Every Moment Becomes A Memory

    

Every Moment Becomes a Memory

Death is a funny thing. It sneaks up on us like a secret, except we all know how the story ends.

We know that none of us will be here forever, but somehow we manage to tuck that thought away and go about our lives. We make plans for next month, next year, retirement and someday.

And then someone dies.

Suddenly, “someday” doesn’t feel quite so certain.

Recently, we lost a former colleague, Maureen, who was a dear friend to so many. She had just retired and had life planned—or at least the way any of us can plan life.

Her death made me think about how much time we spend planning for later when, in reality, all we really have is now.

What Is Life Really About?

Is it about material things? Having the nicest house or car? Being the best at something? Accomplishing more than the person next to us?

Or is it about making a difference in someone’s life?

Maybe it’s about the people who will someday tell stories about us. The laughs they remember. The kindness we showed. The lessons we taught without even realizing we were teaching them.

Maybe that’s our legacy.

When my father died, something changed inside of me. I felt as though it was my turn to carry his legacy forward—to show my children the values he had shown me and to teach them how to live with integrity.

Today I see pieces of him in my children.

Matt is so funny, just like my dad. Stephanie is wise beyond her years. They are adults now, living their own lives and doing their best every day. And I hope that some of what my father taught me—and what I tried to teach them—continues through them.

Maybe that’s how we live forever.

Not physically, but in the pieces of ourselves we leave in other people.

Finding Purpose After Retirement

Teaching has always been my passion. I love children, and I loved being a teacher. For more than 30 years, my passion and my work were almost the same thing.

Then I retired.

Suddenly, I had something I had dreamed about for years: time.

Every day was mine.

Funny thing is, when you’ve spent 30 years knowing exactly where you’re supposed to be every morning, having all that freedom can feel strange.

I had to ask myself:

Now what?

It has taken me several years to begin figuring that out.

I’ve made new friends. I’ve started junk journaling. I’ve learned to play Mahjong. I’ve learned to enjoy solitude. Most importantly, I’ve started discovering that I am my own person outside of being a teacher, a mother, a wife or anything else I have been to other people.

I have already fulfilled an important part of my purpose. I know I made a difference in children’s lives.

But I also believe there is more for me.

I don’t know exactly what that “more” is yet.

And maybe I don’t have to.

I’m Choosing Now

I have said before that I think 59 may actually be harder for me than turning 60.

Sixty feels like a line in the sand.

When I get nervous, when I worry about being judged, or when I start feeling like I am somehow less than someone else, I remind myself:

You’re almost 60 years old. If not now, when?

I choose now.

I spent too much of my life putting other people ahead of myself. I was afraid to say no. Afraid I would hurt someone’s feelings. Afraid someone wouldn’t like me.

I’m realizing I don’t want to spend this part of my life that way.

I get to decide how I spend my days.

I get to decide who receives my time.

I get to decide which memories I want to make.

That doesn’t mean I’ve suddenly stopped worrying. Anyone who knows me knows that’s definitely not true.

My rational brain says, Why are you worrying? You aren’t in control.

And then my irrational brain answers, Yes, but maybe if I worry hard enough, I can somehow control the situation.

I can’t.

I’m learning that accepting that may actually be part of living.

In the End, We Take Nothing With Us

We come into this world with nothing, and we leave with nothing.

So how did possessions become so important?

I don’t know.

I like beautiful things as much as anyone else. But I’m beginning to understand that the things I treasure most aren’t really things at all.

They’re experiences.

They’re people.

They’re conversations.

They’re laughter.

They’re ordinary afternoons that didn’t seem important at the time but somehow became precious memories.

Since Maureen passed, I have seen friends from school sharing pictures and collages of their time with her. There are smiling faces, celebrations, ordinary days and happy moments.

At the time those pictures were taken, nobody knew how valuable they would someday become.

That’s the thing.

Every moment eventually becomes a memory.

So How Do We Make Our Moments Count?

I don’t know.

For a long time, I thought I needed to figure out the answer.

At 59, I’m finally realizing maybe there isn’t one.

Maybe making life count simply means making choices that align with who we are, loving our people, taking care of ourselves, laughing whenever we can and having some fun along the way.

Maybe we stop waiting until someday to do the things that matter to us.

Put the dream into motion.

Take the trip if you can.

Call the friend.

Take the picture.

Say no when you need to.

Say yes when you want to.

Tell people you love them.

Try something new.

And stop attaching our worth to what we own or what other people think of us.

I hope I’ve taught my children that their worth isn’t attached to an object, a job, a bank account or someone else’s approval. Their worth belongs to them.

I hope I’ve also taught them to take care of themselves—not only physically, but mentally, emotionally and financially.

And most of all, I hope that when they someday look back at their lives, they see a whole lot of laughter, smiles, love and memories.

A Beautiful Legacy

Maureen’s death has made many of us think about our own lives. That’s uncomfortable. It’s scary. We don’t like talking about death because it forces us to acknowledge something we cannot control.

But perhaps it also gives us a gift.

It reminds us to live.

Maureen was a wonderful person, an incredible teacher and a friend to so many. She was kind. She had integrity. And she seemed to always have a smile on her face.

Look at what people are remembering about her.

Not what she owned.

Not how much money she had.

Not whether everything in her life went according to plan.

They’re remembering her.

Her kindness.

Her friendship.

Her smile.

The moments they shared with her.

What a beautiful legacy to leave behind.

I don’t know exactly what the next chapter of my life looks like. I’m still figuring it out.

But I know this:

I don’t want to spend it waiting for someday.

I want to love the experience. Love the memory. Love the people I’m with. Be present enough to recognize the ordinary moments that may someday become the memories I treasure most.

Because tomorrow isn’t promised.

Today is here.

And I’m choosing now.

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