Edward Reid

For those who have followed my work over the years, you know that I have dedicated much of my writing to Polish history, memory, and giving a voice to those who have too often been forgotten. History has always been my greatest passion, and I believe preserving the stories of the past is one of the most meaningful ways we honor those who came before us.

Occasionally, however, I feel compelled to step away from history and write about ideas that have profoundly shaped my own life. Philosophy has been one of those enduring influences. During both seasons of peace and periods of personal struggle, I have found myself returning to the writings of the Stoics, the existentialists, and Christian thinkers who wrestled with the same questions that all of us eventually face: Why are we here? How should we live? What gives life meaning in the face of suffering and the certainty of death?

The reflections that follow are not about Poland or the past, but about something that touches every one of us. The Latin phrase memento vivere—“remember to live”—has become increasingly meaningful to me. In a world that moves so quickly and so often distracts us from what truly matters, it serves as a reminder not merely that our lives are finite, but that every day we are given is an opportunity to live with purpose, gratitude, and intention. I hope these thoughts encourage you, as they have encouraged me, to pause for a moment and consider not only how long we may live, but how deeply we choose to live.

Memento Vivere: Remember to Live:

There is an ancient Roman phrase that has echoed through the centuries: memento mori—remember that you must die. At first glance, it seems almost morbid, a bleak meditation on humanity’s inevitable end. Modern culture tends to recoil from such thoughts. We celebrate youth, avoid conversations about death, and often live as though tomorrow is guaranteed. Yet the Romans, along with many philosophers and theologians who followed them, understood something that many of us have forgotten. Remembering death was never intended to fill life with fear. It was meant to awaken us from complacency. If our days are finite, then every day carries immeasurable value. From this wisdom emerges another phrase, quieter and perhaps even more profound: memento vivere—remember to live. It is the natural companion to memento mori. If one reminds us that life will end, the other reminds us that, until that day arrives, we have the extraordinary privilege and responsibility of truly living. The awareness of mortality is not the destination; it is the doorway to a fuller appreciation of existence. Death gives life its urgency, while life gives death its meaning.

The Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius, who ruled during war, plague, and personal loss, understood this better than most. In his Meditations, he wrote, “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.” These words are not a call to anxiety but to clarity. If today were truly our last day, how many of the things that consume our attention would still matter? The arguments we insist on winning, the endless pursuit of status, the resentment we refuse to relinquish, the hours lost to distraction—so much of what feels urgent would suddenly reveal itself as trivial. Mortality has a remarkable way of exposing what is essential. When we remember that time is limited, we become more inclined to cherish our families, to forgive old wounds, to speak words of gratitude while there is still someone left to hear them. The thought of death, paradoxically, becomes one of life’s greatest teachers. It strips away illusion and reminds us that every sunrise, every conversation, every embrace is a gift that cannot be assumed.

Seneca expanded upon this idea with remarkable insight when he wrote, “It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste much of it.” Few observations from antiquity feel more relevant today. We often complain that life passes too quickly, yet we surrender enormous portions of it to worry, distraction, comparison, and postponement. We delay happiness until the next promotion, the next vacation, retirement, or some imagined future when life will finally begin. Meanwhile, the present quietly slips away. Children grow older while we are checking our phones. Parents age while we tell ourselves we will visit next month. Friendships fade because we assume there will always be another opportunity to reconnect. Seneca challenges us to recognize that the tragedy is not necessarily that life is brief, but that we fail to inhabit the moments we have already been given. Memento vivere asks us to reclaim those moments before they become memories we would give anything to experience once more.

Existentialism enters this conversation at precisely this point, not as a philosophy of despair but as a philosophy of awakening. It begins with the uncomfortable reality that every human being must eventually confront mortality. Unlike other creatures, we possess the unsettling awareness that our lives are finite, and that awareness forces us to ask difficult questions about meaning, purpose, and identity. Martin Heidegger argued that authentic life begins only when we confront our own death honestly. He described human existence as Being-toward-death, suggesting that most people drift through life according to social expectations rather than personal conviction. We spend years pursuing goals we never truly chose, living according to standards established by others, until the awareness of mortality interrupts our complacency. Death, in Heidegger’s view, is not merely the end of life but the force that awakens us to it. When we genuinely recognize that our time is limited, we become less concerned with appearances and more concerned with authenticity. We stop asking how others expect us to live and begin asking how we ought to live before our time is gone.

Jean-Paul Sartre approached the question from another direction, arguing that “existence precedes essence.” Unlike a tool, which is created with a predetermined purpose, human beings first exist and only later define themselves through the choices they make. Meaning is not handed to us by the universe; it is created through our actions. This freedom is exhilarating, but it is also deeply unsettling. Sartre famously wrote, “Man is condemned to be free.” We often imagine that our circumstances determine who we become, yet Sartre insisted that we remain responsible for our lives even within difficult circumstances. Every decision shapes our character. Even refusing to decide is itself a decision. Many people spend years waiting for certainty before they begin living, waiting until they feel brave enough, successful enough, or secure enough to pursue what truly matters. Memento vivere reminds us that certainty may never arrive. The only time we possess is now, and every day spent waiting is a day that quietly disappears forever.

