There’s a tree in the middle of town that seems to be the first one every year to start losing its green and taking on the colors of autumn.

I noticed it driving by the other day. My first thought was — already? I know we’re well into September. I know this happens every year. But apparently part of me still expects summer to file some kind of formal notice before it leaves.

That tree caught my attention partly because this particular stretch of the calendar carries a lot for me.

As I sit here writing this, today marks four years since my sister Karen died. September brings my first husband’s birthday. October brings its own collection of dates connected to my second husband — when we met, when we entered into a civil union, when we eventually got married, when we adopted our children. And then the holidays aren’t far behind. On top of all that, there are people I know dealing with illness right now, my parents are both facing health challenges, and I’m still sitting with the questions I’ve been writing about over the last couple of weeks — about where I want to live and what I want the next part of my life to look like.

It’s a lot competing for space at the same time.

I’ve felt a little unsteady lately. It took me a while to figure out what I even meant by that, because I’m not walking around consumed by sadness. Nothing terrible happened this week that knocked me off balance. It’s more that my emotions are sitting closer to the surface than usual. And underneath a lot of it, I think, is time.

Karen was sixty when she died. I’m about to turn sixty.

There’s something very strange about beginning to outlive the people you love.

My first husband was thirty-five when he died. I was twenty-eight. Eventually I turned thirty-five, then thirty-six, and kept going. My second husband was fifty-two when he died. Eventually I passed that age too. And now I’m approaching the age Karen was when she died.

I’m not suddenly discovering my own mortality — I almost died myself nearly forty years ago, and then lost a husband at twenty-eight. If anything, I’ve probably been more aware than most people that there are no guarantees attached to however much time we’re given. But knowing that at twenty-eight and experiencing it as I approach sixty are genuinely different things. Thirty-five seemed impossibly young when my first husband died. It seems even younger now. So does fifty-two. And now sixty does too.

Holy crap. That’s young.

Karen knew something about having choices taken away from her. She lived for about twelve years with a spinal ependymoma. At one point, doctors told her she would never walk again. Or dance. Or ride a motorcycle. She did all three. For a while. Eventually the cancer changed what her body would allow, and then it took those things away again. And eventually it took her.

I don’t look at Karen’s story and think there’s some neat lesson we’re supposed to extract from it. She didn’t get cancer so the rest of us could learn to appreciate life. I would much rather she were still here. But as I approach the age she was when she died, I keep thinking about the fact that she participated in her life while those choices were available to her. She showed up for it. And I think that’s what’s been sitting underneath a lot of my thoughts lately.

Control. Or more accurately — how little of it we actually have.

I can’t control how much time I have with my parents. I can’t know what aging will look like for me. I can’t know whether moving across the country will turn out to be the right decision. I can’t know what losses or opportunities or completely unexpected turns are waiting somewhere ahead. I don’t get to control how much life I have. But I do have some say in how much I participate in it.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot as I approach sixty. Enough that I’ve started planning a small project around the sixty days leading up to my birthday — I’ll share more about it as I get closer. But what’s interesting to me right now isn’t really the project itself. It’s why I want to do it. I want to be deliberate about showing up for my own life.

That doesn’t mean cramming sixty enormous experiences into sixty days or treating every Tuesday like it needs to become an adventure worthy of a documentary crew. Some days participating might mean trying something I’ve never done. Some might mean going somewhere I’ve wanted to go. Some might mean spending time with people I care about. And some might mean sitting on my back porch, listening to the sounds around me, and deciding that for today, that’s exactly where I want to be.

The point isn’t doing more. It’s showing up.

There are a lot of things right now reminding me of what I can’t control — dates on a calendar, other people’s health, my own aging, decisions without guaranteed outcomes, leaves changing on a tree whether I’m ready for autumn or not. I can’t do much about any of that. But I don’t think the answer is to wait until I feel certain about the future before I decide how I want to live in the present.

I can call a friend. I can sit on the porch. I can try something new. I can make something. I can rest. I can laugh. I can remember the people who aren’t here and make plans with the people who are.

None of that guarantees me another day. It just lets me participate in this one.

That tree in the middle of town is going to keep changing whether I’m ready for it or not. So am I. I don’t know how many more times I’ll drive past it as summer gives way to autumn. But I’m here for this one. And I’d like to participate.

Your turn

This week, I’d like you to think about the life that’s actually available to you right now — not the one you’re working toward, not the one you wish you had, not the one you used to have. How do you want to participate in the life you have today? It doesn’t have to be big. Sometimes showing up is enough.