Dear Unsealers,

My gentle husband died, sweetly and peacefully, surrounded by many of those who loved him deeply. One of the things that I learned from both my husband’s life and from his death is a new understanding of time. He had an incredible ability to be solidly present in the moment. He never allowed tomorrow’s cranky intrusion. He gave every minute his full focus, his joyful creativity, his unleashed enthusiasm.

After his brain surgery, he lost his ability to read and to type, but strangely, he did not lose his ability to write by hand. Intent on finishing the book he had been writing, he went to our bedroom every morning, dug down deep, concentrated fully, and wrote by long-hand for several hours. He could never go back to reread what he had written. He could not glance over his work to connect with his wandering thoughts. He stayed focused and kept writing.

I, on the other hand, have enjoyed a good life of multi-tasking, of moving with efficiency. I have known the supreme thrill—the yes, yes, yes–of checking things off my list. And I always have a list. But in my efforts to move smoothly towards tomorrow, I have sometimes abandoned today.

When the surgeon first said the words brain cancer to my husband, my understanding of time changed. I knew that our shared story would be short. Minutes mattered. They could no longer be thrown away like pennies, ignoring that they add up to bigger sums.

Initially, I squeezed every second to its fullest. It was the type-A approach to moment management. I would lie in bed with my husband at night trying to memorize his touch and his smell. Would my experience of his humanness be enough to hold me when he was no longer physically present? Could I train myself to take more from each experience? I was on high alert; I did not want to waste our precious time. Monks and philosophers may be able to live with that level of intensity, but I am neither of those.

Slowly I began to relax. I began to be less hurried. I laughed more. I slept more. I cried more. I lived with more focus, less fear. I practiced my love’s style of giving each minute my undiluted attention, of breathing into the moment. I learned that living in the moment meant living it well. It was not planning it well, or watching it carefully. It was deeply living each day, valuing my family and my work and giving every interaction the fullness of who I am.

My husband spent his last nine days in an Intensive Care Unit. He had pneumonia; he was on a ventilator and was heavily sedated. I spent those days at his bedside and slept on a couch in the waiting room every night. One morning the phone in the waiting room rang at 4:00 AM. I answered it and hearing the voice of Kimberlee, my husband’s nurse, I braced myself for the worst. Her voice was gentle, apologetic. “Dee, I’m sorry to wake you up, but I am about to bathe the love of your life. Would you like to come back to his room and bathe him?” And so I did. In the midst of the frantic claims on her time, Kimberlee allowed what would have been a twenty minute task, to become a sacred experience for several hours. She helped me move and reposition my beloved as I washed his straight nose and his crooked mouth, every freckle, every inch of his precious body. Kimberlee’s ability to turn off the clock and turn over her time was a gift that I will cherish for the rest of my life.

When my husband was in the final hours of his life, I learned that death is a magnificent process, but a difficult one. At one point the nurses moved him over so I could lie in bed with him. His breathing was erratic. His heart was racing. As I lay there, I remembered how many nights I had anticipated this moment and had wondered how it would be, how I would hold onto each second with him. But there was simply no need for that. I just lay beside him and held him—maybe for a few hours, maybe for less. I have no idea. Finally, time, omnificent time…time, my friend…time, my stalker…time, my taskmistress… time, the measurement of my success…time had no meaning and no power.

Power lies in a life well lived. My husband’s life was filled with millions of intentional moments of deep commitments, creativity and production, visioning and action, laughing and loving. The lessons that he lived continue to guide all of us.

I wish you magical moments.