Finite jest
Recently I’ve found myself quantifying my existence - or that which I’ve got left - by “expected number of good [X] remaining.”
For example:
A good friend from childhood lives on the opposite coast. How many times will I see him again before either one of us dies? How many heartfelt conversations will we share?
Indonesia felt like a second home to me. How many times will I visit before I die?
One of my favorite things is to get breakfast with my grandmother, the only grandparent I have left. How many more breakfasts are in store for us?
I can go on and on with this exercise until I drive myself mad. How many more movies will make me tear up? How many more times will my dog make me laugh? How many more times will I feel in love?
Maybe this sounds macabre, a future-gazing obsession with the end of things. I disagree. I think it teaches how to prioritize and how to be present.
Because the question begs an answer: how many more times, really? If I had to bet?
Say I had to answer the hypotheticals above and put money down on my answer, based on current trends. I would bet:
10-15 times, and 5-8?
3-5
Ugh, I hate this one. I live further away now, so maybe 10-20, but I hope many more.
When I was younger, life laid itself out in front of me with no finality in sight. Now, I’m old enough to know things end, to have seen things end. I’ve eaten from the Tree of Knowledge here, and felt my powerlessness against the ultimate implications of Passing Time.
But two powers remain: prioritization and presence. The numbers above seem spookily small, which is cause for despair - but I have the power to change them, which is cause for hope. If I want ten more deep conversations with my faraway friend instead of 3, I can do something to change my probabilistic trajectory.
It’s good to realize that.
Yet no matter what I do, there really is a number. I can add to it, subtract from it, but I cannot make it infinite. Which leaves me with presence.
If you knew it was your last breakfast with a loved one, how would you act? I would ask all of the questions I could think of, I’d want to cry and laugh with them, I’d do anything to keep the waiter from bringing the check.
The problem is that it feels ridiculous to always act that way, so we lounge towards the opposite extreme: assuming there will always be another day, another heart-to-heart, another breakfast. The adage “live each day like it’s your last” is not practically useful. But “calculate how many of these good things you have left, and live as if endings are real,” while harder to put on a T-shirt, is useful.
This is my current eschatology. Identify the good things, project how many you’ve got left, let the fear spook you into prioritizing them more, and be present when they happen, knowing that they’re finite. We can’t bank on heaven.
As I'm sure you can guess from knowing me, I deeply resonate with all of this. I hope you get many more good [x]'s remaining, and that you're present for them all the while.