Life is not inexaustible

Intellectually, of course, we know that everyone dies. We attend funerals, grieve those we've lost, and occasionally catch ourselves wondering how quickly the years seem to pass. Yet much of the time, we move through our days as though there will always be another opportunity to say what needs saying, to begin the project we've been postponing, or to become the person we imagine we will one day have the time to be.

The Stoics offered a simple reminder: Memento mori —remember that you will die. To modern ears, that can sound morbid, even unsettling. But I have come to think that its purpose is not an invitation to dwell on death. Instead, it’s an invitation to stop pretending that life is inexhaustible and remember that our time is finite.

Appreciating the ordinary

We tend to reserve our deepest appreciation for extraordinary moments like the milestone birthdays, the long-awaited reunions, or the celebrations that punctuate our lives. Yet if our days are truly limited, then it isn't only the extraordinary that deserves our attention. The ordinary Tuesday morning matters, too. So does the familiar walk through the neighbourhood, the conversation over dinner, the book waiting patiently on the nightstand, and the work that quietly expresses what we believe to be worthwhile. Like tending to a garden.

When I was a child, my parents grew everything from asparagus to zucchini. My chores often involved planting, weeding, or picking things. My mom and my Nana taught me how to shuck peas and beans while they canned tomatoes and made jam. My Boppa was one of thirteen farm children, and the lessons he taught me were precious and memorable.

There is something deeply satisfying about putting my hands back into soil, learning again what each plant needs, noticing the subtle changes from one week to the next, and accepting that there is only so much any gardener can control.

And while we don’t have a plot of land to grow on, we do have a patio, so herbs were the thing this spring. And despite my training and my knowing better, I managed to accomplish what I once would have thought nearly impossible: I ruined an oregano plant.

Anyone who gardens will likely appreciate the irony. Oregano has a reputation for surviving almost anything. It tolerates neglect, spreads enthusiastically, and often thrives despite its gardener rather than because of one. Yet somewhere between too much attention and not enough, thanks to far too many competing priorities, I managed to lose my little patio plant.

Attention vs. urgency

It reminded me that in a life ruled by task lists and colour-coded calendar blocks, gardening asks for attention rather than urgency. As I dream of a little urban allotment for next season, I remember that the tomatoes will not ripen because I worry about them, and the kale will not grow because I insist that it hurry. Every day simply offers another opportunity to tend what has been entrusted to me while accepting that the outcome is never entirely mine to command.

But even as I dream, the garden also reminds me that there will not always be another season. That, I have come to believe, is what memento mori is really asking of us.

You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think. — Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 2.11

As I get older, and deeper into my own Stoic practice, I no longer hear those words from Marcus as a warning. Now, I hear them as an invitation to pay closer attention.

Living the life we don't control

They remind me that the people I love are living finite lives, too. That my body deserves care not because I hope to outrun death, but because I hope to make good use of the years that remain. That meaningful work is worth pursuing not because it guarantees a legacy, but because it is a fitting way to spend a life whose length I do not control.

None of this requires certainty about what comes after death. The Stoics asked us to concern ourselves with what lies within our control, and this is enough. We don’t choose how many years we are given. We do choose whether we meet those years with distraction or with attention.

The finiteness of life is not a reason to despair. It is the reason this season—and this ordinary day within it—is worth noticing.

Andi Sciacca is a writer, mentor, and educator. She is also Co-Founder of The Stoic Heart®.

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