I have been thinking the last few days about the meaning of life. What is it that gives life, not only mine specifically, although that is an important part of it for me, but "Life," in general, value and substance and direction? It is a big question, one that is impossible to fully wrap my thoughts around, and yet, there are times when the answer seems clear and straightforward and direct. I suppose I am oversimplifying, but I have boiled it down to one question for myself ~ when I am gone from this earthly life, what will I be remembered for?
The question has not come in a vacuum, of course. Among other things, I have been stunned by the recent sudden and too early deaths of a couple of people about my age whom I have known over the years.
The question has also been prompted by an assignment my daughter was given, to sum up the meaning of life in one paragraph. (It was more complicated than that, but that was the part that caught my attention.) I have already failed, of course!
I heard the news a few days ago of the death of a personal hero of mine from my childhood, Miep Gies, a woman who made it possible for the story of Anne Frank to become an international call to remembrance. I have often contemplated the heroic acts that she and her cohorts performed under nearly intolerable conditions, simply because it was the right thing to do, they could see no other path, and wondered whether I could see my way so clearly and simply.
There are a lot of other moments, too, over the last few years which have caused me to evaluate the worth of my own life, as striking events generally do. There are so many questions, as one ponders the vagaries of a universe which is so patently unfair. The tsunami, Hurricane Katrina, and now the disastrous Haitian earthquake lead most thoughtful people to question their faith and their contribution to this life, and I am no different.
Big and small, the questions haunt us, as we try to make sense and order in a universe where nothing is sensible or organized. Why are some children born to wealth, while others are born to suffer and die in third world countries where medical care consists of a bandaid and a prayer? Why are beautiful people, who already have so much going for them, showered with additional, unearned blessings both professionally and personally, just because they happened to be born attractive? Why do some people have all the luck, while others, through no fault of their own, would have no luck at all if their luck weren't bad?
Difficult questions, all, with no simple answers.
What will people say about you when you are no longer here to speak for yourself? How will you be remembered? What will your children tell their grandchildren about the person they knew you to be?
Death is a great human leveler. I suspect what looks important from this side of the grave will be inconsequential when we reach the destination for our souls and answer for how we have lived our lives.
How, I wonder, will I justify myself on judgment day when I stand before God and give account for myself and how I have lived my life? It is in the solemn moments of quiet reflection, when I am alone with my soul, stripped naked of my pretensions and my outer facade, that I confront the deepest questions of my faith and my being. That, to me, is where I find the meaning of my life.
I realized on my recent birthday, my 49th, that I have likely lived more than half of my life already. I have started to examine more intensely the picture that is emerging, and I am surprised at the composite that I see. I am not who I was when my life started, nor am I who I was half a lifetime ago. Neither am I who I thought I would be, which is the most surprising part of all.
When you are young, you have vague notions of leaving the world a better place than you found it, as if you could somehow quantify the universe, and the swirling contents of the measuring cup are lapping at the rim because of your efforts. The young are often the leaders of reform, pressing for Justice and Truth, filled with the fire to make the world a better place.
What happens, I wonder, to those high ideals that once seemed so achievable, but in middle age flatten and fade like the slowly expanding waistline which increasingly bars the view of your shoes? The virtues are no less important, it is the attainment of them that becomes an impossible hurdle, and slowly, we give way to the next generation.
If we are not going to achieve all that we dreamed, no one can or does because all lives have choices which limit our ultimate realities, then what defines the most important characteristics of our lives? Have you settled for something less than your ideal, or are there vestiges of that early you lurking under the surface of the developing picture? If this were your last day in this world, would you be satisfied with the words that would come to the minds of those left behind?
I have thought often of the legacy that I will leave for my children. I don't have wealth or fame or even any real inheritance to leave to them by which they can remember me. All I can truly leave them is who I am - my words, my deeds, my little voice that will live on inside their heads, burning through their consciousness at odd moments, quietly, unexpectedly.
As a writer, I leave my children the work of heart that my words have created, and they will never want for the answers to how I have felt about anything. They are laid out in crystal clarity, my thoughts in my own words, said just as I would say them. My son will argue, even in absentia, I suspect, when he disagrees with what I have expressed. My daughter will always roll her eyes at the choice of words, thinking to herself that I never failed to use a ten letter word when a five letter word would have done just as well.
But I also suspect that those thoughts will cause them to smile, just a little, as they recall the many other moments when we had those same conversations for real, and perhaps, just maybe, it will be enough.
What will people say about me when I am no longer here to speak for myself, to be myself? Perhaps it is better that I not know, that the future, unseen and unheard, is a mystery that remains hidden. Maybe that old saying, that we should live as if each day was our last, is not so foolish after all.
