Ichi-go, Ichi-e. A Life Lesson from Mom

I visited my mom over the New Year’s weekend. She has advanced dementia and requires round-the-clock care. My dad and I walked into the memory care facility where she lives, and Michelle, her caregiver, greeted me with, “Do you want a job this afternoon?”

“Uh, sure. What do you need me to do?” I tentatively asked.

“Why don’t you feed your mom lunch?” was her reply. It wasn’t a request.

Mom sat there in her wheelchair, donning a bib. Blank stare. Straight ahead. I gently turned her head toward me. She stared right through me—no look of recognition, no apparent emotion. Just a blank, distant gaze. I then began the slow process of feeding her lunch: a sip of a protein drink, followed by a spoonful of puréed soup, then a bit of canned fruit, a drink of water, and back to the protein drink.

It was a slow, plodding process. The minutes dragged on. I’m ashamed to admit my mind wandered, and I secretly wished my mother would pick up the pace a bit. I thought of everything except the beautiful lady sitting right in front of me.

By some small miracle, I managed to refocus—to reorient myself to the task and the person at hand. I studied her intently: the dry, crusted food at the corner of her mouth; hazel eyes; soft wisps of gray hair across her forehead; wrinkles and crevices born of 84 years of living and loving. She was beautiful, and I had nearly missed it.

I lifted a spoonful of puréed soup to her lips, and a bit dribbled down her chin. In a reflexive move, reminiscent of feeding my own children years earlier, I scooped up the dribble with the edge of the spoon and brought it back to her mouth.

“Mom,” I said softly. I gently turned her face toward mine.

“Do you remember when you fed me like this?”

Her gaze slowly shifted—from distant to something approaching recognition. She looked into my eyes and there was the faintest upturn at the corner of her mouth. Then her eyes brightened, the unmistakable sign of a genuine, heartfelt smile. We connected—mother to son—but only for a moment.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too,” she replied.

I treasure that brief moment—a moment I nearly missed.

On the three-and-a-half-hour drive home on New Year’s Day, I had ample time to reflect on my visit. It occurred to me that the most precious moments with my mom are likely to be fleeting, buried among the mundane, and that those moments must be recognized, treasured, and celebrated. It also struck me that most of life—and most relationships—are like that: sacred moments hidden within the repetitive toil of the everyday. How many of these moments do I miss by not fully engaging?

There is a Japanese idiom, ichi-go ichi-e, which literally translates as “one time, one encounter.” It can also mean “once in a lifetime” or “never again.” The heart of this idea is that every interaction in life—no matter how fleeting, routine, or mundane—is unique, never to be repeated, and therefore worthy of attention and reverence.

So my sole New Year’s resolution is a big one:

Ichi-go ichi-e as a life discipline—treasuring each moment with friends, family, colleagues, patients, and especially God; fully focused on, and present with, who is directly in front of me.

Thanks, Mom, for the life lesson.