We are supposed to enjoy the good stuff now, while we can, with

“We are supposed to enjoy the good stuff now, while we can, with the people we love. Life has a funny way of teaching us that lesson over and over again.” — so spoke Sheena Easton, the singer whose voice once filled the airwaves with melodies of longing and joy, and whose words now carry the quiet wisdom of lived experience. In this reflection, she captures the ancient truth that life is fleeting, and that the moments of love, laughter, and togetherness are the true treasures of existence. Her message, simple yet profound, echoes what philosophers, poets, and sages have always known — that happiness is not found in distant dreams or in the gathering of wealth, but in the present, in the shared warmth of those who walk beside us.

When Easton says, “We are supposed to enjoy the good stuff now, while we can,” she is not speaking of indulgence or carelessness, but of awareness — the ability to see what is beautiful before it passes. The ancients called this carpe diem, the seizing of the day, not out of greed for pleasure but out of reverence for impermanence. They understood that every sunrise is a gift, and that to postpone joy is to gamble against time itself. Easton’s words carry that same reverence, born not from theory but from life’s own gentle and sometimes painful reminders: that what we take for granted today may be gone tomorrow.

Her phrase, “Life has a funny way of teaching us that lesson over and over again,” reveals both humility and sorrow. It is as though she speaks from the vantage of one who has lost and regained — who has seen joy rise and fall like the tide. The ancients believed that fate (moira) was a stern but fair teacher, repeating its lessons until the heart truly understood. Every loss, every unexpected change, every separation is part of that teaching. It is not cruelty, but wisdom in disguise — urging us to cherish what is before us. Easton reminds us that life’s impermanence is not to be feared, but to be honored through gratitude.

Consider the story of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor of Rome. Surrounded by the splendor of empire, he knew that every pleasure, every victory, every life was temporary. “Do not act as if you were going to live ten thousand years,” he wrote. “While you live, while it is in your power, be good.” His wisdom was not born of comfort but of constant reminder — that even emperors lose what they love. So too does Easton, through her gentle reflection, carry forward this stoic insight, transformed into tenderness: cherish the moment, for it will not return.

There is also a deep sense of community in her words. “With the people we love,” she says — for joy, in her eyes, is not a solitary experience. The ancients, too, taught that the highest pleasures are shared ones. The Greeks spoke of philia, the love of friendship and kinship, as the root of happiness. What meaning has laughter, if no one hears it? What beauty has sunset, if no soul shares its light? Easton’s wisdom reminds us that happiness is not a possession, but a communion — a weaving of hearts that must be tended, nourished, and never postponed.

Her insight also reflects the cyclical nature of understanding. Life, she says, teaches this lesson “over and over again.” Indeed, the ancients saw wisdom as a spiral — a truth revisited from deeper vantage points as one grows. A young person may hear the words “enjoy the moment” and nod, but it is only after loss, after the passing of years and faces, that the heart truly understands them. Easton speaks with that seasoned knowing — the knowledge that comes not from books, but from living, from loving, from seeing life’s fragile beauty break and blossom again.

So let this teaching be carried forward: Do not wait to live. Do not store your laughter for another day, nor your affection for another hour. Sit with those you love. Speak the words that kindness urges you to speak. Share a meal, a story, a sunset — for these are the true riches of existence. Life, as Sheena Easton reminds us, is a gentle but persistent teacher, returning to us with the same lesson until we finally live it: that joy is not in the past or the future, but in the now — in the faces beside us, in the fleeting warmth of the present, and in the courage to cherish what is here before it becomes memory.