On New Year’s Eve, I was happy to say goodbye to 2011. The previous winter was awful in the Northeast, and there had been lots of tragedy in the world. We had a death in our immediate family in July, which hit all of us hard.

Enter 2012, and the realization that I may have spoken too fast.

Each morning, as I pull out of my driveway on my way to work, I pray for people who need relief from illness or distress. Despite the fact that we are still in January, I have officially lost count of how many people I am praying for. I have a number of friends and relatives of friends who have dealing with cancer and other illnesses.

I think I'm a pretty good person; besides praying, I contact friends who are struggling to see what I can do for them. Usually, what they want is just to have someone to talk to, and to listen, which is something I am capable of.

But in the bigger picture, there is a lesson I know that I am not learning.

Back in 1975, my late mother, Frances, had a part in the play "Our Town" (she was "Mrs. Webb") with a community theater in Rockaway, New York. If you're familiar with "Our Town," you may remember that it is a sneaky little play. Unlike some other works, there is really no great action. You view two families, and you watch as two young people from these families fall in love. While you wait for something of magnitude to occur, you slowly realize that what is happening is just life itself: the living, the loving, and the parting.

Thinking back to my Mother’s performance, I don't remember much more than being schlepped to the rehearsals and knowing all the lines by opening night. However, when my college (SUNY at Stony Brook, on Long Island) chose to perform the play on in 1984, I knew I had to be part of it. I was lucky enough to get one of the larger parts ("Doc Gibbs"), and to have my mother in the audience on opening night.

This time around, I noted an exchange in the play, which I have never forgotten. Offstage, between the first and second acts, it is revealed that the female lead, Emily, has passed away during childbirth. She is given the chance to relive a single day in her life, and she chooses her 12th birthday. She is overwhelmed by the experience, and has an exchange with the Stage Manager, a character who comments on the action as the play progresses.

"Oh, Earth, you're too wonderful for anybody to realize you!" Emily exclaims. "Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it - every, every minute?"

"No," responds the Stage Manager. "The saints and poets, maybe they do some."

When people who matter to me get ill or pass away, my reaction is always the same. A voice in my head says: "Your time is limited; stop worrying about the small things." And I can do it … for a day or two. Then the dog barks, my kids do something that gets me upset or money gets tight and the bills are due. Mentally, I know these things are transitory and do not matter in the long run. But I am an emotional being. What happens in reality is that I get caught up in the grind and bullshit of life, and the lesson I should be learning is forgotten.

Some people say they want to visit the Grand Canyon or Europe before they die. Others say they'd like a bunch of money to get the material things they'd like. I know what I want: to wise up. And I hope, with enough grace and luck, I have enough time left to do just that.

I don't want to be a Saint or a Poet. I just want to keep on remembering the words spoken by Emily and why they are important.

Barry Wenig lives in N.H. with his wife Mary, his daughter Talia and their pets. His son, Eli, is in college in upstate New York.

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