A Glimpse of Life

We strain so much for glimpses of life—real life. In the books we read, the shows we watch, the stories we hear. In the people sitting across from us in a cafe or passing us on the street. Perhaps even in our own lives.

For the most part, we like being alive, and we want to make sure that we stay that way. So, we must eat and have shelter. So, we must have money to buy such things. So, we work and save.

For millennia, our ancestors roamed across the savannas of Africa, the steppes of Asia, and the plains of North America. They collected food, ate, lived, and died. It’s impossible to really feel what their lives were like, but in truth, they were the same as us in so many ways. They slept, ate, lived, and died. They loved and hated. They laughed and cried.

If life is just eating, sleeping, living, and dying, then in ten thousand years of evolution, perhaps we have accomplished nothing. The fact that we have fancy phones or fly on airplanes hardly creates a metaphysical rift between ourselves and hunter-gatherers. If we are still just in an elaborate version of survival mode, we’re still just cavemen (and cavewomen).

When we slow down and take a break from survival mode, it is possible to realize that we want so much more. We don’t just want to be alive tomorrow, we want it to mean something. What, then, gives our lives meaning? What makes today matter? What makes our lives matter?

My grandmother, before she passed, had a sign in her kitchen that read, “Life is not about the number of breaths you take, but about the moments that take your breath away.” I’m sure there are a million such signs in a million grandmother’s kitchens, but that one struck me. And that’s kinda the point.

I can work in an office, run a dojo, or travel the world. I might farm, ranch, or order my food by number. Our life means something when we give it meaning—when we slow down and think about this moment, this life.

In this way, we might have a bit of life worth glimpsing.