Standing there in the wind and the sound of the trees, remembering she is here with all of it for only a short while. ~ kai skye
As I begin to write here for the first time in many months, I’m a little uncertain about how to break such a long silence, a silence that’s been full of days lived and feelings felt, if not of words written and thoughts shared.
And then I remember that most of us are in the same boat, having crossed the threshold into yet another year of pandemic anxiety, political turmoil, and private stress, grief, and frustration. If ever there was a moment to reach out a hand and say, “I’m still here, I hope you, are, too,” this is it.
And so, hello. I’ve missed you. It’s lovely to think about this short note flying out into the world and landing in your email box.
We’re halfway through January and in the midst of our first really cold spell of winter in New England. There are a few more minutes of light each day, but it was 5 below zero as the sun came up this morning and it was minus 2 just now when I dashed out to fill the birdfeeders. When my husband asked at breakfast what I’m looking forward to, I paused on my fourth Wordle guess and struggled to come up with an answer. Lunch?
Perhaps you, too, are hitting an invisible wall this month. We’ve been here before, masked up and keeping our distance. But there’s a kind of resignation and weariness creeping in this winter that feels new. Even a little news feels like too much craziness and chaos to process. There are so many reasons to despair and so few glimmers of hope. Meanwhile, hunkered down at home with one bitterly cold day sliding into the next, it seems almost pointless to make future plans. Why get attached to anything? Just figuring out what to do with the day at hand can feel like a cruel reminder of all that was possible once but is no longer.
For many of us there seems to be an unsettling disconnect between the surging virus cases and the number of people who continue to shop and dine and socialize as if Covid is history. And yet, with two parents in their mid-eighties who most definitely must not get sick, I’m being more careful now than ever. Seeing them, and ensuring that we all feel safe being together, means not seeing anyone else. To my husband and me this extra bit of caution feels like an obvious choice, not only for my parents’ sake but for the common good. Our tiny local hospital is currently overwhelmed with Covid patients. Meanwhile, even here in our small town there’s a sense that people’s beliefs, habits, and priorities are becoming more polarized. It’s going to be a long winter.
As I ordered two packages of N95 masks this morning, I was relieved they’re finally easy to find, and also a little sad to realize how accustomed we’ve become to this crazy quilt of unease and loss that defines life in 2022 – a state of affairs we couldn’t have begun to imagine two years ago. So much of our social fabric is unraveling at once – our embattled democracy, voting rights, the integrity of the Supreme Court, our healthcare system, our schools, the supply chain, the climate, even the most basic agreements about what’s true, what matters, and how we human beings should behave toward one another at the grocery store. No wonder everything at this moment feels particularly fraught.
And yet, it is perhaps because of this recognition of just how precarious things are, that I also find myself with a heightened sense of how precious life is. As author Oliver Burkeman observes, “The more that you remain aware of life’s finitude, the more you will cherish it, and the less likely you will be to fritter it away on distractions.”
I’ve been thinking about the truth of these words a lot this month.
If, as it is said, grief and gratitude go hand in hand, then surely these pandemic years have given us all a starker, deeper appreciation for life’s finitude. How could it be otherwise, when over 62 million Americans have been ill with Covid and over 800,000 of us have died? To absorb this reality is to recognize another one: we’re all vulnerable. Tomorrow is not a given, no one’s future is guaranteed, and all our dreams are provisional. Anything could happen.
Knowing this, in a way we couldn’t possibly have known it before, isn’t exactly comforting. (Taking an informal poll among my family and friends confirms it: no one’s sleeping well these days.) But confronting the truth of my own mortality also feels like a wake-up call, an incentive to examine my relationships, my activities, and especially my attitudes, in a new light. How do I really want to spend my days? How can I create a life that’s more joyful, more connected, and more meaningful in whatever time I do have?
Perhaps there’s a way to see in our collective pandemic trauma not only the darkness, which is all too real, but also a message that I, for one, have very much needed to hear: I can’t change the big picture, but I can choose where to put my attention, my energy, my creativity, my love. I can lose another night’s sleep over all that’s wrong in the world, or I can honor all that’s been lost by making a commitment to live more compassionately, more playfully, and more gratefully right now.
Before, I took so much for granted, especially time. How easy it was to fool myself into thinking life would continue as it always had, spooling out endlessly through the decades, twisting and turning, but ongoing. Now, at 63, I’m older than some of my dearest friends ever got to be. Watching my parents gamely navigate an array of health challenges, I also see how grateful they are for every uneventful day. (They never complain about the hard ones, either.) And finally, I do get it: even if we’re lucky, life is still too short.
