An ode to our once-in-eternity chance
What does it mean to be human? Not in the biological sense — bones, blood, brain — but in the lived sense. In the way it feels to inhabit this brief, improbable window of awareness.
To be human is to wake each morning into a world that did not have to include us, and yet does. It is to step into a story already underway and know that, against all odds, we get to add our verse.
It is to say: I am alive — once, fleetingly, gloriously alive.
The Privilege of Consciousness
Most matter in the universe drifts unknowing. Rocks tumble, rivers carve, stars burn — but without awareness. We alone (as far as we know) can look at the night sky and say, I see.
Consciousness is not just a function; it is a miracle. It allows us to remember yesterday, to imagine tomorrow, to hold the present in our hands like a jewel. It allows us to savor — to step outside mere survival and marvel at existence itself.
What greater wonder is there than the cosmos giving birth to eyes that could behold it, and minds that could contemplate it?
The Texture of Experience
Being human is not only grand; it is textured. It is the smell of bread baking, the thrill of running until your lungs burn, the ache of missing someone you love. It is tears sliding down your face during a song you didn’t expect to touch you.
It is stumbling into laughter with friends. It is trembling before a risk. It is holding a newborn, or saying goodbye at a graveside.
The miracle is not that life is painless. It is that we can feel about meaning at all. That joy can pierce us. That sorrow can deepen us. That beauty can stop us in our tracks.
A Scene to Hold
Imagine sitting on a porch at dusk. The air cools. Crickets begin their chorus. Someone you love sits beside you. No words are needed. The world is simple for a moment: light fading, sounds rising, hearts steady.
That moment, ordinary as it seems, is unrepeatable. You could live a thousand years and not get that exact dusk, that exact companion, that exact harmony of feeling. And yet you got it once.
This is what it means to be human: to catch such moments, fleeting and irreplaceable, and see them as good.
Mortality’s Frame
We sometimes fear that death cheapens life. But it is the opposite: mortality frames it. If life were endless, we might waste it thoughtlessly. Because it ends, every moment is charged. Every laugh, every kiss, every breath becomes sacred by virtue of being finite.
Imagine an endless novel — pages without end. The story would lose its urgency. But a short story — sharp, bounded — can move us deeply. So it is with life. Its brevity is part of what makes it luminous and poignant.
Practices of Reverence
How do we honor the miracle of being human? Not by trying to hold it all — we cannot. But by opening ourselves to it.
- Pause daily. Even for a minute. Feel the air, notice the light, remember that you are here.
- Speak gratitude. Tell someone what you value. The words give life weight.
- Seek beauty. Listen to music, walk in nature, read poetry. These are not luxuries but essentials.
- Take risks. Say the vulnerable thing, try the bold idea. Being alive is already a risk; we might as well live it fully.
A Rising Chorus
Across history, people have tried to name this miracle. The poet Walt Whitman called it “the gift of the grass.” The scientist Richard Dawkins said we are “the lucky ones” simply for existing. The philosopher Rebecca Goldstein urged us to “do justice to existence.”
Different words, same awe. Each voice adds to the chorus reminding us that this life — yours, mine — is not a given but a gift.
Closing Reflection
To be human is to be given awareness, texture, mortality, and meaning. It is to laugh, to weep, to strive, to rest, to notice, to create, to love. It is to live a story that no one else will ever live.
One day, the curtain will fall. But today, the stage is lit. Today, you are here.
And that is the miracle.
