Last week I was in mourning. This week I celebrated.

After an extended period of decline, my pet snail died last Friday. When Hastings first came to our tank four months ago, he was languid, not moving for days. I was ready to return him for a refund when he suddenly scooted to some back corner and started chomping on algae. Ever since, he had slinked around in his sluggy ways, seeming to get along just fine. Until a couple of weeks ago. After what looked like a routine dive from a leaf–ok, he might have been pushed by an aggressive fish–the intrepid gastropod did not move from the spot where he’d landed. This lasted for days. Then I noticed that he had trouble pulling himself inside his shell. These were all signs of an imminent demise. With trepidation I prepared for the float of death. That had been how a previous snail had expired, by bobbing to the surface of the water. But Hastings lingered long after my expectation–inching, wobbling, or rolling as much as he could. In the end, we only knew he was gone because the shell was empty. His shriveled body had been sucked out and half-eaten by a perpetually hungry fish or two (See the Fish Follies post if you want to know more about them).

I cried at Hastings’ death. But I also marveled at how he lived until the end. He was not content to squat in that spot until the last syllable of his recorded time. While he had any milliseconds of existence left, he struggled to move, no matter how futile. It was an admirable tenacity, even if it might only be instinct.

Newness of Life

This week, we went to buy new snails. The manager at the pet store told us that mystery snails usually lasted no more than a year. After living many of them, I knew that a year was only a blip in the radar of time. We would be opening ourselves to another sad good-bye very soon. Yet we happily bought two little young’uns, and not just because we needed them to clean our tank. I rejoiced in their life and vigor like a new mother. It may be for only a short time, but I will take the prospect of pain for the anticipated joys.

Is it this same tenacity that spurs us to continue in any seemingly futile effort? After hundreds of rejections and countless criticisms that crisscross our hearts in leaking scars, why don’t we just retire our keyboards and curl up somewhere to let our writing dreams die? Maybe it is also our instinct for life. Perhaps we were made with the hope to look for the sunrise after every sunset. Because life is precious and fleeting and given to us for purpose. And we should make every moment count as long as we have breath.

So thank you, Hastings, for reminding us with your last ounce of courage. L’chaim.