I've been reading Annie Dillard's American Childhood in recent weeks.
She writes, "Some days I felt an urgent responsibility to each change of light outside [...] Who would remember any of it, any of this our time, and the wind thrashing the buckeye limbs outside? Somebody had to do it, somebody had to hang on to the days with teeth and fists, or the whole show had been in vain."
Amen.