Albert Camus confronted perhaps the darkest question of all. In The Myth of Sisyphus, he began with the startling claim that “There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide.” Camus believed that every thoughtful person eventually encounters the apparent absurdity of existence. We seek lasting meaning in a universe that often seems indifferent. We long for permanence while everything around us changes. Yet Camus rejected despair. Instead, he argued that human dignity lies in our refusal to surrender to meaninglessness. His image of Sisyphus endlessly pushing a boulder uphill, only to watch it roll back down again, has become one of philosophy’s most enduring symbols. Outwardly, the task appears hopeless, but Camus concludes with the remarkable statement, “One must imagine Sisyphus happy.” Happiness, in this sense, is not the absence of suffering but the courage to continue despite it. The act of living itself becomes an act of rebellion against despair. Memento vivere embraces this spirit, reminding us that even when life is difficult, there remains profound value in choosing to continue, to create, to love, and to hope.

No one embodied this truth more powerfully than Viktor Frankl. As a prisoner in N**i concentration camps, Frankl witnessed unimaginable cruelty and loss, yet he observed that even in circumstances where every external freedom had been stripped away, one freedom remained. “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing,” he wrote, “the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances.” Frankl discovered that those who possessed a reason to continue living were often capable of enduring extraordinary suffering. His famous conclusion, “Those who have a ‘why’ to live can bear almost any ‘how,’” echoes the heart of memento vivere. Remembering to live does not mean denying suffering or pretending life is easy. Rather, it means recognizing that meaning can exist even within suffering, and that our response to hardship often defines us more than the hardship itself.

Long before existentialism, the biblical writers had already understood that mortality and gratitude belong together. The Psalmist prayed, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” This is a remarkable request. The prayer is not for more years but for greater awareness of the years already given. Throughout Scripture, life is portrayed as a gift rather than an entitlement. James compares human life to “a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes.” Jesus repeatedly urged His listeners not to become consumed with anxiety about tomorrow because tomorrow is never guaranteed. These teachings do not diminish the value of earthly life; they elevate it. Every ordinary moment becomes extraordinary once we recognize its fragility. The morning cup of coffee, the laughter of a child, the changing leaves of autumn, a quiet conversation at the dinner table—these moments become sacred precisely because they cannot be repeated indefinitely.

For those who struggle with depression, memento vivere can take on an especially profound meaning. Depression often creates the painful experience of existing without feeling truly alive. The world loses its color. Joy becomes something remembered rather than experienced. A person may recognize intellectually that life contains beauty while finding themselves emotionally unable to feel it. This inability is not a moral failure; it is one of the cruelest symptoms of the illness itself. Yet even here, remembering to live remains possible. Living is not always measured by intense emotion. Sometimes it is measured by quiet perseverance: getting out of bed, taking a walk despite exhaustion, reading a single page of a book, answering a friend’s phone call, or holding a child’s hand. These seemingly ordinary acts become extraordinary declarations that despair has not achieved the final victory. Camus was right that there is dignity in continuing. Frankl was right that meaning often survives even when happiness temporarily disappears. Memento vivere reminds us that there are seasons in which simply remaining present is itself an act of courage.

Perhaps one of life’s greatest ironies is that we rarely recognize its most precious moments while they are unfolding. We assume there will always be another summer vacation, another Christmas morning with our children, another dinner with our parents, another ordinary evening with the people we love. Only later, when those seasons have quietly passed, do we understand what they meant. Søren Kierkegaard captured this truth beautifully when he wrote, “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.” We can never know which conversation will become our final conversation with someone we love or which ordinary afternoon will someday become a cherished memory. This uncertainty should not frighten us. It should awaken us. It should encourage us to put down the phone, linger a little longer at the dinner table, take the walk we have been postponing, write the letter we have delayed, and tell people we love them while they are still here to hear the words.

As I have grown older, I have come to realize that life is measured less by achievements than by moments. The milestones that once seemed so important often fade, while seemingly insignificant memories remain vivid for decades. A familiar song can instantly transport us back to another season of life. The laughter of a child, the scent of autumn leaves, a quiet evening on the porch, or an unexpected conversation with an old friend often become the memories we treasure most. We spend so much of our lives chasing extraordinary experiences that we fail to notice the extraordinary beauty hidden within ordinary days. The older I become, the more convinced I am that happiness rarely arrives with fanfare. More often it arrives quietly, disguised as an ordinary afternoon that we will someday wish we could relive just one more time.

Memento mori teaches us that our time is limited. Memento vivere reminds us that, at this very moment, we are still alive. Stoicism teaches us to focus on what lies within our control. Existentialism reminds us that meaning is something we create through the choices we make. Christianity teaches us that every day is an undeserved gift entrusted to us by God. Together these traditions offer a remarkably unified message: life is fragile, uncertain, and often marked by suffering, yet it is also breathtakingly beautiful. The clock continues to move whether we notice it or not. Children become adults. Parents become memories. Seasons pass. Our own reflections in the mirror slowly change. One day we realize that the years we imagined were still ahead of us have quietly become the years behind us. That realization should not fill us with regret but with gratitude. Remember that you will die—not because death deserves your attention, but because life does. And while breath remains within you, remember to live.

The following article explores the controversy surrounding Jedwabne.

https://www.academia.edu/126326322/Accusation_Without_Defense_Poland_and_the_Jedwabne_Controversy