By Michael Breen
Two years ago, on the afternoon my mother died, I stood on the porch of her home as the undertakers carried her to their vehicle in a black bag. With measured respect, they closed the trunk, climbed into the car, and drove away.
From that scene, which my brothers chose not to witness, time accelerated away.
It was already old when I went back inside. A minute had passed. Five more minutes and I called one brother. He was out for a walk. He had wanted to preserve his memory of her at home. ``Mum has gone,” I said. He came back and we started calling relatives. Soon it was evening, then the next day.
Measured against an unrecoverable moment, time is merciless, an unfeeling shepherd who cares nothing for his flock.
If you watch the sunrise on the east coast tomorrow, or any other clear day, you can see this idea in full color. As the sun appears from the direction of Japan, the sea tries each time to hold it back, stretching the redness like a liquid bulb. But it breaks free and climbs into the sky without looking back.
And so it is with an old year.
I am reminded at times like this of a room-mate at university who, after turning out the light on the night of his 19th birthday, started swearing and assaulting his pillow. We put the light back on and asked what was wrong. ``All my life I wanted to be 18,” he said. ``And I didn’t appreciate it when it happened. Now it’s gone.” Shut up and go to sleep, I thought. But of the thousands of conversations of that time, this is one of the few that remains fresh.
Time is connected with death, of course. The shepherd herds us to the grave. My friend, who was so sensitive to its passing, was the only real hypochondriac I have known. A bulky man, he was a trials biker ― riding his machine up and down hillsides and dry streams ― and very healthy. But he convinced himself every few months that he was approaching the terminal stages of one disease or another.
Once, mountain climbing in Scotland, we foolishly raced up a slope in near white-out conditions, where it was difficult to distinguish the foggy air in front of us from the snow on the ground. We came to a point where the only option was climbing upward in hope of an easier way down the other side. I was quivering with adrenaline, convinced we may not make it. He was whistling.
``I go through this two or three times a year,” he said. ``Now it’s actually happening, it’s not so bad.”
Time will take us in the end and, en route, will take its toll. But beyond that macro-fact, it will only take what we give it. Consider, for example, the thought-provoking news this week that Hugh Hefner, who founded ``Playboy” magazine in 1953, had become engaged to a 24-year-old ``playmate.” Tut-tut all you might, Hefner is not going down without a struggle. (Come to think of it, going down may be his secret).
At the beginning of this year, I met a gentleman who had worked with the Rolling Stones. What were they like? ``Mick Jagger is a shrewd business man, but the others are just English blokes who never grew up.” Strip away the negatives associated with that idea ― the juvenilities that fill the tabloids ― and you have a way to deal with time. Just be who you are and don’t fret about things.
Easier said than done. Stress rises in such a way that it appears in control. The idea of living with integrity and fullness means little more than the Confucius joke in your Christmas cracker when times are hard.
But there can be control in the way we look back on things. This year may have been good to you, may have been bad, or may have been the same as so many others.
Whatever it was, it is time to put 2010 to bed and kiss her good night. She will have a new name in the morning.
Michael Breen is an author, former foreign correspondent and the chairman of Insight Communications, a public relations consulting company. He can be reached at mike.breen@insightcomms.com.