Pluck the Day. Or Not.
It’s been a big week! In addition to celebrating the Summer Solstice—my favorite “holiday,” which fell on my birthday this year (extra special, it’s happened only some 13 times since 1952—I did not go on my first camping trip of the season. Last year, I managed not a single outing, other than over-nighting in my tricked out Camper Roguester between volunteer days at Mount Rainier, which doesn’t count. Determined to do better this summer—because I really love to tent camp—I scored one of my four favorite sites at one of my favorite campgrounds. (I am very particular.) I especially like the campground because it’s a half mile trail walk to the Lake Quinault historic lodge; meaning if it rains, I can go sit by the fire.
Two months ago, when I checked availability, there were two three-night openings the entire summer; the second was the week of my birthday, when it has become my tradition to camp. It seemed destined. I seized it. I was sorry to learn later I would miss my #3 grandson’s graduation from elementary school. Oh well, I thought, I can’t live every life.
One does not have to carpe the crap out of every single day.
Carpe diem, a Latin phrase, literally means “pluck the day.”The Roman poet Horace used the term to express that we should enjoy life while we can. As in, you might not have a tomorrow, and what a shame it would be if you failed to pluck today.
I planned meals, got food, organized my gear, and Friday afternoon I packed my car for a Sunday departure. (I am not a last-minute person.) All that was left was to load the cooler. I also created my protest sign for the Saturday afternoon “No Kings” event.
And then it all fell apart.
I got in the car to head for town with my sign. I depressed the brake on the Roguester (which hit 100,000 miles this month and got new spark plugs), and pushed the start button. Every indicator on the dash started flashing, along with the overhead lights and the seat heater buttons. And the noise! It was like being in a discotheque. And it wouldn’t shut off. And the car would not start. I left it to think about its entirely inappropriate behavior, and walked down the hill to the protest. I was sure as heck seizing that moment.
There were 500+ people lining the street with signs in my small conservative city! And lots of honking cars, very few middle fingers (which, BTW, is not okay regardless of where you stand). It was heartening. My brother-in-law and sister brought me back up the hill, where my BIL took a look at the the Roguester. Trying again to start it resulted in the same bad behavior, requiring a battery disconnection to cease and desist. And the repair shop wasn’t open on the weekend.
I was not going camping.
. . . and yet . . .
My daughter, in Seattle, said, “Well, you can spend the night here and come to Elliot’s graduation!” My new favorite connector phrase is “and yet.” I’m not going camping . . . and yet . . . I can go to the promotion ceremony, borrowing my other sister’s car if need be.
Monday, AAA jumped the (less than two-year-old) battery and I drove to the local repair shop, where they found nothing wrong. Tuesday, I drove it up I-5 to the dealer, who kept it two days and found nothing to explain Saturday’s hissy fit. I’m going with the Universe wanting me to go the milestone event, which I am very glad I didn’t miss.
What does that story have to do with carpe diem? I’m not sure, I almost forgot this monthly post was due, what with the “event” (along with getting a new phone that is making me insane); but that’s what I’d been thinking about before my orderly life toppled. Here is what I believe, as I write this on my 73rd birthday: one doesn’t have to carpe the crap out every single day.
Mortality is not a deadline, but a doorway.
Grant Faulkner, after a serious cardiac event a few years ago, wrote recently about mortality as a gift for curiosity, rather than the fear of finality. He writes: “[Noticing] is such a different response to mortality—to flip it so that it’s not a deadline but a doorway to see things anew. And all it takes is a single cognitive shift.”
Suleika Jaouad, who has recurring leukemia, began jotting down ten memorable moments from each day in a stream-of-consciousness style. She has been surprised by the things that have bubbled up. “It’s always the small moments.”
It’s the small moments, being present, being curious.
Pam Houston says it’s not just about the glimmers or the memorable moments; it’s about the process of being present, being curious.
There will be more camping trips, there will not be another fifth grade to middle school promotion ceremony for Elliot. I seized that moment, grateful now for my car’s misbehavior. I returned home and took a nap. Not every moment has to count for something, to be a race to get it all done before it’s too late.
By the way, neither the local repair shop nor the out-of-town dealer charged me a penny. There is grace in the world. And an amazing friend bought me a portable battery charger for my birthday, for peace of mind when I seize another day to go hike in the wilderness.
Training for returning Meadow Rovers was yesterday, my fourth volunteer season at Mount Rainier. I’ve already been on a record-breaking early-season dozen hikes since January. I have two more I want to do when the snow melts and the flowers arrive, and I hope to still camp a time or two (or not), and take a road trip in September. But I am otherwise content with Paradise for the rest of the summer, rather than alternating volunteer weeks with personal hiking. That’s a shift.
_______
My father died thirty years ago, on the longest day of 1995. There were moments not seized. There have been regrets. Heal wounds, if you can. Let them go, when it’s time. Be present to curiosity: wounds can be healed in absentia, when we aren’t too busy to notice.
The last time I saw my dad.
🌻 🌻 🌻
How are you approaching the decades? Cramming it all in or embracing the small stuff? Something in between? Leave a comment below; let’s start a conversation!
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Ah the lovely shift in perspective, and a whole world opens for us. Congratulations on all of it, graduation, the shift, roving, birthday, hiking, in short, a whole life. xx
I love discovering shifts in perspective! The ability is one of the blessings of the third act, I think. We think the world will shrink when we get here, but in some ways it expands when we slow down. Hugs to you, my friend.
I love your thought that wounds can heal in absentia, and we need to pause and notice that. I paused over the weekend, wasn’t “productive” in my usual sense, and noticed and connected with strangers in a different way, had different loving thoughts about my departed loved ones and myself, rejuvenated. Thanks, as always, for sharing yourself! And happy birthday, father memory day, and grandson graduation day!
Thank you, Bev. I believe we do act and react differently in and to the world when we slow down and let “merely” observing be enough.