As adults, we can only enjoy life by slowing down, stopping the race, finding one place, two at most, and then sinking into this sea. It seems like a decrease, but in reality it is an increase in good life...
by Luigino Bruni
published in Messaggero di Sant'Antonio on 07/04/2025
A few days ago, a friend of mine, talking about her mother's vacation, told me: “She's going on vacation to the place she goes every year. She loves it there, she ‘enjoys that place.’” I was struck by the thought of this elderly lady who is able to ‘enjoy’ life. Why? There are many ways to “enjoy” life, today as in the past, all over the world and at every age.
There is the way of young people, when their boundless energy and infinite desire for life lead them to find pleasure in many things, almost everything; because life moving towards its midday throws light on everything around it—a run in the morning, an evening at a pizzeria, a conversation full of tears and hugs: in everything, young people find life and the joy of living (even if we need to understand better what is happening to this joy in the too many lonely hours spent in front of smartphones...).
Then there is the life enjoyed by children. Here, everything is truly grace. Children enjoy life simply by living, no matter what they do; they enjoy it even when they fall asleep anywhere. They are always running, moving, asking questions, trusting every adult they confuse with their parents and relatives (and this is where their special vulnerability lies).
Life envelops everything with its fullness: there is no age, more than childhood, when one enjoys life. That is why contact with children is essential for everyone's good life. Enjoying life becomes more complicated as adults and then as old people.
It is difficult because the natural generosity and selflessness of young people diminishes and the tendency/temptation to seek life in order to consume it grows. We feel life slipping away and, in order not to lose it, we think we can stop it for a moment by possessing it, capturing it, devouring it. We rush to grab life outside: entertainment, aperitifs, restaurants, cruises, vacations pursued all year round. We make the mistake of Dante's Ulysses, who seeks salvation outside, beyond the Pillars of Hercules. We eat our lives, devour people and everything we encounter. And the older we get, the more this grows.
And finally, there is my friend's mother's vacation: she waits all year for that place, that one place, that place where she finds something intimate. It's not a five-star hotel, it's not a restaurant with a chef: it's a home, a safe haven, an oikos, an environment that is both external and internal. Something similar to what ancient man experienced when he entered a temple, or when a monk enters the choir, happens there: time is pierced and eternity is touched.
As adults, we can only enjoy life in this way: by slowing down, stopping the race, finding one place, two at most, and then shipwrecking ourselves in this sea. It seems like a diminution, but in reality it is an increase in good life, learning as adults to truly enjoy the only thing that is truly essential: life.
Photo credit: © Giuliano Dinon / MSA Archive
