This week my dear friend Richard passed away.

Richard and his partner Linda became dear friends after I moved to Prince Edward County. Richard was one of those rare people whose presence immediately put others at ease. Gentle. Joyful. Kind. Deeply loving.

He never seemed to be trying to become someone. He was simply himself.

As I’ve reflected on Richard’s life these past few days, I’ve found myself returning again and again to a conversation I had with someone I respect, admire and care deeply about because of who they are and the way they live in this world.

When I shared the news of Richard’s passing, they simply said, “I hope he had a good, contented life.”

Contented?

I sat with the word for a long time. I wasn’t sure I knew what it actually meant.

The more I sat with it, the more I realised how rarely we speak about contentment. We speak about success. Achievement. Influence. Recognition. Growth. We celebrate ambition. We admire accomplishment.

And almost never do we ask whether someone lived a contented life.

Not a perfect life. Not an easy life. A contented one.

Richard’s death has left me grieving. Grieving the loss of someone who made me feel so at home in Prince Edward County. Someone I always loved to see. Richard embodied a life lived sincerely.

I was not missing or grieving his accomplishments. I was missing who he was and how he lived. How he made people feel. So kind, loving, joyful and peaceful. He found his way to a good, contented life.

For much of my own life, I measured life by different questions. Was I contributing? Was I growing? Was I making a difference?

While those questions still matter, this week I’ve wondered if another question belongs beyond them all.

Am I living in a way that allows contentment to quietly take root?

Today.

Contentment doesn’t seem to mean having everything. It doesn’t mean life unfolds exactly as we hoped. It doesn’t mean the absence of grief, uncertainty or loss. Richard’s passing reminds me of that.

Instead, I’m beginning to wonder whether contentment has more to do with how we meet life than what life gives us. Whether we love generously. Whether we remain open. Whether we notice beauty. Whether the people around us feel welcomed by our presence.

Whether, at the end of an ordinary day, there is a quiet sense that this moment, just as it is, is enough. That it is enough to exist from love.

In many ways, I feel as though I’m only just beginning to understand the question. I’m grateful Richard’s life asked it. I’m grateful someone I deeply admire offered me that word without knowing what it would do.

It’s one I think I’ll be living with for a long time.

Richard did that.

A life, lived sincerely.