Tomorrow Is a Promise to No One

I found out late Sunday night that a former student of mine had died. It was a sudden cycling accident, the third to hit our school community in less than four years, this one occurring far from Toronto as the young man in question was undertaking a journey of self-discovery to the US south. Beyond the usual shock at reading that a 23 year-old has been killed in a senseless, tragic manner, it feels surreal and I think back 13 years to when he was just a boy in my class. It is not difficult for me to remember details about students I have taught, and I can often recall specific passions about many of them: in this particular case, he loved rock music and Glasgow Celtic, and I can still remember how often and proudly he wore his Henrik Larsson jersey, and that he brought to school a 45 of a Led Zeppelin single that belonged to his mother and had been signed by Robert Plant. If you’d like to read his story, you can find it here. You can even read his travel journal here.

I don’t know if others feels this way, but for me every death brings back previous losses, and I find myself grieving for many people at once. I get flashbacks of friends and family who are no longer here, and details come to me in a strange string of remembrances—sights, sounds, and sometimes smells that remind me that I will never enjoy their company again. Is it weird? Perhaps, but it seems to be how I process loss, and there’s little I can or want to do to change that. There is something sweet in remembering those who crossed my path, for it means they added something to my time here.

Thinking about this subject brings me to another reaffirmation of something I realized in my early thirties, when I lost three young friends in less than three years: the only thing that is finite in life is time, and it is not in endless supply. Where I once scoffed at my mother for suggesting that it went by faster as we got older, I am often alarmed at how quickly it’s all zipping by. That said, this is not the only important notion here. Beyond that cliché, and the statement that “life is too short”, is a deeper thought: if only time is finite, does that make everything else in life infinite, and if that’s the case, what of it?

For me, declaring and then believing this notion of ‘infinites’ shifted my headspace and allowed me to realize that I could live my life in a more fearless manner. This doesn’t mean I’ve taken up dangerous hobbies or have stopped being observant of my surroundings to keep myself safe. Instead, I’ve opened myself up to the possibilities that arise from diverse experiences and in meeting new people. I feel quite strongly as I get older that it is by reaching out to others that we allow ourselves to receive these infinite gifts free for the taking: there is love, friendship, affection, laughter, joy, and excitement just waiting to be grabbed up, and all we need to do is open ourselves up. Yes, yes, the world is full of hatred, bullshit, and meanness too, but to refuse to experience the goodness that is out there for fear of the evil is to waste those finite days we are given. I've lost count of the number of times I've gotten quizzical looks when I go off to meet online pals in foreign locations, but you will perhaps understand my decisions to do so better if I tell you that I met this guy online almost 18 years ago. He lived in America then, and we ended up meeting, falling in love, and have been happily together ever since. Fearlessness leads to wonderful results sometimes, and I've experienced this over and over again and think I will continue to do so.

I was reminded on Sunday night that, to quote a favourite song lyric, “tomorrow is a promise to no one.” Make it count, people. You don’t always get another chance.