What if tomorrow never comes?
Thoughts on embracing our appointment with life + living in the now.
*Cover photo by Nellia Kurme on Unsplash*
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Pro tip: You can listen to me read this full essay by pressing play on the article voiceover.
Author’s Note: I wrote this over the span of a few days, so hopefully yall can follow along lol
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Of course, I would get "lost" in Amsterdam. To know me is to know I don't do well with navigation. Even after years of living in DC, I still needed my GPS to do nearly anything, including getting on the highway to travel to my parent's house in North Carolina. It's no surprise that today, on the last Tuesday in June, I found myself lost while trying to find my way back to a metro in Amsterdam. But then I thought to myself, I'm not lost because, ultimately, I ended up exactly where I was supposed to be. Such is life, right?
I head back to Mexico tomorrow after two weeks of traveling, including stays in Amsterdam, Barcelona, and Mallorca. It's incredible how big the world is and how there's always something new waiting for us to see it for the first time with childlike wonder. Traveling always does that for me. It invites me into a constant state of discovery and the joy that can come from the unknown becoming known.
Like the way a stroopwafel taste when it's fresh, and the caramel is still oozing; your hands sticky with its remnants.
Like seeing the work of Antoni Gaudí in person and realizing that pictures do it no justice.
Like the warmth of a fire burning just inches from you as a stranger plays the most beautiful melody on their guitar, and tears stream down your face. A ritual marking the release of what is no longer yours and maybe, just maybe, a release of the things that were never yours to begin with.
Today (Tuesday), I purchased my second book while in this span of travel. I'm trying not to read it all before I hop on the plane tomorrow because I tend to read until there's nothing left, as if the words might disappear from the page if I'm not quick enough. This new book, What You Can See From Here, is about a woman who dreams about an omen of death, putting her entire village on edge. A time before, when she’d dreamed a similar dream, one of the villagers had become so weary of this foreboding news that he avoided doing anything that could put him at risk, which eventually was his undoing. The author wrote that he "lost his life from fear of losing it."
Last night, we (Relle, KJ, and I) went to dinner at China Sichuan Restaurant, which I highly recommend if you’re ever in Amsterdam, and were seated next to a teacher traveling with her adult nephew. They'd taught for 23 years; seven remained before they could receive the benefits they'd worked so hard for. They shared that for the last few years, they'd driven to another district further out, sacrificing a lot (read: time) but gaining more financially. Earlier that day, she'd taken a pay cut to have a role that didn't demand so much of her time, something closer to home, allowing her greater freedom. As she'd said to us, but I assume mostly to herself, "what do I want these next seven years to look like?"
Like the woman at last night's dinner, we could all benefit from asking questions like the one she'd posed. What do we want our lives to look like? We get so caught up in planning futures that may never come that the now, the only time we truly have, becomes some dull tune we play on repeat. We have been bamboozleed into believing that we can only enjoy life once we subject ourselves to what sometimes seems like mandated suffering.
Like…
Relationships that were never compatible, only convenient.
Food that provides nutrients but never nourishes.
Towns that were only meant to be our place of origin, but became the borders that keep us confined to limited perspectives and hopes for tomorrow.
Jobs that come with high salaries but ultimately ask that we pay with our lives.
Lives that follow the rules of society but aren't really satisfying.
Lives that are safe, but lack the spurts of adventure we crave.
Lives that feel comfortable, good even, but some how always miss the mark of ever feeling great.
Lives that are perfectly ordinary, but never venture into extraordinary, even if only for a millisecond.
Weeks back, I referenced a post on Dear Younger Me where Amahni shared what she'd do if she only had three years left. It included everything from attending the concerts of her favorite artists to not delaying joyful moments in the name of doing more work. I appreciate her list and, even more so, the question she left us readers with, "If those are the decisions you would make if you found out you only have 3 years to live...why wouldn't you do it now? Why would you wait until you only had 3 years to live?" No really, why wait? Especially if there are ways we can begin doing these things in the now. As bell hooks quoted the Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh, in All About Love, “our appointment with life is in the present moment. The place of our appointment is right here, in this very place.”
After reading Amahni's list, I felt compelled to create my own but was hesitant. I knew that writing these things down would bring my life into sharp focus, pulling a fine-tooth comb through the things I dream about, the things I'm learning to let go of, and the things I'm holding onto for dear life. I know that by writing this list, I'll have to ask myself, as Amahni did, what am I waiting for?
As someone always fixated on the possibility that the future may not unfold as expected, as the woman, the teacher I referenced earlier, spoke, I thought to myself, "How do you even know you have seven years? You may be operating on borrowed time as is, lady. Don't you dare get so ahead of yourself." So often, we think life waits on us, but it doesn't always work that way. We live like we have all the time in the world, and sometimes, rather abruptly, we're reminded that time is finite and precious. Through this knowing, we gain a certain level of clarity, an urgency to live that requires our immediate attention.
Post-vacation blues are a thing. After returning from a break, it's not unlikely for people to begin to experience some level of anxiety or sadness as they jump headfirst back into their day-to-day lives. I head back to Mexico later this afternoon (Wednesday), and on Monday, I felt that familiar feeling creeping in, the dread of returning to the regular rhythm.
Work.
Bills.
A dog who needs my attention.
Clothes that need to be washed.
Folded.
The cold water from my shower in Merida that's never really hot.
Heat so searing that even the early morning sun is too much to bear.
But, I'm returning to things that are more bliss than blues.
A dog who reminds me that play is not an option but a necessity.
The cheery buen dias and big smiles from those I pass by on the street.
A bed, no matter how small, that is my own and mine alone.
Chilaquilies that are screaming my name.
My writing desk that is both a private sanctuary and launching pad.
A life that I didn't know I so desperately desired until I was living in the reality of it.
A life that is easy to take for granted but consistently forces me back into a state of gratitude.
Like Londrelle sings,
Gratitude for the sunrise
Gratitude for the sunshine
Gratitude for the moonlight
Every day feels like a new life
Ask yourself: If every day can feel like a new life, what do you want to feel? What life would you live today? Right now?
After a day's worth of traveling, I finally returned to Mexico last night (Wednesday). Trust, this trip wasn't all highs, but the lows weren't low enough to distract me from the goodness. I gained a lot of insight and even learned a few lessons, but more than anything, I became clearer on what I desire in this lifetime, or at least in this current moment.
I became clearer on the type of feelings I want from those I spend time with, the food I eat, the sights I see, and the experiences I participate in. I bottled all this newfound knowledge up and brought it home, to Mexico, with me. Because I need to remember that whether I'm here or somewhere half away across the world, on vacation, or just running errands on a Wednesday, certain feelings are too good, too sweet to only experience every once and a while.
Loved this.