The Meaning of Life
I think I’ve figured out the meaning of life. I’ve been wondering about it ever since my husband died, leaving me bouncing around our home like a pinball because I can’t quite stay focused. (That metaphor probably gives away my age.)
Although I am an introvert by nature, I gravitate toward people—by writing a column, talking with a friend, or attending the occasional small gathering. Even my hermit son, who works from home and rarely leaves his cave, communicates with others via internet.
Smart phones are everywhere. On tables. In back pockets. Even in the palms of people walking down the street. Folks are compelled to look at them whenever they ping.
While I was still employed, I thought it rude when co-workers were peering at their phones during a meeting. But now I get it. They were making meaning where, perhaps, they felt there was none.
Sharing seems to be the whole point. I don’t mean sharing half of everything you own with somebody who doesn’t have as much as you, although I am sure, if done in the right frame of mind, this could feel quite purposeful.
And since any amount can always be divided in half, one could theoretically do this for a lifetime. But simply sharing thoughts, or lunch, or a good book can make one feel grounded. Make sense of the senseless. Or at least provide an anchor when the senseless feels overwhelming.
A connection to others makes most things bearable. I recently went to Wal-Mart and found myself in a line of no less than ten grocery carts waiting for the lone “open” cashier to solve a problem with the customer at the head of the line. A desolate feeling to be sure. But I did strike up a conversation with the woman in front of me about the dangers of buying ice cream—which might melt before it gets to the check-out counter. By sharing our potential exasperation, we became supremely less exasperated.
But what really kept me at peace in the long line was the soft memory of having shared breakfast at Oscar’s with a fine companion that morning. A leisurely meal on the porch followed by a stroll down the streets of Eureka. Two pinball-era ladies in cool summer dresses, enjoying the change of the season. It created a calm connectedness I carried with me all day.
There is a group for widows and widowers that meets regularly at the Eureka Springs Methodist Church. (One needn’t be a church member to take part. I am not a church goer at all, and I’ve been welcomed.) I don’t know any of the people very well, but each of them understands something about sharing feelings with someone else after losing a life partner. Just the act of sitting there together—sometimes laughing, sometimes crying—reinforces the importance of having people in our lives.
My house feels bigger than it used to. Quieter. Emptier, I suppose. But I am slowly finding meaning again, after the center of my life was abruptly taken from me. And this meaning comes from sharing my time, and my thoughts— whether written or spoken—with other people.
My home still echoes with memories of what I’ve lost, but those reverberations are no longer central to who I am and what life means to me, thanks to all who have heard or read my words and/or shared theirs with me. I am grateful to you all.