There was a 1992 movie with that title starring Goldie Hawn and Meryl Streep and I always thought it was a strange movie title. However, with a rash of deaths recently impacting my life that have occurred within an unusually close proximity, the title has taken on a strange twist of significance. In the last 90 days there have been four deaths, all seemingly very sudden, impacting my life. These deaths have not been with immediate family members or celebrity deaths where identification projection can result in emotion impact but, rather, these occurrences simply have been relevant in some context or another to my personal experience.

Coincidentally – or perhaps not – I have found myself more motivated about my life than ever. My physical exercise has become accelerated and more consistent, my diet is being decidedly more managed by me, and my work output has never been more productive. I have always been of the mind-set that death is a reminder to live, but never has that idea been as visceral an impetus for motivation then since this echo chamber of relevant deaths began reverberating with the first passing approximate three months ago.

Individuals often become paranoid and fearful when the tail wind of mortality hits their psyche as death briskly cruises by, yet statistically, countless deaths are occurring every minute of every day. What death ‘should’ (a word I rarely use) awaken is a sense of urgency to seize the day. All the clichés that death elicits, “tomorrow’s not promised,” “live each day as if it were your last,” usually become momentary reflections rather than catalysts that shake us out of our take-for-granted stupor.

Death should be a reminder that perhaps our zest for living has atrophied; our personal mojo has been in an undisturbed state of hibernation. No longer just “mull the idea of” taking those rock-climbing, cooking or swimming lessons but make the call dammit to start the ball rolling! Or maybe death should remind us of the little treasures that enrich life, such as saying, “I love you” to a cherished one for no particular reason, smiling at someone regardless of whether you sense it will be reciprocated, or, yes, that cliché of all clichés, “stopping to smell the flowers.”

I recently had lunch with a dear friend who met me at my office during my own hyper-sensitivity to living that death has afforded me, and she stopped in mid-stride as we were briskly heading towards the car to smell a beautiful white rose from a rose bush adorning the building property. I, somewhat impatiently was waiting for her to “get on with it” so that we could continue to the car, and remember thinking as she bent to smell a flower, “yeah, I already know how beautiful they are and marvel at them frequently when approaching the building.” This was indeed true, however, I never actually stop to smell them. My friend then remarked that you have to smell one that is in fresh bloom to appreciate their aromatic gift as her head darted like a humming bird with an olfactory determination to confirm her point.

About a week later as I was approaching my office building I actually stopped to “sneak” a sniff of one of those white roses my friend reviewed and you know what? She was right, you have to smell a flower in its burgeoning state of bloom to receive an aromatic hit of… life.

Blogger Note: This blog posting dedicated in memory of Andrew L., Barbara H., Alice B., Josh A.