Hi friends,
A month ago, when Ally and I stayed in a small village in Northern Italy, we slept in an old house for a couple of weeks. One morning, I had coffee in the courtyard area, imagining what it was like for the families who had lived there for centuries. When we left, other travelers arrived, and we realized: this is how life works. We move through places, leave our imprint, and hand the keys to the next guest.
Later, walking through the town’s cemetery, I noticed how many gravestones showed entire generations gone, side by side. The houses, the clothes, and the worries they carried had all vanished. Yet the earth carried on, of course, and the grass grew over them.
We’re tenants here, all of us, for a relatively short stay.
For a few years, I’ve been thinking about this: we are all visitors on earth, and nothing we have is permanent. We’re renting space and time and homes. We’re renting moments with one another. Even our own bodies are on loan. At some point, the lease runs out, and we leave it all behind.
Think about the house you live in. Even if you hold the deed, you don’t really own it. Long after you are gone, it will be knocked down, or someone else will move in, repaint the walls, and make new memories inside those same walls. The same is true for land. It feels like property, but it was here long before us and will remain long, long after. In many Native cultures, land is never owned but held in stewardship. The Iroquois spoke of making decisions with the seventh generation in mind, a reminder that we are caretakers borrowing the earth from those who come after us.
Native American leader Chief Seattle said, “The earth does not belong to us. We belong to the earth.”
Our relationships are borrowed, too. We don’t own our spouse, our children, or our friends. We are given time with them, sometimes a lifetime, sometimes only a season. Anyone who has lost a loved one knows how fragile that lease can be. The writer Kahlil Gibran says of children, “They come through you but not from you, and though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.” To love someone fully is to recognize their freedom, even while we share in their presence.
When, say, a grandparent passes away, their house, so full of memories, Sunday dinners, and holiday mornings, is eventually sold. The new owners might paint over the kitchen walls and tear down the garden you or your grandmother loved. At first it might feel sad, almost like erasure. That’s understandable. But then you realize: they were living there as renters, too. The home had sheltered them for a time, and now it shelters someone else.
If everything is borrowed, then our role is that of caretaker, not owner. I love this reframing: caretaker. We tend to our homes so the next tenants find them in good shape. We nurture friendships and families not because we possess them, but because they are gifts entrusted to us. A garden is not ours to keep forever, but while we live, we water it, prune it, and watch it flourish. The garden can be a metaphor for just about anything in life: your belongings, your career, your investments, and so on.
Think about lending a favorite book to a friend. You don’t know if it will come back with creased pages or highlighted lines, but while it’s in their hands, it gives them joy. That’s life in miniature: we borrow and pass along, leaving traces for the next reader.
This perspective can shift how we move through life. Instead of hoarding or clinging, we can focus on appreciating what is here right now. Instead of fearing loss, we can embrace impermanence. The fleeting nature of things is not a curse but a kind of beauty. As the poet Mary Oliver asked, “Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
When the lease is finally up, what matters most is what we left behind. Did we leave people better than we found them? Did we offer kindness in our wake? Did we live in a way that made our brief stay on this magical planet meaningful?
We’re all visitors here….renters. That could be the best reminder of all: to hold lightly, care deeply, and cherish the borrowed time we have.
With love,
Matthew
