The Time Remaining

By Pat Gallagher

The first time the finite nature of human existence entered my mind was a remark uttered by the writer Harris Dulany in 1970. Harris and his wife Barry and their two young daughters were friends of mine. At the time they were living in a rambling brownstone in Fort Greene in Brooklyn. Harris had worked at the Strand Bookstore, famous for its collection and size. He said one day he’d had an epiphany when he was at the bookstore. Gazing at the enormous collection he realized that if he read a book a day he would die before he could read them all. I don’t know why I still remember this incident but the image of books representing the days of a life was compelling. Compared to the thousands of books on hundreds of shelves a lifetime is a very short shelf indeed.

More and more rapidly, things I will not accomplish in this lifetime mount up. Books to read, plays and performances and films to see, places to visit, and the explosion of things to see and hear on the Internet are overwhelming. I must choose judiciously. I will not travel to all the places on the planet that are accessible. I learn from images and the reports of others – in many forms – about the wonders of the earth and its inhabitants, and of its fragility. 

In the quality time remaining I reflect daily on the things I have accomplished, and on the gifts – large and small – material and otherwise that I have received over this lifetime. I reach out to those in my circle and do whatever I can to lift their spirits, offer help, affirm my affection for them. I explore new ideas when they present themselves if they promise to better my life and the life of others.  I mine my own life for experiences and try to understand what they have taught me about how to live and to share what I learn with others.

In the quality time remaining I will continue to enjoy the gifts offered up daily by the natural world: the early morning light filtering through the redwood trees in the Rose Garden, the fragrance of star jasmine creeping over the back fence, the scent of a single pink New Zealand rose offered as I brush past it on my way out the back gate. I marvel at the tiny hummingbirds who’ve taken up residence near the lemon tree, at the astonishing cardiovascular system that makes possible their almost magical hovering and rapid flitting to and from the feeders. And I revel in memories: like the delicious warmth of the sun on the back of my neck on languorous summer mornings in Italy. 

In the quality time remaining I try not to worry about all that is undone. There isn’t time for that. There is only now. Life is full.