WE GET 650,000 HOURS OF LIFE. HOW WILL YOU SPEND YOURS?

by Ken Budd

Ann with a fellow student in Ecuador.

Ann with a fellow student in Ecuador.

Twelve words in a Bill Bryson book changed my friend Ann’s life.

Ann was 34, living in her native England, and bored by her job as an office manager for a government contractor. Then she read Bryson’s book on the origins of the universe, A Short History of Nearly Everything. On page two of the introduction, Bryson makes a startling statement: “Even a long human life,” he writes, “adds up to only about 650,000 hours.”

That number shook her. And she had a workplace epiphany. She was in a meeting, she looked around the room, and thought…Why am I giving you lot one of my hours? So she went back to school, she studied ecology and wildlife conservation, and she traveled to South America, romping around the rainforest with a university research team—all because of that number: 650,000 hours.

We don’t get much time on this lovely planet. And the older I get, the more I realize it. I’ve become more conscious of squandered hours—of frittering away minutes like pennies, spending time without thought. Recently I caught myself slumped in the Barcalounger watching Match Game on a retro TV channel. That’s right: I was watching a game show from 1978. And as an ascot-clad Charles Nelson Reilly puffed his pipe and harrumphed double-entendres onscreen I thought…Is this really the best use of my time?

“Living life to the fullest” can seem daunting. We think a life of passion means plummeting from planes or scaling Mount Everest or piercing body parts that shouldn’t be pierced. But relishing our 650,000 hours is as simple as savoring the planet’s many gifts. So my advice for you—for all of us—is this:

Stare less at your phone and gaze more at the world. I’ve seen pedestrians so phone-focused they don’t check traffic—and nearly become hood ornaments on FedEx trucks. Let’s lose our electronic self-absorption and take time to marvel at the Earthly goodies that surround us: to dog watch, people watch, cloud watch, star watch. In a vast, expanding universe, this is the only planet we know that has pizza. And babies. And cocker spaniels. And foosball. In the words of the great American philosopher—Ferris Bueller—“Life moves pretty fast. You don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Live better by giving. Over the course of three comfort-zone-busting years, I volunteered in six countries, from a Costa Rican school to a scientific project in Ecuador (which is where I met Ann). In my travels, the most content, most centered, most satisfied people I met were those who’d dedicated their lives to others. Generosity can lower your blood pressure and heart rate, reduce stress levels, and even boost your longevity, studies have found. So give to family, to friends, to strangers, to enemies. To quote my father, success comes from helping others succeed.

Follow your passion, even if it scares you. No one wants their life defined by the things they didn’t do. The best way to learn about yourself—and about others—is to escape your bubble of familiarity. “My advice to anyone thinking about a career or lifestyle change is to make sure you are passionate about what you want to do,” says Ann. “That excitement will carry you through the emotional and financial tough times. Without it, you can’t possibly take the terrifying first steps.” 

After a “decade of transformation,” as she calls it, Ann, now 44, is pursuing her PhD at the Bournemouth University and conducting research at Poole Harbour in Southern England, studying the impact of “green macro-algal mats on the invertebrate community in intertidal mudflats and whether it’s affecting the wintering wading bird population.”

And yes, she loves it.

Ann's idea of fun? Conducting research in the mudflats of Southern England.

Ann's idea of fun? Conducting research in the mudflats of Southern England.

“Over the last three years I’ve been stuck in mud up to my waist, collected samples in howling wind and rain, sieved mud, picked out worms, counted the number of times a bird swallows, and filled my freezer with seaweed,” she says, joyfully.

Here’s hoping we find mudflats of joy in our own lives. “Ultimately those 650,000 hours—or however many you are given—are yours,” says Ann. Let's make them count.

Ken Budd is the host of 650,000 Hours, a web series launching in 2016. He is the author of the award-winning memoir The Voluntourist and his writing credits include The New York Times, National Geographic, Smithsonian, The Washington Post, and The Chicago Tribune.

