"The thought of death confers seriousness, infinite value, and splendor to every present instant of life."
—Pierre Hadot, The Inner Citadel
I stumbled across this gem of a quote from Pierre Hadot while reflecting on my Camino de Santiago journey, a 500-mile trek across Northern Spain that Cristina and I walked in 2022. His words hit me like a kilometer-marker on the Camino Frances. These mojones are solid, unyielding, and packed with meaning if you stop to ponder them. In our frantic, screen-drunk, "God is dead" world, where Nietzsche’s existential void looms like a shadow we can’t outrun, Hadot’s insight is a lifeline. It’s a call to pause, to face our finitude, and to let that reckoning transform our mundane into something sacred.
That’s where my Intellectual Shortcut Affirmation (ISA) comes in: "I create serious, infinitely valuable, and splendid moments by briefly contemplating my finitude and practicing last time meditation." It started as a raw response to Hadot’s quote, a way to bottle his wisdom into something I could carry with me daily, like a cellphone, like a pilgrim’s staff. Over time, I refined it, swapping "times" for "moments" (more precise), "splendorous" for "splendid" (less lofty), and tightening the phrasing for punch. It’s my personal mojon—a mile-marker on the path to living more fully.
Let me give credit where credit is due. "Last Time Meditation" isn’t mine. It’s a Stoic gem from William B. Irvine’s A Guide to the Good Life, where he suggests imagining this could be the last time you do something. The last time you drink a cafe con leche, hug a friend, or walk a crunchy trail. It’s negative visualization with a twist. Instead of wallowing in dread, Last Time Meditations sharpen your senses, and make the ordinary extraordinary. On the Camino, this practice became my secret weapon against blisters, doubt, and the relentless march of kilometers. Little did I know when I read Irvine's book how important a few simple Stoic practices would help me take that next step.
The Mess We’re In
Let’s be real. We live in a cyclone of noise. You know the pings, deadlines, and endless scrolling? I can’t unplug either. I’m human, not a monk. Life smears into a blur of notifications and nonsense, and meaning’s a ghost slipping through the scroll. Nietzsche nailed it. “God is dead,” or like I say, “We’ve killed Him,” leaving us wrestling with an abyss that claws at our sanity. How do I find footing in this man-made mess? For me, it’s staring down my mortality, not to despair, but to ignite the now. So how do I claw back meaning from that mess? It starts with the weight of the real. Serious, infinitely valuable, and splendid moments are not luxuries. They are my rebellion against a world that wants me numb.
Serious Moments: The Weight of Being Right Here Right Now
Picture this.
Look at my photo of Kilometer-Marker 554.6, just outside Belorado, on day 13 of our Camino. I’m 59, lugging a 20-pound pack, four blisters screaming, arthritis gnawing my hips, right ankle swollen like a softball. Cristina’s trudging beside me, stronger than me as always. That cement mojon looms into view. It's a mocking signpost shouting we’ve still got 554.6 kilometers to go to Santiago. It doesn't say how far we’ve come (246 kilometers from Saint Jean Pied de Port), but how far we’ve yet to go. Fear, despair, agony and doubt hit me like a gut punch. Could I make it? These are feelings I'd buried years ago under a cushy Florida life. Don't get me wrong I have lived an amazing, adventurous, and plentiful life. I'm a retired Air Force officer. I've seen some shit and overcome more, but that was years ago. This was now.
In that instant, I did what Irvine taught me. I imagined this might be my last time facing this glorious marker. Suddenly, the moment grew heavier, not crushing, but serious. The crisp morning Castilla y Leon air cooled my sweat. The mojon wasn’t just a concrete indicator of what lay ahead. It was a witness to my grit, a testament to 246 kilometers of limping defiance. Serious moments like these strip away the bullshit. No emails, no to-do lists, all the silly petty worries vanish. You are left to root around in the raw fact of being alive and what's your next move. These mojones, paired with Last Time Meditation, demand you show up, fully, because you might not get another shot.
Infinitely Valuable Moments: The Rarity of Now
I physically walked on, but rewound my mind, flipping the script on that mojon, doing quick math. 800 minus 554 equals 246. I’d walked 246 kilometers. I'd walked over the Pyrenees, through Rioja’s vineyards, past ancient fig trees. These weren't insignificant numbers. 554 = 246 are my numbers. It's my math. I own them. They are a piece of my life no one can take from me. Contemplating my finitude, knowing I may never walk this path again, made that moment infinitely valuable. Not in some cosmic sense, but in its sheer, unrepeatable rarity.
In our info-saturated age, we’re drowning in sameness. There goes another tweet, another ad, another day blurring by. But when you meditate on "this might be the last," every detail can and does shine. The crunch of gravel under my shoes, Cristina’s steady breath and encouraging voice beside me, "Vamonos Senior," the faint ache of blisters, are all treasures because they’re fleeting. Infinitely valuable moments do not need grandeur. They need presence. On the Camino, I learned that 554.6 kilometers left wasn’t a threat. It was a gift, full of grace, a finite stretch of life I’d fight.
Splendid Moments: Beauty in the Breakdown
Fast-forward to el Alto de Mostelares, a barren hill outside Castrojeriz. I’m climbing alone, Cristina trailing behind, meditating in her quiet way. The dawn’s painting the valley soft browns and muted yellows. At the top, I walk up to a shrine. The memorial for Manuel Picasso Lopez greets me, piled with stones, prayer cards, mementos from countless pilgrims. I place a stone for a friend’s son, lost to suicide, and feel a presence. Later, in Frómista, I learn my father passed that day, perhaps that very hour, 8500 kilometers away in Oregon.
Splendid moments aren’t always joyful but they can radiate with meaning. Facing my father’s death mid-Camino, I practiced last time meditation with vigor. I recalled the last time I’d heard his voice, the last time I called him on my training walks. That hill, that shrine, shimmers in my memory with a quiet magnificence, not loud or flashy, but deep. So deep that I'm still drilling for the bottom. The Meseta stretched ahead of me, vast and stark, and I walked it with my Dad in my heart. Splendid moments pierce the haze of our hectic lives, cutting through angst with beauty born of truth. We are here, briefly, and that’s enough to make the world glow. Manuel Picasso Lopez's memorial still makes the world glow for daring pilgrims like me.
A Pilgrim’s Practice
My Intellectual Shortcut Affirmation isn’t abstract. It is forged in the crucible of my lived experience. On the Camino, facing mojones, memorials, pilgrims I met and never saw again, cafes con leche at roadside stops are moments I will unpack for years. My Camino turned Hadot’s philosophy into a daily ritual. Briefly contemplating my finitude for a few minutes, or maybe in one solo breath pairs well with Irvine’s last time meditation. It rewires how I see the world. Back home I continue walking the 1.5-mile training loop around my community, pausing and telling myself this could be the last time I hear that red-headed woodpecker, scare a squirrel up a Canary Island Palm tree or herd a flock of Florida chickens in the median. This coffee, this sunrise, this chat with Cristina, may very well be my last. And damn if that doesn’t make these moments serious, infinitely valuable, and splendid.
In a culture sprinting away from God and death, I wager on facing them. I do not brood. I live harder. The Camino taught me how. Nietzsche’s abyss can scream at me all it wants. I’ll scream back, then turn to the path ahead. One step. A new mojon. Another sacred now. Day 22,460 and counting.
¡Viva la Meseta!
¡Buen Camino!
~Lance v22.460
