How fragile an envelope it is that carries the burden of the human soul. I read that line a long, long time ago, on a far and distant planet, when I was but a young woman, probably no more than 20; and although, admittedly, I do not recall the author, I have never forgotten those words. Then again, the significance of those words was lost to me back then, perhaps because when I was young, like all young people, I thought of myself as immortal. However, now that I am in the autumn of my life, such a delusional and misguided belief is no longer even conceivable. I am not immortal, at least physically, although I prefer to believe that some part of each of us continues to exist long after our bodies have crumbled into dust. Call it, as the writer of that line did, “the human soul,” call it “the essence of our being,” or call it “our spirit;” whatever it is, it continues on for eternity, or so I choose to believe.

However, regardless of whether or not one believes in eternal life, the human body, indeed, is infinitely fragile, which means it is designed to function but for a limited number of years. As a result, I have to wonder why so many people sleepwalk through their days and never really live at all. There is, after all, a quite significant difference between existing and living. Each and every thing on this planet and even out there in the deepest, darkest reaches of the universe exists; however, not all of these things actually live. And this applies to human beings as well. Granted, we all may breathe, walk, talk, etc, but not all of us embrace life and live its to its fullest, and isn’t that what it means to live and not merely exist?

Yes, according to Webster’s (2001), one definition of the word “live” is “to remain alive;” another is “having life; not dead.” Yet another is “to last; to endure.” But, the definition that most adequately conveys the essence of what I mean by living is this one: “To enjoy a full and varied life; to really know how to live)” (p. 827).

One of my favorite poets, T. S. Eliot, poignantly conveys the importance of fully living in his poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” with such lines as these:

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "do I dare?', and, 'do I dare?'
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair --
(They will say: 'How his hair is growing thin!')
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
(They will say: 'But how his arms and legs are thin!')
Do I dare disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. (Perkins, 1989, p. 1021)

I don’t know about you, but the last thing I want is to awaken one day, lie there in my bed under the covers as the sun begins its ascent into the heavens, and have to admit that I, like Prufrock, measured out my life with coffee spoons—that I counted off each second, slowly and methodically, and, as a result, never really lived at all.

As another great writer, Nathaniel Hawthorne, once said, “Oh, for the years I have not lived but only dreamed of living” (Quoted from memory). And that is indeed a sad lamentation to carry with one to one’s grave.

“And why,” you ask, “are you writing about such a depressing topic as death and the brevity of human existence?” Well, suffice it to say that I am in a contemplative and introspective mood tonight; and, to once again borrow from Eliot, “I have seen the Eternal Footman hold my coat and snicker, and, in short, I was afraid”  (Perkins, 1989, p. 887).

Perkins, J. (1989) Anthology of American Literature: Sixth Edition. New York. Random House. p. 1021

Webster’s New World Dictionary (2001) New York, Simon and Schuster, p. 827