The wisdom of graveyards

You can't guarantee a longer life, but you can guarantee more living.

On nearly every headstone at every cemetery, there’s a dash.

“1901 – 1977”

“1944 – 2011”

“1981 – 2003”

Two years — the beginning and the end.

And then a dash. Everything else.

Part of the strange beauty of cemeteries is their role as the great equalizer. There are no billionaires in cemeteries. There are no awards, no failures, no victory laps. No winners, no losers, no mediocrity.

There are just … dashes.

Eventually, we all get our dash. In just a few centimeters, the dash carries the weight of an entire existence.

It’s both sobering and invigorating. It doesn’t matter what you do in life — it’ll all ultimately be captured in a dash that looks just like everyone else’s. Sobering, right?

But check out the flip side:

It doesn’t matter what you do in life — it’ll all ultimately be captured in a dash that looks just like everyone else’s. Invigorating, right?

The way I see it, we all have just one obligation to the dash. It’s not accomplishment or status — and it’s certainly not laziness or apathy.

It’s this: to extract every ounce of joy out of every second of our lives.

In principle, that’s simple. In practice? It's not.

Because to extract joy, we have to be present. And being present is one of humanity’s most elusive goals.

Here’s you. You’re washing the dishes. You don’t enjoy it. It takes too long. And besides, you have to finish the laundry before the guests come over and you probably shouldn’t be having them over anyway because you have to get up early to work because the bills aren’t gonna pay themselves.

So you stand with hot water and foaming soap cascading over your hands, acting but not feeling, existing but not noticing. You’re not there.

Although moving down our dashes is inevitable, I bet you’d do anything to make yours longer.

But when you’re washing those dishes but not really washing those dishes, what you’re doing is taking an eraser and rubbing away slivers of the dash. And over time, those slivers turn into sections. And you look up, and that second number has leapt forward.

So what’s the secret to being present? Hell, I don’t know.

But here’s what I do know:

If you do more things willingly, you’ll see your joy increase tenfold.

Those dishes have to be washed. That’s not changing. So do it willingly. Yeah, the bills are coming and the work needs to be done. Is it going to go away if you fight it?

As we each carve our dashes, we engage in this belief that the exciting moments — the European vacations and the lakeshore sunsets and the dream-job promotions — are more valuable than the mundane ones.

But no moment holds greater meaning than another one. So instead of wishing a moment away in the rush to get to another, try thinking about that dash.

Accept that the moment will exist regardless. Embrace the mundane.

Go about every moment willingly — from the good to the bad to the in-between.

It doesn’t take magic to make the change — but the change does feel like magic.

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