Good morning Reader,
Last week I stayed in the mountains of West Virginia.
On my second night, I started to stir hours before the sun was to rise, and in that half-awake, half-asleep phase I looked out the window at the dark, black sky. Then my eyes cleared, and I started asking: what am I seeing? It became clear that the night sky was black on black, dark, with starlight making its way through the void of space.
My goodness, there seemed to be a lot of those stars.
Then my mind started racing. Get your ass up out of bed, and look at the night sky, I said to myself. And then just as quick, I was telling myself how comfortable I was under the covers on what was a very cool and crisp morning.
Yeah, I said to myself, this is one of those Moment One decisions. -1 stay in bed or +1 go look at the sky laid before me.
As soon as I stepped out of the RV, into that diamond-filled sky, I whispered to myself, “+1” because what I stepped into, I swear, I had not seen in over 45 years. The sky was magnificent and wonder-filled all at once. The stars, and the planets, the satellites, and the Milky Way itself were putting on a silent show, just for me.
And that one shooting star, well, hello there, it’s been way too long.
I pulled out my phone, which registered 4:18 am and took more pictures than the old Kodak rolls would have allowed. Next, I opened the app that showed me the constellations I was standing under, and which diamond in the sky was Mars (there it was, just left of Orion), Saturn, and Jupiter. After taking it all in and walking back into the RV, I realized I hadn’t seen the night sky in this glory in those 45 years.
Four decades ago, the Florida Keys were this dark, with this night sky.
In recent years, before my mother passed, she would often tell me, as if it were the first time, that her favorite moment when we arrived at our Islamorada beach house was stepping onto the porch and looking up at the night sky. The dark, diamond-filled night sky.
And you know, I never asked her what she loved about that moment. I so wish I had.
As I think back to those family trips in the Keys, I now see Mom’s life as a microcosm of all our lives. I don’t ever remember seeing her rest. She was always in motion. No book on the beach, no walks, no nothing for herself, except taking care of us. Giving us everything, and I mean everything, she had to ensure we had what we needed.
And we needed a lot. A lot of her.
Remembering her constant selflessness fills me with a strange combination of comfort, awe, and a touch of guilt. I felt safe because of all she did, and incredibly grateful, but there were also times as I got older I wondered if she was happy, or if she ever resented all she gave up for us. Looking back now, I feel an ache of regret for not asking her about what she wanted for herself, and a deep admiration for the love she showed through her actions.
I can still smell the bacon, feel the heat of the fried eggs, over easy, and taste the melting butter on the toast as we ate on that same porch she stood on the night before under the stars. And that was just the start. We needed the coolers packed for the fishing that day, the laundry done, the dishes cleaned, the beach towels and chairs, and the snacks and drinks, and when we got stung by the jellyfish, we needed Mom to make us well again.
We needed a lot. A lot of her.
It’s amazing what a simple +1 can do for you. For me, on that mountain, it brought me into the present moment that we so often fail to see as a present. Part of that gift that morning was a trip back to memory lane: my mom telling me how much she enjoyed this same night sky decades earlier. Different place, different time, same night sky.
And this gift helped me clarify my life philosophy, which brought me to this very moment, this Sunday morning with you, Reader.
Looking up at those stars, my conviction of what I believe, even as I felt smaller standing under the cosmos, became clearer, firmer, and larger. And this life philosophy begins with this moral truth: Life, your life Reader, is the most important thing in your life.
As I think of my mother, who was always giving, always in motion, rarely pausing to care for herself, I realize how complicated this truth can feel. I believe with all I have that my mother gave me life, with a moral responsibility to live my life as full and as filled as humanly possible. And I have fallen short many times.
Life, your life, is the most important thing in your life.
You know, now this might sound silly, but standing under Mars, and Orion, and the Milky Way that morning, I had this odd sense that it was all there for no one else but me. That shooting star, that too, shot through all of eternity just for me in that moment. I mean, if not me, who? Well, that answer is easy too.
You.
My philosophy that life, your life, is the most important thing in your life is counterintuitive. I know many will reject it. Dismiss it as the most selfish thing anyone could accept. And I get it.
And yet nobody ever priced what Mom was doing under those stars. The laundry had value. The meals had value. The coolers packed, the towels, the jellyfish stings. The woman standing in the dark, alone looking up had no value any of us named, and I’m not sure that she could have named it either.
Emerson saw it in 1860. We prize very humble utilities, he wrote, a prudent husband, a good son, a voter, a citizen, and deprecate any romance of character. Romance of character. That was my mother on that porch at night, and not one of us knew it was out there.
We value an individual when and if they produce, show up for work, bring home a paycheck, or, down in the Keys after the stars have retired for the day and the day of serving begins, the laundry gets done, the meals served, the lunches packed, and all of the duties the role asks of you.
If the employee doesn’t produce, we’ll find someone who will. The laundry gets folded and put away, only to do it all over again. And yet this is where we place tremendous value, which brings me to the premise of my philosophy about you and your life.
The person is unique. By definition, one of a kind. Your being is never to be repeated or copied, ever again.
And I don’t know, oh hell, yes, you do know, Dirk, what this tells me is that your life is the most important thing in your life. After reading Emerson, I wrote this in my journal to help shape my philosophy: “The world doesn’t need another commodity. I’m not sure it needs anything. But I am here. I am real – as real as this reality is. I need me. No really. I need me to survive. I need to live in a way that yes has me survive and yet to flourish, Thrive, Live Fully Alive.
That on one level is all that matters.”
So yes, serve the hell out of the ones you love, and at the same time never forget that you are alive and here to live fully alive.
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