There are many thoughts that haunt the average human, and one of the most prevalent goes something like this: What do I have to show for my life? Did I make a difference? What will my life have meant?

This mindset is summed up nicely during the concluding minutes of Saving Private Ryan, when the dying Tom Hanks’ character whispers into the ear of the young Ryan, “Earn this.” Translation: “We better not have died in vain. Do something really impressive with yourself.” Imagine living your life with that kind of pressure.

And here’s the thing: most of us do. We just don’t have the memory of a bullet-riddled commanding officer making it so dramatically obvious.

No, for most of us the pressure is much more subtle. From an early age our well-intentioned parents, society, and culture remind us of the importance of making something of ourselves, of achieving fame and fortune. The world demonstrates in ways large and small the difference between the winners and the losers. It is one thing to be barked at by the teacher, quite another to be summoned to the principal’s office. We watch our normally measured parents go weak-kneed at the chance to secure a celebrity’s autograph or shake the hand of a visiting politician, and by early-adulthood it is obvious how fast the dynamics change when the CEO enters the room.

The good Pavlovian dogs that we are, we set about mimicking that same kind of thinking, aspiring to the corner office, struggling to join the ranks of the millionaires, coveting the role of “mover and shaker.” We picture ourselves in lights, standing behind the podium, our name and accomplishment inscribed across its facade.

Alas, the material world being the limited little orb that it is, in a race of 6.5 billion planetary citizens there isn’t a whole lot of space at the top. For every Bill Gates or Steve Jobs, there are thousands of entrepreneurs who never emerge from the garage. For every Michael Jordan lighting up an NBA scoreboard, there are millions who never make it beyond the playground. Which is to say, the world is awash in losers. Billions of ’em. One president of the US of A. One Best Picture Oscar each year. One Wimbledon champion. One Dalai Lama. The rest of you stand aside and be quiet, Tiger Woods is about to tee off.

The problem with this kind of thinking is obvious: all of those horses that place, show and come up lame start to believe they’re losers. After all, if you buy into the idea of winners, well, you’ve also got to believe in losers; you’ve got to be prepared to live life in the shadow of the podium.

For me, the prescription for this kind of thinking is the cemetery, that place we seldom visit except when we gather to say good-bye to one of our fellow contestants. At that point the person in the box is neither winner nor loser. He’s a reminder of something important: that the race – like the memory of the deceased himself – is all in our heads.

So as we turn from the grave and consider reentering the race; as our minds again turn to all of the things we must do; we would perhaps be wise to consider what the dead have to teach us: that ultimately, there is nothing that we need to accomplish, nobody to best, no mountain to climb. That as the mystics teach, be gentle with yourself and know that you are complete just as you are.