Читать книгу Things No One Else Can Teach Us - Humble Poet the - Страница 14

I believe that even when we are in moments of misery and self-pity, the universe will offer us totems—lessons that pull us out of our selfish orbits and help us see the bigger picture. The most recent totem gifted to me was a puddle. The puddle found me as I worked on a very ambitious six-month music video for a track I recorded titled I Will.

The video features multiple tableaus, each telling a different story. It was inspired by the visual images of gangs in the 1979 film The Warriors, but I threw a little twist on it, with one gang being represented by the toughest group of people I know: cancer thrivers. I use the word thrivers instead of survivors because the women I worked with are doing much more than just surviving. They are fighting a daily battle against a horrific disease, but also confronting the reality that many of us work so hard to avoid: the fact that time is running out. We put out a call and found four strong women who were willing to show their battle scars on camera. While we were setting up, I spoke with them all, and my curiosity trumped my discretion and tact.

“How does life feel different now?” I asked, unsure whether I was being too forward or insensitive.

“Well, cancer taught me how to fall in love with puddles,” replied a woman named Anne Marie. “I never noticed puddles before my diagnosis. I was too busy worrying about all the other useless shit life throws at us. The moment I found out it all might go away, I started noticing beauty in the simplest things, like the reflections in a puddle.”

Anne Marie’s cancer took a lot from her, but she had an amazing partner who was by her side during recovery and at the shoot; their love inspired me beyond words. It was almost as if the cancer had done some reorganizing with her life, leaving only what really mattered, with room to notice all the beauty that was hidden before.

The type of beauty found only in puddles.

We all experience loss and tragic news. Many of us are fortunate that those situations aren’t as intense as cancer, but it’s not about comparing our suffering; it’s about the perspectives we have when that suffering hits us. When everything is going well and according to plan, we often sleepwalk through life, focused on our repetitious days of routine and boredom. When something unexpected strikes, we’re suddenly jolted out of our comfort zone, often ill prepared, unsure of what just happened, heart racing a mile a minute.

Facing death is a great alarm clock. Being aware of our mortality, even when things are going well, is a great way to avoid pressing the snooze button.

I had spent that day running around like a chicken without a head, and Anne Marie’s words stopped me in my tracks. We stress about things because we think they’re important, but are they really that important when it’s all said and done? I had so much going on that it was impossible for me to see any light at the end of the tunnel; I was caving myself in. I started taking an inventory of all the things I was spending my time, energy, and focus on, and I asked myself, “Would this be worth it if today were the last day of my life?” Then I went even deeper and asked, “Is this a better use of my time than enjoying a sun-kissed sky or beautiful puddle?”

I stacked my life up with useless shit only because I forgot I wouldn’t be here forever. The important stuff was supposed to happen “after”—but after what? There is no better time to enjoy life than the present, because that present is all we have. We create imaginary timelines and assume we’ll still be here to see everything play out. Anne Marie’s words inspired me to reevaluate my timelines and priorities. I acknowledged that if something wasn’t bringing me joy, then it needed to take a back seat in my life.

People with serious health conditions, like cancer, have to shorten their timelines for the things they want in life. Goals can no longer be left to “someday,” because that day may never come. But this rule applies to us all; even eighty years is a short period of time in the grand scheme of things.

For people like Anne Marie, cancer lights a fire under them to value their time and spend whatever amount they have left on their own terms. It gifts them a perspective we all could benefit from: to focus only on the things that really matter to us and to abandon playing it safe. The sky is always painted beautifully before the sun sets, but we rarely make time to enjoy it, unless we plan an elaborate vacation to a sandy destination, pretending that the sun is somehow different there, more deserving of our attention.

Things aren’t black or white, good or bad, positive or negative—a lot of space exists in between, and when it comes to birth and death, our existence is that in-between space. While we’re alive the possibilities are enormous, but culture, society, and tradition have us thinking that life has to be lived a certain way. Will any of that matter if we remember our days are numbered? Sometimes it takes great loss to remind us of what we have. That loss also makes room for us to see more things that matter, like puddles. Anne Marie helped me see this, because although she prioritized the beauty of puddles, she still participates in life’s regularly scheduled programming—but she’s now doing it wearing a new set of glasses, finding beauty in all the small things while still getting the biggest things done. She doesn’t allow self-pity to prevent her from being in the game.

I don’t know what it feels like to have such a deadly disease. I’ve never had to take cocktails of medications just to get out of bed, and I haven’t lost my beard[1] to chemotherapy. Those experiences sound very difficult, and I wouldn’t dare disrespect these thrivers by even trying to imagine how it feels.

But you don’t have to get cancer to be a thriver; you can thrive right now. None of us is going to make it out alive, and remembering that helps to put things into perspective.

Cancer forced Anne Marie to remember she was going to die and inspired her to notice something as simple as the beautiful reflections in a puddle, which in turn reminds her that she’s still alive. If we all remember our mortality, we’ll find more in life to celebrate, and the things that cause us the most stress may lose a bit of strength.

A friend once said to me, “Our problems are only real because we forget we’re going to die.” I’m not going to ask you to be dramatic and assume that today is the last day of your life, so you can figure out what’s really important. We don’t need to stare death in the eyes to realize that. We just have to sit down for twenty minutes with a pen and pad and make a list of what’s important to us.

Sometimes when things feel too heavy, I ask myself, “Will this matter in three hundred years?” and I think about the fact that no one I know will be around then—none of their judgments, opinions, debts, or grudges—and that I should enjoy this journey while I’m still healthy enough to do so. In three hundred years it won’t matter that I wasn’t invited to this or that event or included on this or that list or was able to connect with this or that person. It won’t matter that I showed up wearing a mustard stain on my outfit or that I didn’t proofread my text message before I hit “send.” Figuring out what will matter in three hundred years results in a much shorter list—almost next to nothing.

It’s great to have ambitions for the future, but let’s add some short-term and immediate things to look forward to as well so we’re not deferring our entire life to “someday.” Let’s enjoy the puddles, our loved ones, and all the roses we’d like to smell. Anne Marie didn’t quit her day job and become a nihilist; she embraced life even more and dedicated more time to helping others do the same. She didn’t find a silver lining in her diagnosis; she discovered a puddle—and created one from it: after she was in remission, she founded TheseAreMyScars.com to share her cancer experiences to inspire and educate others.

I’m not going to pretend that staring at a puddle on the street engulfed forever me in a Zen state. I still stress over petty and impermanent things. But I have received renewed inspiration to take more control when those stresses become too much, and instead of drowning myself in a bottle, or pills, or another person, I dive into a puddle, and things feel a little better. A little better is a step up from a little worse, and those baby steps can add up, so splash your feet.