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LOVE, LOSS, AND WHAT REALLY MATTERS DURING THE HOLIDAYS

by Ken Budd

Me and mom, 1973.

Me and mom, 1973.

This is my first Christmas without my mother. Mom died suddenly in mid-September, three months before her 75th birthday. For Mom, the holidays were less about Santa than stress. The yuletide anxieties began around Labor Day, when she’d fret about finding the perfect gift, and finding the time to find the perfect gift, and whether she’d bought enough perfect gifts. This quest for a flawless Christmas probably stemmed from an impoverished childhood, but anxieties ruled her life. When Mom wasn’t worried, it would worry her, because she knew she should be worried about something.

We discussed it before the holidays last year. Mom was suffering her usual bout of pre-Christmas, do-you-fear-what-I-fear nerves.

“You know, people rarely remember what they receive at Christmas,” I told her. “It’s all about hanging out together.”

I’m convinced that people recall the traditions more than the gifts. I can’t tell you what presents I received at age seven—wonderful though they were—but I can picture the Christmas Eve candlelight church service, the flames serene, glowing in the darkened room. I remember going to our neighbor’s house afterwards for some evening hyperactivity. I can taste Mom’s fudge and sugar cookies. (Mom loved sweets: she was the kind of woman who would eat a cinnamon roll for dinner.) I can see her enduring Charlie Brown and the Grinch as I watched in footy pajamas from the couch.

More than anything, I can hear “Blue Christmas.” Mom was a devout Elvis fan. When I was eight, my parents took my sister and I to see Elvis in concert, a pilgrimage similar to Catholic children seeing the Pope. I’ve caught myself singing “Blue Christmas” this holiday season, and it leaves me both happy and sad. Because this is a blue Christmas without her. And that’s a challenge. There’s so much pressure to be jolly this time of year, to submerge your sorrow, to not be dubbed a scrooge.

But the holidays aren’t just about sugar-plum frivolity. Yes, it’s a time of fun, and a time of giving. But it’s also a time of remembrance.

The first Christmas after Dad’s death, Mom and I took a wreath to his grave. The gesture was more important to Mom than to me. I don’t think the dead want us loitering in cemeteries—they want us to live and laugh and to feel heartache and bliss and to revel in our brief existence on the planet. But for mom, placing a wreath was a symbol of dedication and respect. It showed that we loved him. And she was right.

So we drove to the cemetery and walked up a grassy hill to Dad’s grave. It's a pretty cemetery: The markers are flat, the landscape uncluttered by tombstones. Korean and Vietnamese families hang wind chimes for loved ones. The chimes sing, softly, almost like, well, sleigh bells.

I pushed the wreath stand into soft dirt—the ground was damp from rain.

“Are you sure it’ll stay,” Mom said, forever worried.

“Trust me—it’ll stay.”

And the wreath-laying tradition will remain as well. My sister and I placed a wreath at my parents’ grave on Mom’s birthday, December 4. I like this new tradition, as much as I do eating cookies and watching Peanuts. Because just as that wreath-stand holds firm in the earth, our traditions, whether solemn or silly, ground us in a warm past, linking us to loved ones, childhoods, memories.

So here’s my holiday advice: As you’re scurrying to shopping malls and stressing over gifts, take time to stop and smell the fudge. Cherish your family and friends, because that’s what you’ll remember when the gifts are gone from the tree. Find joy, and give joy, and give to those who need it. “Peace on Earth, goodwill toward men” is not a greeting card mantra. It’s the ultimate holiday tradition.

Ken Budd is the host of 650,000 Hours, a web series launching in 2020. He is the author of the award-winning memoir The Voluntourist and his writing credits include The New York Times, National Geographic Traveler, Smithsonian, The Washington Post, and The Chicago Tribune.

Click here to subscribe to the 650,000 Hours blog.