
On a journey to the world’s edge, I found a glacier lake. The water was bone-chilling, lifeless, and silent, except for the gentle lapping on the shore. Gazing at the monolithic ice, I felt I was peering into the past. What stories would these glaciers tell if they could speak? Did ancient creatures walk on them? Did our ancestors drink from them?
A hand-sized piece of glacier drifted to my foot. I picked it up and looked at the distant glacier it once belonged to. The message was clear: This too shall pass.
The glaciers are melting, transforming from solid ice to liquid. I wondered if the glacier knew it would become water or if it realized too late, drifting to shore to be picked up by me.
“I’ll work on that tomorrow.” “I’ll visit my sister next year.” “I’ll take that trip when I retire.” “I’ll start writing that book after my kids go to college.” “I’ll start my own firm after I gain experience.” “I’ll tell her I love her in the morning.”
One of humanity’s greatest failures is believing we have time.
