My life frequently runs on rituals and habits.

Some are good: regular bike rides, always having a book going, always writing something in a notebook or on a digital device. I include prayer and gratitude-practice among the good rituals.

Some are not so good: coffee cake muffins at Dunkin, too much mindless social media scrolling, watching television right before bed.

Lately, after my morning Dunkin indulgence, I’ve taken to visiting Volkening Park in Schaumburg (a few miles from where I live). First, I find the right bench—proper shade and not on the main jogging path. Then, I open my Kindle to read. Or I might scribble poems—or whatever comes—in a spiral notebook, while I finish my iced tea.

A curved brick path is at my feet. Some of the bricks are little memorials, messages etched on stone squares.

IN LOVING MEMORY

BILL AND LORRAINE

SMYTHE

DEVOTED PARENTS

FOREVER IN LOVE

REST IN PEACE 2026

I note the birth and death dates on a brick dedicated to Gertrude Klawunder: 1915 – 2005. Ninety years. Gertrude, I think to myself, had a long life.

Then, I think, “If I lived to ninety, that would mean I have a little more than twenty-three years left.” Suddenly, ninety doesn’t seem that old. Yet it is, of course, well past the average lifespan.

My dad made it to 98, just a little shy of 99. I might live that long. But, I ask myself, do I want to?

Even near the end, Dad never got grumpy or gloomy. He still liked chocolate pudding and coffee with creamer. He could laugh and make us laugh. He was, however, legally blind and on antipsychotics, living at the Veterans Home in Manteno. He couldn’t walk or go to the bathroom on his own. He wasn’t entirely “there,” and he wasn’t entirely himself.

From the outside, it didn’t look like a fulfilling life—surrounded by strangers at the Veterans Home, being changed and bathed by others. Nothing like real freedom left. Just routine and body functions. It looked like little more than Death’s Waiting Room with kind of shitty food. Still … I’m super grateful he could be there. We couldn’t afford a 24/7 nurse, which is what he needed. Thank goodness his service in World War Two made it possible for him to have the care he required.

There’s a memorial plaque on my bench.

In Loving Memory Of

Bethany Adams

1975 – 2019

Forty-four. Damn. Not such a long life for Bethany. Now, there’s a different reckoning, a different perspective.

I’ve lived 22 years longer than she did.

I’m lucky. Fortunate. Blessed.

Not just to have survived to 66, but to be able to bike 10 miles or even 20 miles. To have use of all my limbs and all five senses. To have enough resources to live a comfortable life. To be able to read, write, pray, strum my guitar, work 40-50 hours a week, have family and friends I love.

I have had, and do have, a good life. Not an extravagant life by any means, but a good one.

This is gratitude kicking in. A thought-habit I cultivate regularly. It exists right alongside the fact that I sense my mortality more clearly each passing year as I see and feel what time is doing to my body; as I watch my older brother’s friends and peers get sick and die. Mine too. Just last year, I attended the memorial services for two women friends—both younger than me.

Death is coming for me, as for us all. A fact that grounds us in reality, not necessarily in a way that makes us comfortable.

But obsessing on the fact of our death is a foolish place to get stuck.

Grasshoppers play on the bricks, alongside ants and Daddy Longlegs. Butterflies land on magenta flowers—one is suspiciously heart-shaped. A young couple laughs in the distance as they jog the path around the lake. An elderly gentleman works the remote controls for his miniature sailboat. A breeze rustles leaves over my head.

Life belongs to me in this moment … no less vivid than when I was 12, or 32, or 44.

It is mine. Until it isn’t. Which has always been true.

Most of us won’t design famous buildings or plant flags on other planets. Most of us won’t write words that last for ages or give speeches before thousands.

Most of us will live ordinary lives with ordinary joys and sorrows. We’ll be forgotten in a generation or two.

But NOW we get to be alive.

Life is the great cosmic gift.

Walk the path along the lake. Jog or bike it if you can. Hug your loved ones. Get tickets to the symphony, concert, play, or film. Have the muffin (maybe just occasionally). Pray, if you are so inclined. Laugh. Cry. Take off your masks whenever you feel safe enough to do so. Be the glorious, once-in-forever human you were born to be, even if it’s only in your living room when no one’s watching. Take it all in. See it as the astonishing, precious gift it is. Love as much of it as you can.

Make it a habit, a ritual.

Every single day.

(Love you, Dad. See you down the road.)