Our lives are defined by opportunities,
even the ones we miss.
- Eric Roth,
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (Screenplay)
Earlier today, I got off the phone with the wife of a dear friend of mine quite shaken. It turns out that he'd had a serious health challenge - one that was potentially fatal - and, thankfully, is now recovering nicely after multiple surgeries. I was shaken because my heart ached for these two wonderful soulmates and their family and other friends, who were facing the real possibility of grave loss and now the modest relief of a long period of recuperation and convalescence. I was grateful for my friend and his wife that they have many other friends who've stepped into the breach to support them and was reminded yet again by this near-miss, this almost tragedy, that life is simply too short to miss opportunities.
For those of you who've read this blog over the past fourteen months or so, you've read several times of my sense of loss, of the pain of losing treasured friends from whom I had drifted too far away in life and thus could no longer recover our intimacy. To put a fine point on it, I've had 13 friends die in a period of just 13 months! I am stunned to write this as the pain returns anew, due both to my sense of loss and to my sense of sorrow for the departed and the other lives in which their absence is so acutely felt. In each one of these sad cases, one theme threads consistently through: they were people who were dear to me but insufficiently near to me, loved and admired ones whom I wanted to know more intimately but with whom I never got - which actually means, damningly, "made" - the time. In other words, these relationships and memories will forever be tinged with regret as I am reminded that I had let us drift too far away in life and now will forever be prevented from righting this mistake in death.
At mid-life, I never expected to experience anything like this, this too large sense of loss. Some part of this is actually the result of a fortunate, dual gift: I have lived a reasonably long time and had the privilege to have my life touched and elevated by the presence of many good people. The downside of this blessing is that it's very difficult to keep in close touch with so many of them ... and then when they leave you too soon it's even more difficult to accept that they're gone. I can't help but think, Lord forgive me, that there are so many a--holes who live on seemingly forever (or at least a really, really long time) and yet so many good, kind souls leave us far too soon ... physically, at least.
But this leads to another lesson that I've learned in mid-life, in large part due to the too early departures of my parents and now reinforced by the too numerous early departures of esteemed friends: after the pain of loss, a paradox can occur. Because they are no longer with me physically, I am forced to remember - and continue to treasure - my parents mentally, emotionally and spiritually. So, too, now with (too) many of my friends. I see the imprint of their spirits in my life constantly, as current events trigger memories of past ones that are almost exclusively happy ... and they live on in my heart and soul as they once did in my experience physically.
To out a finer point on it, ironically, I find myself closer to my parents in death than I was in the last years of their respective lives. Now, they are constantly on my mind because I hear the echoes of their love as it plays forward into the circumstances of my life ... whereas during their final years, months and weeks on the planet, I was busy living a too full life and they were trying not to interfere and 'distract' me with their struggles both physical and spiritual. (In hindsight, of course, I wish that they had so 'burdened' me, as my mother once described it, but this was their choice, not mine. What I didn't realize then but appreciate fully and painfully now is that my choice could and should have been to seek out this gift of a burden, as it was a harbinger of the closing of a beautiful and supremely meaningful chapter of my life that could have been all the more significantly and indelibly enhanced had I anticipated and used more effectively the time before its end.) Simply put, not a day goes by when something that my mother and/or father said to me or experienced with me plays out in an identical or similar way in my life - especially with my family - and I feel them with me anew. They will never die, I believe, because they'll continue to live on through me and, after I slip this mortal coil, in the wisdom and love that I've paid forward in my earthly life.
So, too, it's beginning to be with my departed friends, who range in age from 60 (i.e., not that old) to eight (i.e., way too young). The vagaries of life bring them back to me frequently, and they are often more powerfully present with me now in memory than they were during their earthly lives when we took each other for granted but didn't realize that we were doing so (while also assuming that there would be future time together to 'catch up' and maintain a more meaningful intimacy). This memorial presence is indeed a meaningful one to be cherished ... but it pales by comparison to the temporal gift of life and the spontaneous beauty, wonder and meaning that it offers in fully lived and savored experience.
Which brings me back to my almost-departed friend: He's recovering after some serious surgeries, so I won't be visiting him now (at least until he's physically able to benefit from such an experience). But I am grateful for this 'second chance' during our physical lives. He's yet another of those people whose role in my life is more meaningful than he probably knows and therefore that he's more treasured and appreciated than he knows (which also means "more than I've said"). And his beloved wife of more than three decades is a beautiful soul in her own right, one of those people with whom you just can't help but feel happier and uplifted by being in her orbit. After visiting him and them during his convalescence, I've made a promise to myself to invest some quality time with them periodically. I would like them to get to know my new wife and for her to get to know me even better by befriending those whom I hold dear.
And, too, I would like to learn from the past and this present circumstance and go forward differently and better. I hope that this second chance leads to a better, more fulfilled experience for us all: for my friend and his wife, because they will know how much I truly esteem and care for them, and for myself (and my wife) because I will have used this ultimate of God's gifts, my time here on earth, more meaningfully and, thus, immortally....
The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.
- Harriet Beecher Stowe, Little Foxes:
Or, the Insignificant Little Habits Which Mar Domestic Happiness