In fact, as Burkeman reminds us, “The average human lifespan is absurdly, insultingly brief. Assuming you live to be eighty, you have just over four thousand weeks.” The number certainly gives me pause. And Burkeman’s profound, beautifully written and reasoned book, aptly called Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals, feels like a light on the path, showing us a thoughtful way forward. Suddenly the question I’m asking isn’t, “When will this all end?” but rather, “How can I make this day a good one?”
If I’ve learned anything from these last two years — so full of sadness and fear, yet memorable as well for all their moments of unexpected beauty and of grace — it’s this: I won’t ever get a single one of my own weeks back. They’re history. If I live another twenty years, I have just over a thousand weeks to go, a thousand weeks to treasure or squander. The take-away is so painfully obvious I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to see it: Any time I spend wishing for things (or people!) to be other than they are is time wasted.
So why not figure out for myself, moment to moment, what matters now? Why not devote more time to the things that feel meaningful or that bring me joy, and less to worrying about all that’s out of my control? I may not be able to solve big problems, but I can solve little ones. I can care for my own small corner of the world, and for all the people and creatures with whom I share this place, this home, this unprecedented time. In the face of all the things I can’t change, I can emphatically choose, moment by moment, to embrace my life and my loved ones as they actually are – imperfect, mysterious, beautiful, heartbreakingly mortal.
Easier said than done, yes. And of course I’m talking to myself here. But as soon as I begin paying closer attention to where my attention goes, there’s a subtle shift. I’m a little more here, a little less anxious and distractible, and far more certain that gratefulness is more than a passing emotion, it’s the spiritual work of a lifetime. If I’m fortunate enough to get another thousand weeks, I want to do my best to make them count.
Already the morning has slipped away. There’s nothing special here, just an empty house, a few quiet hours, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. And yet, what a luxury it is, this gift of time. What I do with it is entirely up to me. The sunlight on the dining room table was so lovely a few minutes ago that I stood up from my laptop and snapped a picture. And now, already, the room is bathed in shadow. If I hadn’t looked up just then, I would have missed it. I could carry on writing for a while longer, but I could just as easily, just as happily, spend the rest of the morning watching the nuthatches and chickadees come and go outside the window. I could bundle up and take a walk or I could call my mom and offer to bring lunch over. Upstairs, my sewing project awaits. As does the book on the bedside table. There are bills to pay, a letter to write. I put laundry in after breakfast, but I haven’t done the vaccuming yet. The possibilities are infinite, but the hours in this day are not.
Soon, too soon, the sun will set. Steve will come home, we’ll make dinner and eat by the fire, do the dishes, perhaps talk to a grown child or two, watch the last episode of Ted Lasso, and make our way upstairs to bed. Moonlight will spill across the quilt, the heat will come on, I’ll slip an arm around my husband and listen in vain for the sound of Tess’s soft snore.
It’s been two months since our sweet border collie died, but not a night passes when I don’t wish I could fill her water bowl by the bed, stroke her silky head, and gaze into her eyes just one more time before saying good night. Missing her is yet another reminder that nothing lasts. “Time, then,” as poet Wendell Berry reminds us, “is told by love’s losses, and by the coming of love, and by love continuing in gratitude for what is lost.”
And so it is that I, who have spent my entire adulthood celebrating ordinary days, find myself both hungry for more of them and, too, more determined than ever to make good use of all the days I have left.
What am I looking forward to? When I take a moment to really consider that question, the answer is obvious: Everything.
the book, and the seconds
The moments may be fleeting but I’m always trying to find a way to hold them in my hands just a little longer. No wonder I fell in love with the brilliant 1SE app – it allows you to stitch together the seconds of your life as they fly by. On January 1, 2021, I began capturing moments in my garden as they unfolded, with just one photo or one second’s worth of video a day.
On days when I was away from home (usually at our family house in Maine) I’d simply take a photo of nature where ever I happened to be. The result, just six minutes long, is so much more than I ever could have imagined when I began – both a powerful reminder of the inexorable passage of time and an intimate engagement with the world as I found it, day by day, for an entire year.
“There are two ways to live your life,” Einstein said. “One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” Clearly, I’m in the second camp. It’s a joy for me to share these glimpses of my two favorite places with you, the garden where we live and the piece of the Maine coastline that holds 45 years worth of our family’s happiest memories. If you can, watch on a large screen. Turn the sound up to catch the birds, the rain, the hum of bees.
Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals
My friends may be tired of hearing me sing the praises of Oliver Burkeman’s wise, wide-ranging, life-changing book Four Thousand Weeks. But so far every one who’s read it has been just as inspired as I am. If you’re longing to live more joyfully, more mindfully, and with less stress, Oliver Burkeman offers plenty of ideas. In the process, he invites us to renegotiate our entire relationship with time, with life as it is, and with the way we inhabit our days. Hint: You’ll probably want to own this book, so you can highlight your favorite passages with abandon. And please let me know what you think!
You can order a copy here. (This is an Amazon affiliate link.)
Listen to an engaging “On Being” conversation between Krista Tippet and Oliver Burkeman here.
Katrina, your writing always speaks directly to my heart. I have certainly missed you, and I was delighted to find “you” in my email box just ten minutes ago. Four thousand weeks. Yes. Each one must count. We must MAKE each one count.
Sending warmest, peaceful wishes,
Erin
Thank you Katrina. I needed this today and I’m probably not the only one!
Katrina, I just finished 4000 Weeks, and loved it. It’s motivating me in a whole new way!
Thank you! You captured my thoughts exactly. I try to stay healthy, walk every day with my ski poles on the ice!! and try to stay connected through phone, emails and messaging. I am grateful for fresh air and sunshine and look forward to a better time when all people will act for the “common good.”
Sorry I don’t have the same definition of the common good as you and still love people.
Thank you, Katrina! You are not alone. Each year, instead of a resolution, I typically ruminate on a word that I want to embrace in the new year. This year the word that came unbidden was tenderness! And then I discovered this passage in Elizabeth Lesser’s amazing book, The Seeker’s Guide – “Happiness is ours when we go through our anger, fear, and pain, all the way to our sadness, and then slowly let sadness develop into tenderness.” That is exactly what I feel – not necessarily sadness but so much tenderness for our current collective circumstance. These are our times – precious, precarious and beautiful. We may just emerge more grateful, more aware and, yes, happier than ever before.
I turned 80 a couple of months ago. My wife gave me dinner at our favorite Greek restaurant + a belly dancer just for us. We went to Puerto Vallarta for a couple of weeks in December. The two classes I teach resumed in January, and we are looking forward to our Danube river cruise with an Oberammergau Passion Play thrown in in a couple of months. Eighty is not 4200 weeks; it is a state of mind which I have not chosen to accept yet. 2022 is the year I have been looking forward to for quite some time. Yes, we have lost some friends, a couple of beloved cats, but we adopted a four year old rescue three years ago with the bracing assumption that he might possibly outlive us but not if we can help it. Sorry to hear about your dog. We still talk about Margot and Agnes but Mischa is a pretty wonderful cat, too.
As I begin to type my comment I look up to see aa spectacular sunrise in shades of pink, coral, lavender and dark purple. It makes me pause, and it also reinforces exactly what you said about the light on the dining room table.
Dearest Katrina, I deeply appreciate your writing and the lovely, conversational gift you have. So first, I want to express my gratitude for the 63 years you’ve had and the remaining time you will have on this earth.
I came here to say that I, too, lost a beloved pet, my old boy Jasper, in early December. He was with us for 13.5 years and slept on the floor on my side of the bed. At times, when I was having trouble sleeping (which, as you said, has been true for me these last couple of years), I would lie in the dark and listen to two souls snoring, my husband on one side and my beloved Jasper on the other. It was incredibly comforting. I miss Jasper so much. And your writing today reminds me to be grateful for the sound of my husband’s snoring now. Thank you for this invaluable reminder to breathe deeply, notice the sunrise and my husband’s snoring, and appreciate the blanket spread across my toes this morning.
As Ted Lasso would say, I appreciate you.
I have been in a blue-funk as of late and while some reasons are known, others have been hiding. All the news of Covid, disappearing democracy, violence, incivility, and mistrust . My own personal struggles with my breast cancer diagnosis (Stage Zero, so I am a lucky one), my husband’s struggle with kidney cancer; the chemo, and surgery to fight his battle. His previous surgeries the past four years for vascular disease. Life has certainly taken a toll on my soul. I am the walking wounded and just barely surviving my days, let alone weeks/months.
Yet, here you are this morning. Your gentle words have helped me see the hidden blue layers and reveal they are just shadows of my own making. Shake them off with the morning light, No more wallowing. Glance up. Breathe in the moment. Return to gratitude and get on with it, for goodness sake. Thank you for this gentle nudge.
