Raymond (quote from Cari's memorial)
Like all tragedies, Cari's death forced an internal reckoning and deep introspection. I realized over the last few weeks that much of the "fun" reading I've been drawn to these last few years has actually been about dying: "Chasing Daylight", "The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying," "The End of Your Life Book Club", and quite possibly one of the most impactful books I've read in recent years, "When Breath Becomes Air" -- about a 36-year old neurosurgeon who is diagnosed with stage IV lung caner (our good friend, Terence, recommended this book and I devoured it in one day, doing little else). Far from a fascination on the macabre, I realize that this focus on death is because the coming of death starts to make life -- and what most matters in life -- perfectly clear. For someone like me who tends to do one million things (and who tries to do those one million things "perfectly" -- with predictable results), the potential for this type of laser-sharp recognition of what is most important in life is a lesson worth learning. For it is through death that life comes into sharp focus.
One powerful article I recently came across is called: "Regrets of the Dying", written by someone who worked for many years in palliative care (link here). Her patients were those who were sent home to die. She wrote an article about the common themes that came up when questioned about lingering regrets. The top five:
1. I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me. -- the most common regret of all
2. I wish I didn't work so hard.
3. I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings.
4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.
5. I wish that I had let myself be happier.
Of course, we all know that we're going to die. What we don't know is when. Paul Kalanithi, the author of "When Breath Becomes Air", writes about this in a New York Times Op-Ed, "How Long Have I Got Left?" (as it turns out, he died one year after his diagnosis at age 37):
"The path forward would seem obvious if only I knew how many months or years I had left. Tell me three months, I'd just spend time with family. Tell me one year, I'd have a plan (write that book). Give me ten years, I'd get back to treating diseases. The pedestrian truth that you live one day at a time didn't help: What was I supposed to do with that day? My oncologist would say only: 'I can't tell you a time. You've got to find what matters most to you."
And that's the key question, isn't it? What matters most to each of us? After reading "Chasing Daylight", written by a former KPMG CEO told he only had three more months to live, I contemplated and meditated on what I might do in the same situation. I remember journaling that if I only had one month to live, I would stop working, fly out my family and the people most important in my life and go to El Nido -- possibly my favorite place on earth -- to live out the rest of my days surrounded by those I love. In fact, it was through a meditation on dying at a silent meditation retreat in NYC that I made the definitive decision to move out to Korea with Tyler (we had been contemplating doing distance for a year so we could each pursue professional goals and ambitions). We were asked to think about our last breath -- picture where we would be, who we would be with. And then move back from there: picture our last day, our last week, our last month on this earth. Each of those answers was "with Tyler" (and none of those included doing work), so it made the decision to come to Korea an easy one.
There's a quote by Mahatma Gandhi I've always liked: "Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever." The learning part I've long ago embraced. But what I continue to struggle with is the first part and all versions of the mantra: "live like this is your last day on earth." How does one even begin to execute on that while also being a responsible citizen?
While I don't see myself doing work on my final day, week, or even month, work is something that gives me great joy and enables me to be of service and have an impact on this world. I am grateful to be able to earn an income for my family and even more grateful to do work I know is having an impact on improving lives. Stopping this to "live as if I were to die tomorrow" seems excessively hedonistic, as does draining my bank account to live for now, instead of saving for our future.
Over the last couple of days, I seem to have stumbled onto one piece of the answer, when Tyler reminded me (as always) that I tend to way over-plan and over-pack my schedule when I head home to the US. This time, I massively cut out plans (each day having at most three scheduled events). But I realized that perhaps even this wasn't enough, as not all events are created equal (e.g. doctor's appointment vs time with parents -- both important, only one that I'll likely remember with fondness). Inspired by the "bullet journal" that Andrew had introduced me to, I started drawing out a calendar of the next month. With a hot pink pen (easily found in Korea), I drew out "heart groundings" -- spelling out one key event across most days that had the ability to ground me and connect me to those I love most. What I realized is that very few of these had huge price tags attached. There's the house I am renting with my parents in Rhinebeck or the boat we are renting with Katie and Andrew on the lake in WA... but for the most part, they are free or nearly so: sunrise walks with Elliot and Tyler on the Santa Monica beach; long lazy BBQ dinners at Dan and Kris's Christmas tree farmhouse; riding the Central Park carousel with my parents and Elliot in NYC.
The next morning after drawing out these "heart groundings", I got an email about an "algorithm for happiness", in large part inspired by the "Chasing Daylight" book referenced above. In this, author and coach Robin Sharma, spells out in a very compelling way what I had been trying to do with my "heart grounding". He calls on us to become "Perfect Moment Creators" -- whether these are multi-hour long family sunset dinners or a trip to Florence "to witness Michelangelo's David before sharing the city's best pizza in an off-the-path trattoria." In an earlier blog post, I talked about these "kairos" moments of motherhood (inspired by the much-discussed "Don't Carpe Diem" Huffington Post article). While the recovering perfectionist in me doesn't resonate with the term "perfect moment" ("don't do anything that breaks the perfection of this moment!!!"), this idea for me bridges the gap between "living like you may die tomorrow" and living the rest of your "normal", responsible life.
Because as the tragedy of Cari's early death reminds us, who knows how long we all have. If there's any silver lining to this, it's that Cari seems to have lived her last year on earth largely as though it would be her last year on earth (of course, without actually knowing this). About a year ago, she left Google and from what I could see on Facebook, led a life filled with these "perfect moments" and "heart groundings" -- traveling to Myanmar with our friend Noha, walking the El Camino de Santiago pilgrimage, becoming a yoga teacher and Eucharistic minister for the elderly... Close friends shared that in her email announcing her "big news" of leaving Google, she wrote: "Happiness is a state of being; a feeling of calmness and deep inner peace, of feeling rested, grounded and connected to myself. Happiness is having the time, energy and space to connect more deeply with my family, friends and community."
We miss you, Cari. There is peace in knowing you lived this life of happiness so fully; as well as inspiration -- even after your death -- in your bringing this message into the hearts of others.
Life is eternal
And love is immortal
And death is only a horizon
And a horizon is nothing
Save the limit of sight.
-- Rossiter Worthington Raymond (quote from Cari's memorial)
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