I’m living with a mountain of memories. Just the other day, as a friend and I sat in our seats at a University of Houston football game, we looked back in time. We talked about our days in Robertson Stadium. We had endzone seats, right up front. We talked to the band as they walked by. Players would salute us. In one game, two kickoffs bounced right into my hands. We had a group of ten, five couples, the oldest of friends. We’re still friends, but now two are dead, two are moved away, and we are the two remaining season ticket holders. Another friend joins us on occasion, but we are diminished.

It would be easy to get caught up admiring the past, yearning for it, and thinking about all the good times, because we had lots of them. This same group of ten partied together, saw music together, camped together, raised our kids together, traveled together. But that was then, and this is now, and I was struck by the sincerity of a comment my friend made at the game. As we looked back and talked, he said, I’m glad you’ve made all your new friends. And I knew what he meant.

I still see and socialize with almost all of my old friends, but these days when I travel, or go to ball games, or concerts it is more likely I will go with people I barely knew even ten years ago. And in doing so, what I have discovered is that while it might be comfortable to snuggle down in the forest or flatlands of old memories and revel in the past, if I keep moving there is almost always something just ahead. A bend in the trail. The shade of a tree. The sound of a bird. A breath of wind. The crest of a hill. The top. A new song. In sum, I’ll have eternity to be dead, but I only have now to be alive. And I might as well keep piling on the memories.