Upon the death of a dear friend, I began thinking about the nature of life and death. Death brings my feet back to earth. My mom has often accused me of having my head in the clouds, and I readily admit it.

But losing my friend brought me crashing back down. I’ll admit that I’ve been a bit morbid over the past few weeks, since her passing, because it has come to my attention that we are all going to die. There is no other way out of here.

During the celebration of life for my friend, several people spoke of her generosity, her love of animals, her quirky nature. Many kind things were spoken then, and I thought what a beautiful tribute.

But wouldn’t it be better if we could share those kind thoughts with our friends before they die? Wouldn’t it be better to tell our loved ones how much we appreciate them, while they are still living?

Kind words are like a soothing balm to the soul. No matter what a person is going through, the kind words of friends and loved ones can calm the fires of rage, anger, or fear.

So why wait? I have said, on numerous occasions, that I plan to live to 111. I realize that by then, many of my friends and family will likely be gone. They will have gone on before me, to whatever awaits our physical death.

By then, I wonder who will eulogize me. I wonder who will be present to remember the remarkable life of an old woman, who outlived those who could speak of her life. So, the way I see it, I have two choices. I can live a remarkable life for the following 64 1/3 years, and make sure to make an impression on everyone I meet, hoping that someone will live long enough to remember me.

That is Plan B. That plan involves a lot of work, a lot of community involvement, and making friends of all ages. While that does seem like a fun way to progress through life, it also seems like a lot of work. Of course, I plan to do it anyway. Far be it from me to shy away from hard work and perseverance.

But, I have a better plan. My go to plan is to throw a big party. I’m not waiting until I’m dead to have a party. I’m going to have a party and invite all of my friends, and we will gather and talk about the beauty of life, the beauty of love and friendship. I plan to have that party when I am 55. I’m going to call it my “halfway there” party.

I plan to invite everyone I have ever known, to celebrate the gift of their presence in my life. I want to celebrate while I am still alive and cognizant. I want to thank people for their kindnesses and love, which have buoyed me through my life.

And my point, in all of this, is lets not wait. Let’s not wait to tell the people in our lives how much they mean, how much they bring, and how much they give us.

Tell them while there is still time. Once your friends are gone, it becomes too late to tell them how much you cherish them.

Of course, once people pass on, we can still speak of their goodness and kindness. It brings us together, it unites us when we face death, and it helps us heal from loss.

But so much better, is the idea of telling people of their impact and influence while it can help them.

It is never too late to tell someone how much they mean to you. If you don’t feel like saying it, then write them a note. You could even send an email. But don’t let the kind words go unspoken. Today is the perfect day to tell someone how much they mean.

Namaste, friends

In the aftermath of chaos and holiday madness, I lost my phone. It wasn’t such a bad thing, really. I spent all of Christmas Day enjoying peace and quiet, unable to text and call. I even found time to take a nap.

As we began to filter through empty stockings, piles of paper and the remnants of Christmas, I discovered my forgotten phone, buried under the cheery rubble.

It was so nice not having it, I decided on the following day to just put the phone away.

Most of us are attached to our stuff. Our phones are always nearby. Our computers are nearby, ready to answer emails, check Facebook, and immerse us in online escapism.

Besides the electronic madness that controls our daily lives, we are surrounded by stuff. We are buried by more stuff than we can ever use in our lifetime, and our children will suffer after our passing, as they sort through all the stuff, wondering why we kept so much.

I was caring recently for a dear friend who has become quite ill. While sitting by her side, holding her hand, massaging her feet and reassuring her, I noticed that she was surrounded by stuff. Piles and piles of clothes, papers, knick-knacks and tchotchke. It was overwhelming, to think about her imminent passing and the responsibility of wading through all of that stuff.

When I got home after one particularly stressful day, I began sorting through my file drawers. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but I decided to look through every single piece of paper, and honestly assess the value and necessity of each.

Although I’m not a hoarder, I tend to hold on to special notes from people I love, as well as clippings and pictures from magazines. After a couple of hours, I was astonished at the pile of papers headed to the recycle bin. When I honestly looked at all those papers, it turned out that most of them were not essential to my daily life. Most of them had no real purpose, other than to keep my file cabinets brimming with paper.

With a proud sense of accomplishment, I closed the mostly empty file drawers and wondered for a moment why I need such a large file cabinet anyway. Now that it’s empty, it seems redundant. However, it does make a good television stand.

Although it was getting late, I was energized by all that purging and I began cleaning out my drawers.

It is amazing, how attached we can become to things like clothes. I had a closet full of clothes of a variety of different sizes. Some are too small, waiting in vain for me to lose just enough weight. Some are way too big, just in case I get fat. Some are from long ago, with emotional baggage attached. I began yanking clothes out of drawers, off of hangers and throwing them into a bag with reckless abandon.

