¿Cuánto vive el hombre, por fin? ¿Vive mil años o uno solo? ¿Vive una semana o varios siglos? ¿Por cuánto tiempo muere el hombre? ¿Qué quiere decir para siempre? — Pablo Neruda

About four years ago one evening, I was sitting in the plaza with some people I knew when a young man, obviously upset, walked up to me and said, “You’re a teacher. How many years do we live?”

I didn’t know how to answer him. I didn’t understand the meaning of his question. I was also tired, enjoying the company of the people I was with, and a little unwilling to dive into this topic. So I responded, “We live until we die.”

He looked at me, repeated what I said. His eyes filled with tears and he wandered off muttering.

I felt horrible. I wanted to run after him, ask what was wrong, look at his question with him, try to understand.

To my shame, I didn’t.

I’ve thought about that moment daily since then. His question has figured into every question I ask myself, every internal debate about actions, options, directions I may want to take my life, but not in the sense you might think. Most people might say, “Take control of your life. Live! Be happy!” They then quit their jobs, go on world tours, drink wine with friends, skydive into a beautiful cloudless blue sky while wearing a serene smile that would make the Buddha jealous.

That is definitely not my life. I’ve never had a job I could consider career oriented. The only consistency in my professional life (could we call it that?) has been that of informal, badly paid teacher. I have already travelled quite a bit. I don’t drink wine. I’m rabidly anti-social with a minuscule group of friends who may like me, sometimes, but feel little need to respect me. Skydiving is not on my list of things to do before I die (I’d much rather acquire a durian tree to plant at my home). And it’s easier to see Elvis in a trailer park outside Memphis than to see me with a smile on my face.

It would not be wrong to call me dour.

So I have two questions. The first, why did he ask me? And the second, what was his real question?

We’ve all known those people who seem to attract every crackpot on the streets. Hobos, crack addicts, down and out alcoholics, people with a story to tell and the story is always bad. It seems every crazy person wandering about goes straight for these people.

I’m one of these people. If there’s an unbalanced person wandering about anywhere in my vicinity, they’ll find me. The other night as I approached the bus stop to go home after my last class, I saw one there also waiting for a bus. I can already recognize them. I looked around, trying to see if there were an alternate place to stand, but there wasn’t. I walked up, tried desperately to ignore him, but he was having none of it. At a crowded bus stop full of people tired and waiting for their bus, this dirty, ragged, smelly man came running up to me, gave me a huge bear hug, and firmly held my hand for the next five minutes, until his bus arrived.

I wanted to run home, burn my clothes, and take a  bath in pure bleach. But I didn’t let go of his hand. His bus came. He let go, climbed aboard, and went away.

These kinds of interactions are common with me. I’m one of those people who attract the down and out like magnets. And I know why.

People are terribly alone. We believe in gods who count the hairs on our heads. We fill our lives with relationships and soap operas and whatever else. But ultimately, we are alone. Some suffer from this more than others. They are the desperately alone. And they are always looking.

They look to see who looks back. Most people don’t. Some do. I look back. It’s like pinging to find a receptive soul.

It isn’t necessarily satisfying. It can be painful, this soul-to-soul contact. It’s like unprotected soul-sex. Some people call this therapy and pay good money to soul-sex prostitutes, aka therapists.

Others look for it in the wild, taking solace in the casual encounter. They don’t have the money for the pros.

We’re all looking.

That night in the plaza that man was looking. And I effectively answered him, “Not tonight. I have a headache.”

How long do we live? We live until we die.

That wasn’t his real question.

So what was his question?

I’ll never really know, but I can surmise. Why am I so unhappy? Why do I feel so alone? Why is life so fucking hard?

We’ve all had those moments when we witness something unpleasant, it doesn’t have to be tragic or earth altering, just unpleasant, and we are hit with an incredible wave of sorrow. And in that sorrow we feel serenity. These days if we admit that, we are immediately provided with a prescription for anti-depressants, labeled as depressives, told we are addicted to pain. We’re supposed to be happy all the time, seeing blue skies even when it is raining, always smiling, feeling warm and fuzzy like puppy dogs and butterfly wings and baby gurgles. Why in the hell would we feel serene at a moment of sudden and intense sorrow?

I once asked a friend, a psychologist, about this. She said it was a moment of realization that some things are unchangeable. This realization fills us with pain, and serenity. “God grant me the serenity to accept those things I cannot change.” It is said the Buddha as a little boy was filled with sorrow at the sight of countless little insects being mindlessly destroyed as a field was prepared for planting, and he smiled.

There are things we cannot change.

Happiness is fleeting. Sorrow is fleeting. Life is temporary. These are things we cannot change.

How long do we live? We live until we die. How do we live? As best we can. What is success? I have no idea. What is happiness? It’s living an ethical life. Will I have regrets? Yes, and that’s ok.

Kierkegaard wrote:

I wait for a thunderstorm — and for a repetition. And yet, if only a thunderstorm would come, I would be indescribably happy, even if my sentence were that repetition was impossible.

What would be the effect of this thunderstorm? It would make me fit to be a husband. It would destroy my whole personality, I would be finished. It would make it so that I would hardly know myself. I do not waver, even though I stand on one leg. My honour would be saved, my pride redeemed and however it might change me, I hope the recollection will remain with me as an inexhaustible comfort, remain after it has happened. What I fear is, in a sense, worse than suicide because it is going to disturb me in an entirely different way. If the thunderstorm does not come, then I remain deceitful. I do not die, but only make myself out to be dead so that my friends and family can bury me. After I have been laid in my coffin, then I will quietly embrace my expectation. No one will know of this, because otherwise they would be afraid to bury a man in whom there was still life.

Today is my birthday, an arbitrary moment when I consider myself one year older. I wish repetition were possible, but I know it isn’t. So I wait for a thunderstorm. And while I wait, I plant trees. I grow a garden. I give rides to errant moths and beetles. I teach. I love my family and friends, even if they think I don’t. I try to do no harm.

I hold hands with hobos at bus stops.

And I promise the next time you ask me how long we live, I may give the same answer, but I won’t look away. I will hold your hand, I will smile, and I will listen.