A lot of big, tragic and important things have happened to this wonderful country of ours since April 2014. None of which I have covered. I was too busy writing about hungover parenting, ancient philosophy and my dog Colin.
Out of the 536 columns I have written, 27 were about that guy. Far too few. He is such a good boy, he deserves an article a week.
Today is the end of an era for me, and whenever these final events pop up in our lives, we can’t help but think about the ultimate end.
Everything we do, we will one day do for the last time. That’s why you have to enjoy things while they are around. It’s not just big events like leaving a job, house or loved one either. Whatever moment you happen to be in now, you will never get it back, and you don’t know how many more you have.
Everything we do in life, from eating pizza to spending time with the people we love, to driving, writing, drinking or breathing, we will one day experience for the final time. It might happen tomorrow. This can be either a depressing or an inspiring thought, depending on how you look at it.
A few years back in this column, I interviewed professor of philosophy William B Irvine, of Wright State University, Ohio, on this very topic. He put it this way on a Zoom call: “Recognition of the impermanence of everything in life can invest the things we do with a significance and intensity that would otherwise be absent. The only way we can be truly alive is if we make it our business periodically to entertain thoughts of the end.”
Today’s column is very meaningful to me because it is my last. Like the last night with a lover before she goes overseas. And just like a lover, there have been some half-arsed efforts put in from me over the years. Last week, for example, I spent 750 words moaning about how bad my cricket team is. But the truth is that any of my columns could have been the final. If I had reminded myself every week for the past 10 years that the end is inevitable, I may have been more grateful for having a column and appreciated writing them all as much as I am this one.
While everything we do could have more meaning with a focus on finitude, some things are inherently more worthwhile than others. There is no doubt my column “The pros and cons of wearing Speedos” from November 2022 was less meaningful than most things in this world. That was a waste of everyone’s time. So, if we only have so much time, how do we pick the best things to do?
Well, Oliver Burkeman, the author of Four Thousand Weeks – Time Management For Mortals, suggested this to me in a 2022 column: “Ask yourself, does this choice enlarge me? You usually know on some unspoken level if it does. That’s a good way to distinguish between options.”
With that in mind, I don’t feel great about my 2018 article on “New Zealand’s best hole”. That didn’t enlarge anyone.
There will be people reading this column right now who have loved my writing in the Herald and are sad to see it end. Others will have hated it and are glad to see me go. Many won’t have any opinion at all. But for those in the first camp, I have good news. I have a book coming out on May 28 called A Life Less Punishing – 13 Ways To Love The Life You Got (Allen and Unwin Book Publishers). It’s a deep dive into the history, philosophy and science of not wasting our time lost in anger, loneliness, humiliation, stress, fear, boredom and all the other ways we find to not enjoy perfectly good lives. It’s available for pre-order right now (google it if you’re interested).
A Life Less Punishing took me two years to write and is equivalent in words to 100 of these columns. Which would be a complete nightmare for those in the hate camp, but as I say, great news for those who want more.
Anyway, thanks to the Herald for having me, thanks to the lovely people who make an effort to say nice things to me about my column nearly every day and thanks to the universe for every single second we get.
Bless!
The tiny twins talk, but when you hear them, you’ll melt. Delightful.
Lily and Lucas were two small twins who lived in a charming village surrounded by rolling hills. Their hearts were as huge as the sun that shone down on their town every day, even though they were small in stature. But what really made them unique was their capacity to converse in whispers so delicate that anyone who heard them could not help but smile.
A family of woodland animals had taken up residence in a secret glade that Lily and Lucas discovered one day while exploring the magical forest on the outskirts of the settlement. The twins’ soft murmurs drew the animals, who greeted them with wide arms—or paws, or wings.
As Lily and Lucas got to know their new friends better, they discovered that the forest was about to face a threat. Envious of the beauty of the forest, a wicked sorceress plotted to use magic to make the trees wither and scare the animals away. The twins were determined to defend their new home, so they set out to collect the one item that would be able to lift the sorceress’s curse: a rare flower that would only bloom once a year when the full moon shone.
There were many perils on their trek, including dark caverns full of terrifying monsters and perilous ravines. But Lily and Lucas persevered because of their unshakable friendship and their capacity to interact with even the most unexpected of allies.
They eventually located the elusive flower, its petals gleaming with magic, beneath the light of the full moon. They grabbed it from its stem with quivering hands and dashed back to the glade, where the animals were assembled to confront the sorceress.
Holding the flower high, Lily and Lucas moved forward as the sorceress unleashed her evil spell. By shattering the curse and bringing the woodland back to its former splendor, its brightness broke through the gloom.
The forest’s animals and the inhabitants, who had previously misjudged the twins’ strength, rejoiced as the little twins ultimately emerged as heroes. Despite the numerous experiences they experienced, they always believed that they could conquer any obstacle as long as they had each other and their whispers.
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