And here you are this morning Holly. i am sorry for all you have been through and pray you continue to feel this new energy. Having just come out of my own”blue funk” recently I can tell you it is so beautiful on the other side. Keep taking it one moment a time. Best wishes!
Thank you for writing again! You put into words what is in my heart, and I feel a little less lonely this morning as a result. Namaste.
Dear Katrina,
Thank you for your words this AM from my summer home state to me here in my winter state. I am struggling with trying to decide if I should have book club here with at least 50% unvaxxed people…why am I worrying about offending them? They aren’t worried about me? I hate the daily struggle with COVId and politics and fear for our way of life. I want to be positive…I want to appreciate al those weeks. But I feel the slog of daily life…
Me too. Amen to that.
Katrina,
How comforting in these times to read your beautiful, transparent post and learn my feelings aren’t so ‘off’ and alone!
Today, I woke to another cold, gray day and as I looked at my list of ‘should get dones’ and listened to the voices in my head saying “Why bother today…there’s tomorrow.” As I then cuddled under my warm throw in the sofa, I thought I would pick up my phone and read some emails. Yours happened to be near the top. I did think “Hmm I think it’s been awhile since I read Katrina’s post.”
I’m so glad I did read it, and then decided it was time to dress and get on with the day! My two Goldens had already come to remind me it was time for toast & coffee, as I patted their heads and made my way to the kitchen.
The sun has now come out and I intend on picking up my paint brushes and continue to create. After all I am an artist for however many days I have left here. And, with this God given talent I best not waste time. Tomorrow is promised to no one! I’ve lost several friends this past year, especially my best friend of 50 years, who left us too soon. I don’t know at 73 how much time I have left, but I have no control over that. Only this moment that I am experiencing right now…so make the best of it!
Thank you again. God bless.
SandiO
Thank you.
Dear Katrina:
From the start, I have read every article, watched, and listened to every video. Through the years I have added a comment twice (this being the second time) though I have had such “connection” along the way. I had a young boy when “ordinary days” and your beautiful writing pieces entered my life Of course, they all resonated with me in some way (and likely with all your readers), though the one where your first dog passed, and now this one, really adds to the spiritual connection. Though nothing is a coincidence and everything happens for a reason, it happened that your first dog passed near the time that my beloved Golden passed (at 14 years old). I was so happy to hear you got another dog and now as you speak of this furry family member’s passing, I too have lost another dog. There’s something about the joy brought when having them here with us, and also something about the lingering grief felt when their time comes to an end here on Earth. I often “partly” joked and said, “I miss my dogs more than I miss some people.” Of course, both bring such a sense of loss and sadness, though it is a dog’s intuitive and unconditional love that literally leaves paw prints on our hearts forever. I am so sorry for your loss. Today’s article resonated with me in so many ways and yes, I miss you popping into my inbox but for lack of better words, “I got it. I understood fully.” Timing. It is such a mysteriously wonderful component in life. I just wanted to thank you for being here today, reminding me that every day is a special occasion, and that every ordinary day is oh so special too. I wake up and go to sleep with that thought and it carries me and hopefully, carries many as we continue on in our journeys. Much gratitude (and yes, you will be mentioned in my gratitude journal today).
Hi, Sharon. What a heartfelt, vulnerable comment. I appreciate you popping in and feel the same about connection, and how nothing is a coincidence, and how I miss Katrina’s words but completely understand their absence. I, too, was so very touched with ‘ordinary days.’ I am compelled to comment, though, because we lost our best boy Jasper, a 13.5-year-old dog, in early December. My heart still hurts and I miss him so. So thank you. I hear you, and I appreciate that you have added your twice-in-a-lifetime comment here, today.
Thank you, Katrina. How wonderful it is to read your words. I wish you many blessings in this new year.
Thank you Katrina! I LOVE reading your posts and like others have said, it helps me feel understood and not so alone in my thinking. I lost my sweet dog in May, Mom in late October and my Dad had a stroke two weeks ago. Dad is still with us, but wants to go. Watching his heartbreak over loosing Mom and now having lost strength on his entire left side is so painful! At 93, his death seems imminent. YES life is WAY TO SHORT! I’m 56 and feeling incredibly anxious about time slipping away so reading your post really helped. I feel inspired and excited about reading that book (now sold out on Amazon, but I’ll keep checking for it) and utilizing the 1SEApp. I’m so glad you shared your thoughts and beautiful video with us. Looking forward to next time!
