A Year to Live

"In the end, just three things matter:

How well we have lived.

How well we have loved.

How well we have learned to let go."

~ Jack Kornfield

Celebrating the birth of a new year on January 1st turns out to be more arbitrary than it first appears. The original Roman calendar began in March, which made sense, as spring marked renewal and new planting. January was later adopted largely for administrative reasons, eventually becoming a de facto standard in much of the Western world.

And yet, across cultures and traditions, the marking of a new year has always carried a deeper meaning. From the Persian Nowruz to the Jewish Rosh Hashanah, to my own ancestors' celebration of Vishu in Kerala, the turning of the year has long been a time for reflection.

These moments invite us to acknowledge the ending of one cycle and the beginning of another, the death of one period of time and the birth of the next. In this way, our calendars quietly mirror the rhythms of life itself, reminding us that endings and beginnings are always intertwined.

For many of us, however, our relationship with endings, especially our own mortality, is shaped by denial and avoidance. We may acknowledge, in an abstract way, that we will die someday, but we keep that knowing safely distant, telling ourselves it is far off and not something we need to face right now.

This year, I decided to confront this avoidance for myself. I enrolled in a year-long program called A Year to Live, inspired by Stephen Levine's book of the same name. What began as curiosity became transformative. The premise is both simple and profound: to live as if this were the final year of one's life, with a clear awareness of our own mortality. It invites a different orientation to time. What changes when we stop assuming we have unlimited tomorrows? Living with this question close at hand encouraged me to look more honestly at what matters, how I want to live, how I want to love, and what I need to let go of.

Early in the program, we were invited to choose a hypothetical death date. Mine was December 20th, which, as I write this, has already passed, and I am still here, very much alive. On one level, this could be dismissed as an academic exercise, since I never fully believed I would die this year. And yet, that disbelief was precisely what the practice was meant to challenge. On December 20th this year, I felt a deep sense of appreciation that I get to wake up to another morning, and enjoy the small, everyday gifts of life.

Each month, we were offered practices and reflections that turned out to be revealing. Some of these included examining both small and large fears, related to death or otherwise; noticing endings and beginnings as a meditation on impermanence; and reflecting on the Five Remembrances, and Atisha's Nine Contemplations, both Buddhist reflections on death and impermanence.

As part of a life review, we reflected on what we feel grateful for, who we want to thank, who we want to forgive, and who we may need to ask forgiveness from. We were invited to consider how we wish to pass on meaningful possessions, and to engage in the practice of mindfulness of death, known as Maranasati.

These contemplations made me appreciate this mystery that we are all in, this 'one wild and precious life'. They prompted me to look more closely at the blessings of my life, cherish my loved ones, let go of petty grievances, and have more honest conversations with my family about death and dying. I find myself noticing small moments I might have rushed past before: the golden hour murmuration of starlings at the Baylands on San Francisco Bay, the unrestrained loving exuberance of my dog, the privilege of another ordinary Tuesday.

Far from being a morbid dwelling on the inevitability of my death, the Year to Live journey became a celebration of the gift of life. As Stephen Levine writes in the introduction to the book,

"This is a book of renewal. It is not simply about dying but about the restoration of the heart, which occurs when we confront our life and death with mercy and awareness."

One of our last assignments was to write our own obituaries. When I wrote mine, all I felt was a profound sense of gratitude for all of my life: the highs, the lows, the good, the bad, the ugly. All of it.

As I stand at the threshold of another New Year, I carry forward what this practice has taught me: that every day is a gift, that love matters most, and that letting go is not a loss but a deepening. I want to express my gratitude for each of you who has been part of the Myndtree community. If you have joined me in meditation groups, classes, or retreats, please know that your presence has touched my life in countless ways, both visible and invisible. In sitting together, breathing together, and exploring the edges of being human, we have shaped and supported one another's journey.

I wish you a very Happy New Year. May you live each day of 2026 as if it matters, because it does. May you love well, let go with grace, and remember that this one wild and precious life is unfolding right now, in this very moment.

---

You can find other Myndtree blogs here. If this blog spoke to you, we warmly invite you to log in and share your thoughts below.