Charting your dash through life

Words roll around and commingle in my mind in a flirty sort of dance. Like coquettes, they beckon me to choose from the many thoughts on the dance floor of my mind. I know I must simply begin, as in all things.

The scrap of paper on which I had written notes to myself started this strange dance of words. Finished with the tasks enumerated on the sheet, I had started to fold the small note and put it in my pocket to toss at some later time. The words typed there on the back as I folded leapt out at me: “ ... the dash between those years. Speaking of her grandmother she says ... “

Instantly, with these words, I knew the dash to be that between dates marking the period of birth through death of this unknown woman’s grandmother. Lines from an incomplete poem followed, validating this knowledge:

That dash represents all the time that she spent alive on earth,

And only those who loved her know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not how much we own -- the cars, the house, the cash.

What matters is how we live and love and how we spend our dash.

So think about this long and hard.... Are there things you’d like to change?

That’s all. The remainder of the poem and the identity of its author are lost to me. Still, the words had great impact. The dash ... how we spend it. How simple a thought this seemed to me at the moment I read it. And yet, how profound! Perhaps the intense focus of my thoughts on the words on this random piece of paper was due to the celebration of my own mother’s 89th birthday this week.

Or maybe it was due to having recently accompanied her to her high school reunion for the third year. There, I was regaled once again with splendid and entertaining stories of lives lived fully and well. Whatever the reasons, the words of this poem floated there in front of me, tantalizing and teasing, as if to say, “So, what do you think of this?”

What do I think? I began to piece through the lines. At first, I balked at the use of the word “spend,” perhaps thinking of it in the sense of squandering time. I believe life should be lived with thoughtful intention, with care and attention. Still, as I thought more about it, the idea of spending one’s dash began to fit, for once past, once spent, it is surely gone. Each moment, whether focused or not, spent in anger or joy or resentment or surrender or acceptance or love or hatred -- it’s gone. Perhaps those moments are even squandered at times.

Does anyone -- even “those who loved her” -- really know how well or how wickedly or ineptly the dash was spent? Are there secrets unshared? Dreams unfulfilled? Does that “music” Oliver Wendell Holmes speaks of going to the grave with us get heard even by those near and dear? Do those who love each of us perhaps hear it in soft, whispering sounds somewhere under the surface of our lives? I wonder.

I have absolutely no argument with the next two lines, for how much we own doesn’t really count for a whole lot at the end of the dash.

“Are there things you’d like to change?” The snippet on my scrap of paper ends with this trailing off question. I hear the drumbeat of my own music getting louder, the rustle of cymbals preparing to clang, as the words, “YES! YES! YES!” ring out. Politics, movies, television, birth rates, violence to our fellow man ... so many things. Some I won’t waste my dash on, but others, oh, yes! I’ll just shuffle the deck, pull a card, and make one tiny change for this day, spending this piece of my dash with élan. I will simply begin, as in all things.

And if any of you readers know the title, the author, the rest of the words from my small scrap of paper, please let me know.

* Cherril Doty is a creative life coach and artist, exploring the mysteries of life as they come. You can reach her by e-mail at cherril@cherrildoty.com or by calling 949-251-3883.

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