There is a question we know how to ask almost every evening: What did I accomplish today? How many meetings did I attend, how many emails did I answer, which deal moved forward and what did I cross off my to-do list? The world of management has a rich vocabulary for measuring productivity, but a far more limited one for measuring what the days themselves have done to us. Have we become more thoughtful, more courageous, more attentive? Has something we learned actually changed the way we make decisions, or have we simply added more information to an already overwhelming load?
What do we carry with us after all these years?
This week's Torah portion, Chayei Sarah, is largely about the transition between generations. Sarah dies and Abraham purchases the Cave of Machpelah. Eliezer is sent to find a wife for Isaac, Rebecca joins the family, and later we read about Abraham's final years. Amid these transitions, the Torah tells us: "And Abraham was old, advanced in years."
Your calendar is full. But is your life?
On a literal level, this is a description of age. But the Hebrew expression ba bayamim, literally "coming with his days," raises a deeper question: When a person arrives carrying all his days, what exactly does he bring with him? A great number of days does not necessarily amount to maturity. We can accumulate years of experience without allowing that experience to change us. We can fill our calendars year after year without stopping to ask whether the things that occupied our time were also the things we wanted to fill our lives.
This question takes another form in Psalm 90, which opens with the words: "A prayer of Moses, the man of God." The psalm is attributed to Moses, but its heading does not identify a particular event or circumstance in which it was composed. Instead, it places the brevity of human life against the eternity of God: "For 1,000 years in Your sight are like yesterday when it passes," while "the days of our years are 70 years."
Yet Moses does not simply ask for a longer life. He says: "Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom," and concludes with another request: "Establish the work of our hands for us."
There is a lesson here for leaders as well. Awareness of how little time we have is not meant merely to frighten us. It should compel us to choose what to do with the time we are given and what kind of work is worth leaving behind.
Rabbi Meir Arama, son of Rabbi Isaac Arama, author of "Akedat Yitzhak," draws attention to a surprising idea in the verse "Teach us to number our days." In his commentary "Meir Tehillot," he explains that because human life is short, God has endowed us from the outset with a basic foundation of understanding, the "first intelligibles," upon which further knowledge can be built. If human beings had to learn every foundation of thought from scratch, a lifetime would not be enough.
When knowledge becomes a hiding place
This is a philosophical idea about the structure of human understanding, but it also raises a very practical question: How often do we say we need more time when, in fact, we already know enough to take the next step?
A manager may know that employees are afraid to disagree with him, yet respond by scheduling another workshop on organizational communication. A parent may recognize that there is hardly any time left for the children, yet promise that things will change once the current busy period is over.
We know we need to have a particular conversation, apologize, stop a project that no longer makes sense or make time for something that truly matters. The knowledge is already there. It is the action that keeps getting postponed.
Of course, some decisions require additional data, expertise and consultation. But sometimes the pursuit of more knowledge becomes a kind of hiding place. Another report, another conversation, another review: All give us the feeling that we are moving forward, while the real question remains unanswered.
Chayei Sarah is not merely a Torah portion about old age. It is about continuity, about choices that connect one generation to the next, and about a person who reaches an advanced stage of life with the years not only behind him, but also within him
This is where the thinking of Blaise Pascal, the 17th-century French mathematician, scientist and philosopher, becomes relevant. In his work "Pensées," Pascal explored what he called divertissement: distractions and occupations that allow people to avoid confronting the fundamental questions of their lives. His criticism centers on the possibility that constant activity can become a mechanism for distancing us from ourselves.
It is a particularly unsettling thought for managers, because work provides an endless supply of perfectly legitimate reasons to stay busy. There is always another meeting, another crisis, another target to meet. We can reach the end of the day completely exhausted and still be no closer to answering the question that matters most.
Don't wait until you're 60
Years ago, my friend and partner Ofer said something that has stayed with me: "I'm not waiting until I'm 60 to start enjoying life."
It took me a while to understand that he was not talking only about vacations. He was talking about the ability to stop along the way and ask what the purpose is, what is right for me and what I keep postponing simply because life is still too full.
Yesterday, during a conversation with a fellow Young Presidents' Organization member, I was asked a simple question: If there is one thing you feel you still absolutely must do in your life, what is it?
It is not an easy question to answer quickly, and that is precisely why it is worth asking before we reach the point when our calendars are no longer so full. It made me stop and reflect as well.
That thought connects, for me, to the song "Every Morning Is Born" and the line: "I don't erase who I was; I just choose where to go from here."
The time that has already passed is not a mistake that needs to be erased. The question is what we do with it now. If we have learned something, our next choice should look different.
Even forecasts need to be updated
This week's business news offers an interesting example.
Check Point reported revenue of $670 million in the third quarter of 2026, a decline of approximately 1% from the previous year, alongside 11% growth in security subscription revenue. CEO Nadav Zafrir said the company believes the low point is now behind it, but also acknowledged that the recovery is taking longer than expected. As a result, the company revised its expectations for the pace of recovery.
(Photo: Shutterstock)
There is an important management lesson here. Having a long-term vision does not require us to pretend that progress is unfolding according to plan. Quite the opposite. A manager can strongly believe in a particular direction while acknowledging that reality shows the journey will take longer than anticipated.
The ability to revise a forecast is not an abandonment of the goal. It is a decision to act on information we already possess rather than postpone confronting it.
The calendar test for leaders
Once a week, it is worth stopping to ask four questions:
1. What do I already know is important to do, but keep postponing?
2. Which parts of my workload serve a real purpose, and which merely prevent me from thinking about that purpose?
3. What insight from the past year has genuinely changed my behavior?
4. If I cleared one hour in my calendar right now for the most important thing that is not urgent, how would I spend it?
Chayei Sarah is not merely a Torah portion about old age. It is about continuity, about choices that connect one generation to the next, and about a person who reaches an advanced stage of life with the years not only behind him, but also within him.
Psalm 90 reminds us that the brevity of life should give rise to wisdom. Rabbi Meir Arama adds that we do not begin from nothing. We have already been given knowledge, experience and understanding.
The question is not simply how many days we have managed to fill, but how much of what we have already come to understand we have managed to turn into a life.