Some mornings I sit here and notice how easily we crowd the field of attention. Sometimes it’s because something painful is pressing through the cracks—old fears, old griefs, the quiet dread that comes with being a creature who knows he’s finite. Avoidance becomes its own kind of drug then. The more we use it, the more we need it, and the harder it becomes to keep the pain at bay.
Other times, though, the field fills because we choose it.
Because something matters. Because meaning has weight, and we let it pull us toward what we value. Most days, if we’re honest, we’re doing both at once—running from the ache of being mortal while reaching for something that makes the running worthwhile.
We are, for better or worse, finite. Some people can’t bear to look at that truth. Death is the great unknown, and the stories we tell and believe about what comes after – nothingness, bliss, suffering, another round of this whole thing – shape how we think about the life we’re in right now. But I’m not here to preach about the fate of the good or the wicked. I’m more interested in what we choose to place in the field of attention, here and now.
No one wants to die, but what’s the point of building a life designed to avoid thinking about it? Tell someone not to think about pink elephants and see what happens. Avoidance makes the avoided thing loom at the edges of everything we use to distract ourselves.
And then there’s the other trap: filling our lives with what others say is meaningful – traditions, cultural artifacts, inherited scripts that offer purpose and stability, even when they don’t fit the shape of our own lives.
Some of us, though, are rogue nations. We disrupt the order. We challenge the status quo. We refuse the old maps and insist on infusing meaning into life on our own terms. It’s not rebellion for rebellion’s sake, it’s a lifelong practice of discovery, learning, and growth. We fill the field with possibility, creativity, solitude, autonomy. Others may call it withdrawal or impracticality, but they’re living the life they’re comfortable with, whether they chose it or simply inherited it.
The point is this: you already know what works for you and what doesn’t. The fork between should and shouldn’t is rarely moral. More often, it’s a choice about who you’re becoming. We only ever see a few feet of the road ahead, but maybe that’s enough. Each step reveals the next. Sometimes a new fork appears. But the journey begins right here: Lao Tzu’s thousand miles starting beneath your feet.
All that’s required is the first step.
We can live in fear of death, or we can accept its inevitability and live on our own terms, filling the field with what gives direction and meaning. There will be good days and bad days, but that’s the nature of the thing. As for me, I choose to live on my own terms, not in avoidance, but with a quiet defiance toward the traditions and cultural norms that have outlived their usefulness and now stand in the way of living well.
I’ll save the sermon for another day.
Take what’s useful; leave the rest on the porch.
Until next time …