It was freeing, to release so much stuff. Now, when I walk through the house, one eye is on what I can get rid of next.

I don’t want to die at 111, surrounded by junk. I want to be surrounded by people who love me. Most of the stuff we accumulate and refuse to part with has some emotional significance to us, but to no one else.

Instead of filling our lives with more and more stuff, perhaps we should acquire experiences. We don’t need more stuff. What we need is more love, more passion and more fun. When we fill our lives with experience, our need to be surrounded by belongings will diminish.

Namaste, friends

Life is short. And then you die. Many of us fear death, but there is something much greater we should fear every day of our lives.

Fearing death is futile. It creeps upon you, unawares, snatching life when least expected. And even when you are expecting it, or wanting it, or longing for it, death still shocks those left behind.

We fear the unknown. We fear what we cannot control. We fear being all alone. Yet the specter of death comes for each of us, ready or not.

My job requires me to type up obituaries for the newspaper. Sometimes this job is rewarding, as in the case of Thelma Davis, who passed away after living 105 years. She touched countless lives, and leaves a legacy that will continue for generations.

At the other end of the spectrum, I was grieved to write the obituary for the niece of a friend. She lived only hours. Her tiny life was cut short, for reasons we will never know.

And between the two, the death of a young man in the prime of his life saddened and dismayed me. The sudden and abrupt snatching away of these three left me wondering, what could be worse than death?

What greater fear ought we face?

Whether your life lasts only hours, or stretches beyond a century, living a life without meaning is the most tragic thing of all. Wasting this precious gift ought to be our greatest fear.

Each one of us has only a short time here. The time may be really short, or it may be relatively short, but we have just a blip to make our mark. Whether we are given hours, decades or longer, when posted against the vastness of eternity, time is fleeting.

You are here for a purpose. You will not always be here. At some point in the future, your friends, family and acquaintances will be mourning the loss of your life. Between the time you are born and the time you pass on, you have a chance to make a difference. You can choose to impact other people in a positive manner, and leave a lasting impact, or you can choose to live in isolation, squandering your gifts until the end.

No matter how long your life, you can discover your purpose and live with intent. Creating a life of meaning, purpose and beauty starts first with your intent. Decide how you want to live, who you want to be and what you want to create.

Every moment you are here, let your life be an expression of your greatest desire. Don’t wait to make a difference. Today is the day. Now is the time. Seize the moment and let your life be a great expression of who you really are.

Every thought, every word, every deed can make a positive impact. You have such a short time to be who you were created to be. It is so easy to say, “When my kids grow up, then I will…”, or “When I lose weight, then I will…”, or “When I retire, then I will…”

There is no time to waste. Someday will always be out there. Today is here now. Take one step in the direction of your dreams, even if it is only a tiny step.

The hour is at hand. Once the moment has passed, there can be no recovering what was lost. Now is the time to live the life you are here for.

Once you are dead, it will be too late to make a lasting impact. Begin creating that life today. You never know when it will end.

Namaste, friends.

I feel as giddy as a schoolgirl. Admittedly, I don’t really know what that means, but lately I’ve been pretty darn happy. Lots happier than usual.

Candy canes, mistletoe and snowmen: what’s not to love about December? And tomorrow is the first day of winter. I have decided that now is the time to start having fun. I was waiting until I got older, but I decided this week that I will start having fun now.

It all started with the Twelve Days of Christmas. Some good friends invited the kids and I along to deliver gifts to area residents, alone on the holidays. Somewhere between watching the kids sneak up to one door, all eight of them trying to be quiet, and driving off without them, I started laughing. Watching them chase the Suburban down the snowy road, slipping and sliding and tumbling into the open door, it was just too funny. Maybe it was the full moon. Maybe I’m just crazy, but the sight of those kids running in the snow, with Lexi losing her shoe halfway to the car, trying to avoid being caught by the elderly woman standing befuddled on her front porch, I couldn’t help but laugh. And this was no fake laugh, no weak chuckle, not a titter, but a full-on belly laugh that had me red-faced and coughing.

I decided right then that I need to start having more fun. And then I decided to take piano lessons. I’ve always wanted to. So when we got home, I dragged out the piano books, dusted off the keys and began tickling the ivories. It was delightful. I didn’t mind the fact that I had to step over a zombie army of Lego’s to get to the keyboard. Nor did I mind the spaniel howling his protest. I was having more fun than I have had in a while.

