A life well lived

Two weeks ago, and well before his time, a friend died. I've been reflecting since on him and his life, and on me and mine, and on life generally.

I say "friend" but the truth is that probably just about everybody who knew him claimed him as a friend, and with justification, for that was the sort of person he was. To know him was to like him, for not only did he personify ebullience, but he was genuinely interested in everybody he met; how could one not like him?

The simple facts of his life are enough to humble most of us. He was a distinguished professor at his state's flagship university. His works fill a bookcase; his c.v. stretched for pages. His discipline awarded him one of its highest honors for a path-breaking book. The students of his university honored him as the best teacher in the school. He found ways to meld his scholarly work with the public policy arena, working with government and the media. He was a director of one of the largest human services charitable organizations in the region. He was a founding member of a renowned choral group, and sang with two others. He was devoted to his wife (herself a distinguished professor at the same university) of three decades. He carved out time to do all sorts of things with his nieces and nephews. He loved his toys, whether they were fast cars or high tech equipment or the go-kart he built with his nephews. Most of all, I think, he loved people.

And that was a measure of the man.

Oh yes, one other little detail: he was born with bad genes, and had suffered for that mistake for years and years, undergoing numerous organ transplants, severe cardiac problems, and decades of precarious health.

A measure of the man, though, was not merely that he never let his health rob him of the pleasures and successes of life, but that he did that so well that few indeed had even a glimmering of his physical problems.

Many friends and family gathered at his home after his formal memorial service. His widow recognized that the web of his associations stretched in so many directions that few of the people there knew many of the others, even though they all had been close to him, so she asked everybody to introduce themselves. The introductions quickly became explanations of how they knew him, and then stories about him. Long before even a quarter of the people gathered had spoken, everybody in the room was laughing for the joy of having known him.

And that too was a measure of the man.

It's hard to decide what his most amazing quality was. His joie de vivre? The rare state of balance he achieved in his life? His seemingly total commitment to doing well everything he did -- especially, living? His brilliance? His extraordinary normalcy? Or his ability to be what he was, even though he stood on the doorstep of death for nearly his entire adult life yet never seemed to let that affect the joy he found in living?

A life ended far too soon, but a life lived well.

Very well.

Note: this was originally posted on ketches, yaks & hawks 5 February 2009