“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our life.”
These words from Annie Dillard in her classic book, The Writing Life, haunt me.
We often think of our life as an abstract thing, somehow removed from what we are actually doing, right now. But of course what we are doing now and what we did the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that, is, quite simply, what we have done in our life.
Viewed one way, this can be a bit depressing. Perhaps you are like me and find it hard to remember what I have done from one day to the next, which can leave the impression that we have done nothing. Or at least nothing worthy of our “one wild and precious life,” as the poet Mary Oliver puts it.
Viewed another way—the glass half full sort of way—it can be a welcome splash of cold water to our face to snap us out of the fog of monotony that is so easy to slip into. Or perhaps makes something that can feel so big—what we will do with our life—more manageable. After all, as I often tell my boys (to their great irritation), the only way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time.
But I have come to realize this quote haunts me most of all because my understanding of how I spend my days is sadly anemic.
Most of what we do in life cannot be found on our calendars. Yes, we may have blocks for work or school, the commute or running errands or making dinner. Blocks for bedtime routines or for sleeping. And through the lens of productivity or calendar keeping we may look at these things and not see much.
But when we tighten the lens, or zoom in further, we see how much more we actually are doing. We see all the people with whom we interact—with whom we share this life. We see the unattended moments of laughter or tenderness or connection—or opportunities for these things.
We see books read and feelings felt. We see simple tasks accomplished with care and attention. We see children kept safe and provided for and confident in the love that surrounds them. We see moments of attunement to the wonder of creation, or moments of gratitude for health and breath and for another day. Moments when we are reminded that, to borrow from Frederick Buechner, we might not have been, but here we are.
And perhaps we see opportunities for these things that we have missed. So be it.
“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our life.”
I’m challenged by the clarity of these words, and hope they would inspire me to greater discipline and deeper imagination.
But I am also reminded that when Jesus spoke of abundant life he was not speaking of things easily included on a calendar.
The real invitation of Annie Dillard’s words may not be to readjust our notion of time, but to remind ourselves of what it means to live, abundantly. And then ask, How will I spend today?
SHD