Thank you Katrina for sharing your gifts of writing & the video of 365 days, so lovely. Promoting a respected authors words of wisdom in his book, I’m planning to read as well!
Appreciated
Thank you so much. I have missed your uplifting posts. You always inspire me to pay attention.
It’s amazing how I can feel like I know you although we have never met. I truly believe we would be fast friends. Your words always speak to my heart. You have such a gift and I am so thankful you share it with us.
Thank you for this lovely and timely post Katrina. I have been striving to live in the moment with gratitude. Each day I seek some words of wisdom and today they came from you. So grateful. It also warms my heart and soul to read the comments from your other readers-love abounds. Peace.
Katrina, I have missed you and your words. I love the video (except the snake 🙂 it’s so wonderful to “see” your gardens and view of the mountains with what I imagined in my head. I have been learning about “hygge” this year…it’s my way to focus and live with intention, especially during the dark winter months. I can’t wait to read Four Thousand Weeks. I do feel the connection of this community and I am grateful as always for the insight and beauty that you bring through your words into our lives. With deep appreciation, Alison
What a gift to have this beautiful post from you, Katrina! Your words always move me and speak to my heart. I also love reading the comments of how your writing touches others as well. This is wonderful – “Gratefulness is more than a passing emotion; it’s the spiritual work of a lifetime.” I’m grateful for you.
Thank you for this, Katrina. Hearing that you have struggled over the last year gives me permission to own where I am right now. As someone who has always been driven and self-directed and moving forward, I find myself in a place with no clear direction for what comes next or even needing to know. Such an unfamiliar place but I am allowing myself time to just be. Given the state of the world and what we’ve been through these last two years, it feels right and good and I’m comforted to hear that I am not alone. I know I’ll get back to work of some kind at some point in the future but for now, my body, mind and spirit need rest, so I will surrender to this season and trust. Wishing you peace, Karen
So good to hear your voice through the written word. Always a joy Katrina. Your writing is a balm for the soul.
Xoxo
Fabiana
Just beautiful. Thank you!
Thank you! Your post is a helpful wakeup call. Time feels like it slips by faster each day and the past two years are a blur. I need to focus on finding something delightful every day!
The views of your home on the top of the hill looking out – just so beautiful – sunrise and sunset. This was a lovely video. Thank you!
The right words at the right time. Thank you, Katrina xo
Thank you for your gentle nudge. Always the perfect message for the many like minded that you inspire
Connecting us with that magical thread, inspiring us to embrace the moments with your gift of words.
Your lovely video is a great visual reminder of the seasonal flashes that make up a year in our lives, I may need to create one
Finally, wishing you peace as you deal with the loss of Tess
I just read your post from several days ago. Turns out, it was the perfect time to read it. I woke up thinking about all the things I can’t change. Now I’m breathing a bit better thanks to your lovely words. Thank you for checking in and to share all of this. The video is wonderful. May the ache of Tessa’s loss ease more and more.
I loved this post and felt joined by so many of your sharing details and reflections and visuals.
Thank you and know that many others resonate to the signals we receive from you and your readers.
Wonderful to see. Your every sentence, each thought, is a poetic improvement on our struggles to express this…
(You differ on just one subject. One (or some?) of us are driven by the wish to sleep. And it matters not the time of day or night. Just 2 more hours… And, guiltily, it is, usually, handy, delicious sleep, with wonderful, creative dreams. And, regularly, welcome reminders of an undone task or an unreturned message, completely forgotten in my waking life. Slipping…
Am I alone in this, among your flock of folllowers? )
Hi Katrina, sending a big wave from across town. Thank you for articulating so many of our thoughts in your contemplative and caring words. I love the idea of the 1SE-app. What a wonderful way to capture the beauty of each and every day. I just downloaded a sample of Four Thousand Weeks to my Kindle and look forward to delving in. I will add the conversation with Krista Tippet and Oliver Burkeman to my podcast list. Can’t imagine a day without listening to Krista! Wishing you well as we venture into yet another snowy weekend. Take care and stay warm. Jeanne xx
We readers were all here, ready to be your witness and I am so happy to have read these words. Thank you for articulating so beautifully what I am feeling. It may not be as cold here as it is where you are, but I do resonate deeply with the emotions you expressed. Yes, we must remember the things that are in our control: the perspective we take, our words and actions and how we choose to spend our time. Sending lots of love!