The next day, I remembered that I want to be an artist. So I searched high and low for my tubes of watercolor paints and paint brushes, found an empty art book and started painting. I’m certainly no Gisele Robinson, but after watching a few videos on You Tube, I was splashing water and paint around the page. It was fulfilling and fun. The kids chided me for getting paint on the table, but watercolors clean pretty easily. Again, I was having more fun, and I’m glad I decided not to wait until I get old.

I have been putting off a lot of things, waiting for just the right time. Well, now is the right time. It’s time for me to sing. It’s time to finish my next book. It’s time to go sledding on the buffalo hill. It is not, however, time to ice skate. I’m not completely crazy. It is time to get some stamps in my new passport.

After deciding weeks ago to stop worrying about inconsequential matters, I have been enjoying every day. Now, I am having fun. There are so many fun things I want to do, if I wait any longer, they might never get done. I’m not getting any younger. A friend recently reminded me on Facebook that every year, we pass the anniversary of our death, unawares. Well, it’s coming folks. There’s no getting out of this world alive. So now is the time to have fun. By my calculations, I have only got 65 more years left to have fun. I will wait no longer. I’m starting now.

Singing in the shower? Check. Playing with the dogs? Check. Having fun with my kids? Check. All the fun I’ve put off for so long will be experienced with great enthusiasm, until I am 111.

Usually by this time of year, I am tired. Exhausted, actually. But after deciding to stop worrying and have fun, I feel energized. I feel ready to take on the world. It’s not that I’m not tired. I live a life of chronic sleep deprivation. But what I am is excited, energized and ready to live my life.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year to start having fun, to start celebrating this journey we call life, and to meet the day with unbridled enthusiasm. Every day is full of unlimited possibility. Don’t wait, have fun. And I wish every one of you a Merry Christmas and a blessed and prosperous New Year.

Namaste, friends

I have seen multiple studies, which claim that to offset the effects of old age and Alzheimer’s disease, it is important to engage in new activities. I find that trying new things can be exciting, but for me, also very stressful. Adventure, while full of benefits, can also be beset by obstacles. And this will keep us young at heart.

After a week of camping in the Teton Mountains, I am here to say that I shall never grow old. It all began innocently, with an invitation to join two good friends on their annual pilgrimage to the Tetons. After mulling over the invitation, I loaded up the tent and the kids, filled the car with gas and headed north.

Obstacle number one: I have never been to Jackson. Fortunately my phone is equipped with a map app that tells me how to get where I need to go. Without that app, I could still be driving around, lost in the mountains. When I finally reached our campground, I felt elated by my success.

Obstacle number two: Slalom skiing. I have water skied in the past. The very distant past, when I was much younger, much fitter, and much crazier. The passing years have made me protective of my body. I don’t want to get hurt. After much cajoling by my friends, and much whining by me, I agreed to try getting up on one ski. And I did it. Once again, the brain synapses began firing in new directions and I felt young and adventurous. The next day, as my shoulders, hips and back ached in pain, I felt neither young nor adventurous.

On the third day of adventuring, as my kids fondly called our trip, I encountered the largest obstacle of all, and it was much worse than getting lost in the mountains or slalom skiing. My dear friend challenged me to ride a stand-up paddleboard down the Snake River. In a wet suit. Panic filled my chest all afternoon, as I contemplated her suggestion. I was already far outside my comfort zone, and felt panicky at the thought of heading into the unknown on a small floating board, while dressed in a ridiculously tight garment.

Eventually I capitulated, but only after being mocked by several small children who clucked loudly like chickens. As she handed me the wetsuit, I immediately regretted that decision. Although the label said “men’s large”, no man I know would fit into this contraption. I squeezed myself into the springy material, grabbed my phone for pictures, steeled my nerves and stepped onto the board.

My legs were shaky but I headed down the river. It actually seemed fun. Then I decided to take a picture of a beaver swimming near me. I pulled my iPhone out of the wetsuit and began fiddling with it. In a brief moment of clarity, I realized that this might not be a good idea, just as I saw the paddleboard slip from beneath my feet.

A wet suit does not keep you dry. Nor does a wet suit protect an iPhone. I grabbed my phone before it sank, and then endeavored to climb aboard the floating piece of fiberglass. The beaver was long gone. For a moment, I lay on the board, humble in my fall. Then I got back up and finished my ride. Gunnar, my ten-year old son did not fall from his paddleboard, and he encouraged me the entire time. He didn’t even laugh when I fell. At the Cattleman’s Bridge, we pulled out of the river, cold, wet and happy.

Climbing out of a damp wet suit is harder than climbing into a dry one. By the time we got back to camp, the sun had set. I was chilled to the bone, but elated. I had conquered the river and my fear of the unknown. At this rate, I really will live to 111.

Namaste Friends