Reflections on 'Tuesdays with Morrie'

It took sitting down today (Wednesday) to realize my journal entry yesterday thus occurred on Tuesday. Inconsequential except for that my writings wandered into reflection on some points made in the book Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom. I had always made it a point to like Tuesdays. To my middle school self, after Tuesday was Wednesday, and after Wednesday was basically the weekend. To see the end of Tuesday was to see from the mountain, to see clear to the end of the week (and thus the start of another).

Yesterday I was writing from my college friend's apartment in Chicago, observing how this summer is a bit of a Chicago summer for me.

2018 was a Philadelphia and NYC summer,

2019 was New York again.

2020 was a Tampa and St. Pete summer.

And 2021 is shaping up to be a bit of a Chicago summer, and I prayed yesterday for "enough time."

"Enough time for what?" the spirit answered. I thought of Morrie and his little bird, a concept he credited to Buddhism.

"Will it be today?" I asked my little bird, "Will it be this hour?"

"I came here to die," I remembered the vague paraphrased words of a quote credited to Kazuo Inamori, a quote which is hanging in the threshold of our bus home.

"I came here to die with a soul more noble. I came here to die with a soul more noble than the one I was born into."

If I only have a minute, what would I do to ensure my soul is and stays more noble than the one I had at birth?

I figured yesterday and again today that I best uncross my legs, plant my feet on solid ground, and breathe deep breaths of the great world around me. I better keep the windows open in good weather for the breeze and for the bird songs, and venture out in the summer rain. I had better read poetry and books aloud to strangers and to friends. Thank the trees for all they have done for me and know we will meet again (for if the trees die, how bad and how far can it truly be?). I better nourish myself with good food and spend the money when I have it, and not pass up opportunities to see old friends. I figured it would be best, if I only had a minute, to return my full focus to my students, to my husband, to my friends and to the land beneath my feet this moment. To keep making time for the observations of the flowers, to keep making time to bake banana bread and to share it with my grandmother. I figured I had better sow some seeds in the present and keep the future plans in that place of the future, planned for and also ready to be let go at any moment.

It may seem a life of fear to live with the constant and inherent knowledge that yes--death is knocking, and yes--a heart attack, a gun, a bomb, a massive and irregular solar flare, or even a slip down the stairs could send her to my door today. It's knowledge we all have and would prefer to forget. Yet as Morrie said to Mitch: "Once you learn how to die, you learn how to live."

Thank you Morrie, for reminding me of what I best be doing should I only have a minute to live (...or an hour, or a day, or a decade).