Out on my morning walk yesterday, I started thinking about Mark Twain.

And, I know you’re thinking … that’s odd.

Well, I can kind of explain it.

Just the other day, a friend sent me a video of Conan O’Brien receiving the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor. 

(if you're interested in hearing a clip of Conan's acceptance speech expressing his reverence for Twain, here is one.  

Yesterday, I saw the news that the Pulitzer Prize was awarded to James by Percival Everett — a novel I read a few months ago. 

It’s a fictional retelling of Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, but this time through the eyes of Jim — or “James,” as he’s called in the book - a Black man who was enslaved.

If you’re not familiar with Huckleberry Finn, it’s set in the pre-Civil War South and centers around Huck, a young white boy, and Jim, a man escaping slavery. 

Reading James through Jim’s perspective offers a profound shift in understanding - one that expands empathy and reminds us of how easily we miss the full truth when we only view a story through our own lens.

On a recent day of pouring rain, my extended family both mourned and celebrated a life well lived.

A cousin-in-law of mine, a Brit by birth, who adopted New England as his home in adulthood, was the type of person who lived large and always seized the day, had an insatiable curiosity, and could easily drop a Shakespeare quote into an otherwise mundane conversation.

He was definitely one of those people who didn’t waste a minute of life.

So as a throng of people celebrated and toasted his remarkable life, one mentioned a quote that was his favorite.