I Think I Am

Do you ever wonder what the point is? In life, I mean.

I'm not about to get all Nietzsche on you or anything but as I got out of my car this morning and unlocked the office door, the sheer routine of it knocked me for a loop. I have stuck my key in that door, at nearly the same time, hundreds of days before. I have walked in, turned the lights on in a specific sequence, checked the fax and my mailbox and walked the fifty steps or so back to my office five days out of every week for the last six years.

And for this, I receive a decent paycheque, benefits and three weeks of vacation a year, for which I am grateful.

The thing is, aside from my family, I really don't feel like I'm making much of a difference in the big picture of things. Most days, this doesn't bother me because like every other person on the planet, my life is chock full of obligations and indulging the existential philosopher inside my head takes a backseat to the business of managing everyday realities.

On those rare occasions, though, when I am completely at peace; when the nugget of persistent anxiety has left my belly, I wonder, "is this it"?

Birth, school, job, marriage, kids, retirement, death?

Really?

In a nutshell, of course, the answer is yes.

And the more cerebral, logical, self knows that it's the seeds planted and nurtured in the everyday from which the extraordinary grows. It realizes that this mild discontent is symptomatic of middle age and remedied not by the external but by the celebration of the mundane.

My husband is a person who deliberately, consciously, seeks the positive. Green lights, a good night's sleep, a perfectly cooked filet, the sting of an ice cold soda splashing down the back of his throat on a hot day, the feel of clean sheets and new contact lenses...

He views these things as small victories and daily, he mentally tallies the wins in an effort to keep his focus on what is good. I admire that.

Like most, I spend so much of my life at work that it is hard not to let my career define who I am as a person. I am not a doctor or a teacher. There is nothing remotely altruistic about my job and I probably need to accept that this is okay. I've got to get to that point where I view my work as the bread in a sandwich. It's necessary and provides structure but it's not much to write home about if you take away the meaty bits in between.

And that is where my contribution lies, I suppose. Being a wife, mother, daughter, sister and friend is what infuses my life with meaning.

I guess the answer to my question is that the point of a life is defined by the one living it. Søren Kierkegaard once wrote, "the thing is to find a truth which is true for me, to find the idea for which I can live and die". He was discussing the question of his life's purpose within the context of his religious beliefs but I think the principle is the same for all of us. Identify what matters and allow those passions to layer a life rich with texture.