The Art of Living

Are We Living Our Best Lives?

by Dana Raye Barnaby

There are only two certainties in life: death and taxes.

And sometimes, the second is so stressful it speeds up the first.

But when a dear, dear friend - one of the kindest souls to ever walk this earth - passes suddenly, quietly, while doing something he loved (or at least loved enough to devote his life to: making movies), it stops everything. It makes you reflect. Forces the question:

Are we living our best lives?

It’s a question that sneaks in occasionally. But when grief knocks at your door, it barges in without apology. And once it’s there, you can’t ignore it.

For me, this moment brought clarity to two things:

a) Life is unbearably short.

b) What we do with that time matters more than we admit.

Of course, “best life” is subjective. My mother’s dream life was leaving the family farm, getting married, raising kids, working hard, then retiring to travel and play with her grandbabies. That was her version. Sadly, she never made it to retirement - didn’t travel much and those grandchildren barely got to know her as the wise woman she had become.

Wisdom is also subjective. Perhaps it’s in that hard-earned knowledge of what we love, what we fear, and what we’ve learned not to do, that shapes us and we begin to understand how to truly live.

So why aren’t we all out there living with joy, pleasure, and kindness?

Because life gets in the way.

Because the world feels like it’s falling apart.

Because fear makes comfort feel like the safer bet.

Lately, I haven’t felt particularly optimistic about the world around us.

Trump. Economic collapse. Climate catastrophe. Nuclear threats.

A.I. rendering our skills irrelevant. And the harsh realization that many of us might never afford the luxury of pondering happiness.

And yet, I’ve known joy. As an artist, I’ve lived a pretty great life and experienced some incredible moments - writing songs, making films, capturing photos, writing scripts, these essays, deep conversations and collaborating with others. In those moments, I was, and am absolutely living my best life.

But it’s not a permanent state. Life swells and contracts. Friends come and go. Lovers fade, and sometimes, new love sparks. But eventually, many of us begin to settle. We accept a life less than. A version of happiness we once only tolerated in our youth.

With age comes wisdom, yes - but also fear.

Fear of the past. Fear of failure. Fear of heartbreak.

Not fear of dying - no, that’s inevitable.

But fear of actually living.

We tell ourselves stories to cope.

An unhappy marriage is better than dying alone.

The familiar is safer than the unknown.

Stability is more responsible than passion.

But here’s the truth:

We all die alone - peacefully sitting in a chair, if we’re lucky.

My friend did just that.

And now the rest of us are left here, trying to go on without him.

Trying to make sense of how someone so gracious, so generous, so talented could vanish from this world so suddenly.

Hopefully, he’s in a better place. He deserves that, for all he gave this world: love, kindness, and integrity. He made it better.

Billy Joel asked, “Why do only the good die young?”

Sadly, I don’t have an answer.

But I do wonder if my friend is watching us now - hoping his absence might shape our future. Hoping we might wake up from our routines. Hoping we finally ask the question and mean it:

Are we actually living our best lives?

And if not - then when?

My dear friend and I were just speaking this past Thursday about selling his Vancouver home, moving to the interior - closer to his boys, working a few movies a year and spending the rest of his days drinking margaritas on a beach in Mexico.  I told him that I would be right there beside him with salt, lime and glasses at the ready!

I will still raise that margarita glass in his honor - sadly only with his memory present.

Maybe it’s time to take Andy Dufresne’s advice in The Shawshank Redemption (my favorite movie) to heart:

“Get busy living, or get busy dying.”

You’re goddamn right!

Thank you, Rory. I am missing you already...

My friend, mentor, and inspiration.

Thank you for taking the time to join me on this journey of reflection and storytelling. If these words have resonated, you might enjoy my second series of essays called, The Vanishing Gentleman.

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