For the past few days I’d been working on a post about new year’s resolutions–which I don’t make anymore (because there is no faster way to get myself fighting against what I want to do than to tell myself that I have to do it.) But I generally start the new year with some thoughts about the kind of person I hope I’m becoming and some plans for making time to move in that direction. In the past, I’ve often chosen a “word of the year” to give myself a point of focus.

But then, this morning, I deleted the whole thing. I woke up and decided it’s enough that I am still here and still trying.

At almost-59 years old, I have so many friends and loved ones who aren’t with us anymore–so many people whose bodies gave out (over time or due to illness), who met with bad luck or determined that they just couldn’t do it anymore. This world is a hard place, and we’re not always good about offering people the grace they need in the moment they most need it. When I think about the people I’ve lost, I realize that just getting out of bed every morning and doing the things that matter to me and trying to do some good in the lives of those I care about is a lot. In fact, it’s way more than enough.

A long time ago, a friend who is no longer here said to me, “People think life is a real-time event, but you never know what’s happening while it’s happening to you. That part comes later.” He was talking about the process of turning life experience into art–writing a poem, essay, or story–which is, at heart, an effort to make sense of the time we spend here on earth. And he was right, it takes time to understand the importance of our experiences. We often don’t see what moment we’re living in–not until more of our life unfolds, anyway, providing a context that changes everything we thought we knew.

But he was wrong about one thing: life is definitely a real-time experience. Real time is all we have. I’m trying to be here for it in 2023 and leave the rest for later.