Last things
06/02/16 05:20
I don’t watch many movies, but somehow I did watch the 2007 movie “The Bucket List.” I’m sure you are familiar with the concept even if you didn’t see the movie. Essentially a bucket list is a set of goals that one wants to accomplish before the end of one’s life. The movie puts a strange twist on the list. The character played by Jack Nicholson is a billionaire, so when he and a car mechanic, played by Morgan Freeman, land in the same hospital room and begin to discuss what they have done with their lives and what they want to see and do before they die, they are able to set off of their adventures with no financial limits. They have a blank checkbook to do whatever they want, and their adventures carry some hefty price tags.
The movie inspired a lot of people to make their own buckets lists. Lists of goals to achieve, dreams to fulfill and experiences in which to become immersed were written in notebooks and entered into memories all across the country. I don’t know how many conversations I have had with people about their bucket lists in the years since the movie came out.
Personally, I didn’t find the movie to be all that inspiring. I simply don’t live in a world with unlimited budgets and I don’t desire to live in such a world. I find the challenge of figuring out what to do with limited resources to be one of life’s joys. I’ll leave the billionaire business to others. Another aspect of the movie with which I didn’t associate was that the bucket lists keep the two men traveling away from their families. If I received a diagnosis that gave me less time to live than I had expected, my instinct would be to spend as much time as possible with my family, not cook up adventures that took me away from them.
So I don’t have a bucket list.
There is one aspect of the movie that bears contemplation, however. The truth is that all of us have a limited amount of time left. We are all mortal. We will all one day die from this life. That means that each moment is precious and the decisions we make about how we invest our time are as critical as the decisions portrayed in the movie.
There is a thought, however, about the end of life that does inspire me. Recently I read a blog post by teacher and author Parker Palmer in which he quoted the poem, “The Almanac of Last Things” by Linda Pastan. The poem is simple and elegant and contains a few things that the author would chose as the things for her last moments. She chooses a spider lily, the words of the Song of Songs, the chill of January and the warmth of August, a swallow of red wine and perhaps another, and the evening. There is one more thing she chooses: “From the almanac of last things I choose you, as I have done before.”
“Me, too!” my soul shouts. “I choose the one I chose when I married if I could chose the last things of my time to live.” That is what I would most want.
So I try to honor that choice by honoring my mate. I value her health as I do my own. As precious as our marriage is, however, I know that we are not immune to the passage of time. I know that our love is a precious and limited thing. We are both mortal.
I spend significant time with people who don’t want to contemplate the end of life. The message of our faith, especially the mood and tone of the season of Lent is off-putting to some. There are those who don’t want to think of loss before life gives them no other choice. For them the present is somehow diminished by the thought of the future.
For me, however, taking time to contemplate loss before it occurs makes the present even more precious. Being reminded that there will be a last moment deepens my gratitude for this moment and helps me to focus my attention on what is most important right now.
I’ve reached the stage in my life where accumulating more things has no appeal. I have accumulated too much already. I need to continue the slow and sometimes frustrating process of sorting and getting rid of things. I’d love to find a “zero landfill” solution where I was able to give away all that I have and throw away nothing, but the truth is that for now there are four categories: keep, give away, recycle, and throw away. I’m aware that my “keep” pile is still too large.
It helps me to think about the last things, knowing that I need to reduce my “keep” pile as I go through the remaining moments of my life. What do I want to be holding with gratitude and grace when my last moment comes. Possessions will have lost their meaning.
I think I would choose the glory of a lake sunrise and if I am no longer able to paddle my canoe the memory, perhaps enhanced with a photograph, will suffice. I wouldn’t mind the sound of a Widor organ finale, perhaps symphony 4 or 6, but I could live with the toccata from symphony 5 as well. I think I would choose the wind through the pine trees over the ocean, but I wouldn’t complain about the ocean.
But the more I think of it, the more I might like the giggle of my granddaughter or one of my son’s puns or a simple “I love you,” from my wife as the last sound.
