Marcus Aurelius: Live Each Day Like It's Your Last -- Me: Okay, How?
A little while back, my friend told me his mother-in-law thought she might be dying. There were no indications of this. She said she could sense it. She’s in her 90s; it wouldn’t be the most unlikely of possibilities. People were coming in from out of town to say goodbye. I know this woman, so it brought tears to my eyes. My friend and I chatted for a bit, me offering love and support as would you, then we wound the conversation down with the wise old saying: you’ve got to live each day like it’s your last. Thank you for that, Marcus Aurelius, you Roman Stoic, you.
This Aurelius wisdom is truer the older I get. I don’t recall summoning it at twenty to the same extent I do now. Our perception of time flows and grows along a continuum. We understand things differently, with different eyes, as we should.
And yet, as much as I can slap words together to say I understand things, do I really understand that it’s best to live each day fully? Or, better, do I do it?
You might say, “Maybe not as much as you could, Steph.” You’d say it kindly, of course. Yes?
We live in a go-go-go world, for the most part. These are the glasses we wear, and the view that we see. It can make our internal engine always feel like it’s on, as if sleep were the only time we would think to put it in idle. If you truly think about what a good life comprises, does it lie on a foundation of an engine perpetually on? If this were our last day, would we rush to the store to do errands, finish emails, listen to the podcast we said we would, and change the bedding? Or would we step outside and look at the moon, have a family dinner, check in on a struggling friend, and write a letter of thanks to our loved ones?
That last day should be smooth and meaningful, right?
But why only the last day?
That’s what Aurelius wants to know — even still from the grave.
Part of the go-go-go mentality is driven by a need to stay within a zone of being okay: succeeding, striving, accomplishing, being safe and secure, being accepted. And I get this. Who wouldn’t want these things, no matter your circumstances? I want these things.
But this doesn’t mean I can’t put my internal engine into idle during the day and let go, even for moments. My beautiful neurodiverse brain loves to crack the whip and spur me to think I need to constantly be “on”.
I don’t.
There are many options for letting go and accepting this moment without goals, wants, or shoulds — for a soft exhale of in-the-moment existence. Nothing’s missing. Nothing’s craving.
For my entire life I’ve been safe, fed, housed, had opportunity, friends, intact family, beloved happy sons, a stable marriage, good health, dreams and passions, gratitude, and plenty more.
What’s missing?
I can hear Aurelius whisper from the grave. Live each day like you-know-what, Steph. He only whispers this because it’s obvious he needs to. Has he whispered it to you?
I can’t say I live each day like it’s my last, but I have learned to live with less whip cracking, and this is because I’ve been forced to from time to time.
A couple of years ago, I had a super fun bout of out-of-the-blue focal seizures. If you don’t know about focal seizures, they’re probably not what you think of when you think of seizures. They are short, and I’m fully functional when they happen, but afterwards I get tired because my brain is spent. When they sprouted from me, leaving my brain fully in the market for rest, I could have cracked the whip to get myself back to doing all the daily things, but instead it was clear I’d be better served by taking a chill pill.
I did. I took a slow walk with no mileage to hit. I read instead of wrote. I did my online puzzles with no goal of beating the clock. It was luxurious. I enjoyed myself with no expectations. I wasn’t checking anything off any list. I was just being and doing. I did what I normally do in a day, but it transpired in a lightweight, frictionless way.
I learned from my long-distance running that if I wanted to get through pain or an injury, the fastest way to do that was to go slower or rest. I’ve long told the story of a conversation between a new ultrarunner and an elite runner. I have no idea where this story comes from, or even if it was fabricated, but you’ll see the point of it.
An early-stage ultrarunner was talking to an elite runner and asked what they did to become so fast and spectacular.
“You want to know how I got so fast?” the elite athlete asked.
The newbie runner nodded, thrilled to be getting the secret sauce of elitedom.
“Well, the way you get fast is by taking one day off each week from training.”
The newbie runner, expecting a completely different sauce, was at first stunned, but then laughed because, yes, of course, everyone knows you’re supposed to take rest days despite ultrarunners being notorious for running every day like nut cases.
“But,” the elite runner said in a lower voice, inching closer to the newbie, as if the real secret sauce was about to be shared, “do you want to know how you get really fast?”
Oh my. The newbie couldn’t believe the true secret was about to be revealed. They nodded in explosive excitement. The elite runner pulled closer, bringing the voice to a tiny whisper.
“The way you get really fast?”
“Yeah?”
“Take two days off.”
I just started reading my second Oliver Burkeman book, Meditations for Mortals. I expect it to be a reminder of whatever I’ve forgotten from his 4000 Weeks, which I loved and which changed my outlook on living this finite experiment called life. His generous message is that we don’t reach perfection nor the end of endless tasks. We’ll remain imperfect to our last day, and once we leave this place, those tasks will be hovering in the wind for the next innocent soul.
I celebrate you if you already know these things and take them to heart, and practice regular relaxing, fulfilling breaks from having to be someone, rather than simply being. I’m learning to do it more regularly and see how much it feels like I’m living my last day, or the one I’d like to live. It’s an acknowledgment that my life was as much an indescribable gift as it was a simple fact without any push to be more than that.
My friend’s mother-in-law is still with us. Her sense that it was the end didn’t pan out. Her last day has been rescheduled. Meanwhile, Marcus Aurelius is still whispering to all of us from the grave as if he never had a last day. I appreciate his advice all these millennia. His words have been helpful.
But, hey Marcus, aren’t you going to rest down there?
Have a lovely rest of your week, friends.
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