Measuring a Life
Ever come across a powerful idea that remains with you?
A phrase that reverberates long after it was said?
When President Biden was inaugurated several years ago, one line in his speech stayed with me. He said, Take a measure of me and my heart.
For me, in that moment, time stopped.
Words rang through the air as if they were on fire.
When this happens in poetry, it’s called the crux of the poem. A single line jumps off the page and reveals what the piece is about. The line has heat—mattering more than the others—as if it comes from sacred space where a poem was birthed.
Take a measure of me and my heart.
This powerful call is relevant for all of us as we bump about in the universe, especially in these turbulent times.
If the universe were to measure you and your heart today, what would the outcome say?
What purpose is your heart calling you toward?
How will you evaluate the impact of your life?
It reminds me of lines from Mary Oliver’s poem “The Summer Day”:
“Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?”
I love to think about this question and then imagine the largest mammals on the planet. Blue whales have the largest hearts of the animal kingdom. Their hearts can weigh 400-600 pounds—the size of a small car.
What is it like living into that size heart, gliding through the deep waters of the planet? What is it like to have a heart that big?
I would love to ask of a blue whale: Let me take a measure of your heart.
I can imagine that heart must ache at times.
Aching for what it has loved and what it has lost.
For instance, does a mama whale's heart hurt when her baby leaves in that first year?
(Mine does every time my son leaves, even though he’s an adult now.)
I can imagine that living into the potential of a blue whale’s heart could take more than a lifetime.
It’s that big.
I have been with three loved family members as they each passed away—a beloved grandmother, my mom, and my dad. I watched them slide into unconsciousness, each time holding one of their hands in my own.
It’s a compelling moment—that instant that life is over.
When a whale dies, it slowly sinks—meter after meter, kilometer after kilometer—until it lands with a quiet thud to the seabed.
Once the body comes to rest at the bottom of the ocean, it’s known as a whale fall.
Someday, when I am transitioning from life into death like that—when I have my own whale fall—I can imagine whispering to the angels: “How did I do with that one wild and precious life I was given?”
I trust and hope will have a satisfactory answer.
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