And when I think these thoughts I realize that the things I already have are more precious than I could ever possibly express. They don’t require the investment of the billionaire’s money or access to his private jet. I am already blessed beyond my wildest expectations.
Just one more thing: when I come to my final moments and am no longer capable of doing so myself, please turn off the television. I’d prefer not to have its droning at my last, even if it is a good movie.
The movie inspired a lot of people to make their own buckets lists. Lists of goals to achieve, dreams to fulfill and experiences in which to become immersed were written in notebooks and entered into memories all across the country. I don’t know how many conversations I have had with people about their bucket lists in the years since the movie came out.
Personally, I didn’t find the movie to be all that inspiring. I simply don’t live in a world with unlimited budgets and I don’t desire to live in such a world. I find the challenge of figuring out what to do with limited resources to be one of life’s joys. I’ll leave the billionaire business to others. Another aspect of the movie with which I didn’t associate was that the bucket lists keep the two men traveling away from their families. If I received a diagnosis that gave me less time to live than I had expected, my instinct would be to spend as much time as possible with my family, not cook up adventures that took me away from them.
So I don’t have a bucket list.
There is one aspect of the movie that bears contemplation, however. The truth is that all of us have a limited amount of time left. We are all mortal. We will all one day die from this life. That means that each moment is precious and the decisions we make about how we invest our time are as critical as the decisions portrayed in the movie.
There is a thought, however, about the end of life that does inspire me. Recently I read a blog post by teacher and author Parker Palmer in which he quoted the poem, “The Almanac of Last Things” by Linda Pastan. The poem is simple and elegant and contains a few things that the author would chose as the things for her last moments. She chooses a spider lily, the words of the Song of Songs, the chill of January and the warmth of August, a swallow of red wine and perhaps another, and the evening. There is one more thing she chooses: “From the almanac of last things I choose you, as I have done before.”
“Me, too!” my soul shouts. “I choose the one I chose when I married if I could chose the last things of my time to live.” That is what I would most want.
So I try to honor that choice by honoring my mate. I value her health as I do my own. As precious as our marriage is, however, I know that we are not immune to the passage of time. I know that our love is a precious and limited thing. We are both mortal.
I spend significant time with people who don’t want to contemplate the end of life. The message of our faith, especially the mood and tone of the season of Lent is off-putting to some. There are those who don’t want to think of loss before life gives them no other choice. For them the present is somehow diminished by the thought of the future.
For me, however, taking time to contemplate loss before it occurs makes the present even more precious. Being reminded that there will be a last moment deepens my gratitude for this moment and helps me to focus my attention on what is most important right now.
I’ve reached the stage in my life where accumulating more things has no appeal. I have accumulated too much already. I need to continue the slow and sometimes frustrating process of sorting and getting rid of things. I’d love to find a “zero landfill” solution where I was able to give away all that I have and throw away nothing, but the truth is that for now there are four categories: keep, give away, recycle, and throw away. I’m aware that my “keep” pile is still too large.
It helps me to think about the last things, knowing that I need to reduce my “keep” pile as I go through the remaining moments of my life. What do I want to be holding with gratitude and grace when my last moment comes. Possessions will have lost their meaning.
I think I would choose the glory of a lake sunrise and if I am no longer able to paddle my canoe the memory, perhaps enhanced with a photograph, will suffice. I wouldn’t mind the sound of a Widor organ finale, perhaps symphony 4 or 6, but I could live with the toccata from symphony 5 as well. I think I would choose the wind through the pine trees over the ocean, but I wouldn’t complain about the ocean.
But the more I think of it, the more I might like the giggle of my granddaughter or one of my son’s puns or a simple “I love you,” from my wife as the last sound.
And when I think these thoughts I realize that the things I already have are more precious than I could ever possibly express. They don’t require the investment of the billionaire’s money or access to his private jet. I am already blessed beyond my wildest expectations.
Just one more thing: when I come to my final moments and am no longer capable of doing so myself, please turn off the television. I’d prefer not to have its droning at my last, even if it is a good movie.