The Meaning of Life

The other morning, I had an insight, brought on by the caffeine rush from my morning espresso, into the reason for my chronic angst.  Once, a long time ago, I must have a kid, an idea was stuck into my impressionable brain. And it became something I came to accept, without thinking about it too much.  It’s wasn’t a wild or far out idea, only that life has purpose for me.  All I had to do was find out what that purpose was.

When I set out to find the purpose and meaning of my life, I wasn’t sure of what I was looking for, or where to look.  But there was one thing I was certain of though.  Whatever it was, it would be “meaningful.”

I had to earn a living while I searched.  Very few of the jobs I have ever had could be described in any way as “meaningful.”  If I had to work, I thought, I should do something I liked to do, something I was good at.  There were, however, a couple of snags.   I didn’t really know what I’d like to do, and I wasn’t very good at anything.  These two problems are related, because they are the result of my not understanding the value of failure.

To me, failure was to be avoided at all costs.  There was no place for failure in my quest.  When I started something (a job, a project, a relationship), I worked at it as best I could.  Until too many things started going wrong, then I quit the job, abandoned the project, or just walked away.  Sometimes it felt good, like a catharsis, getting away from something you didn’t like doing anyway.  On the other hand, I wasn’t at any task long enough to develop any real skills.

My understanding of the value of failure comes a bit late in life for me to benefit from now.  I never wanted to fail, because I thought failure was a bad thing, but I get it now.  Failure is the first step to success.  You keep on failing, until you succeed. If you pay attention, each time you fail, you learn something that will make you more skillful next time.   It makes so much sense now.  I wish I’d realized that long before now.

The futile search for my purpose morphed into a more futile search for something “meaningful.”  Something I liked to do, something I could do well, but above all, “meaningful.”  But that “my life has purpose” idea was indelibly etched into my psyche.  No matter what I did, it wasn’t “meaningful” enough, or I just wasn’t very good at it.  I began to see everything I did as a waste of time.  I was just killing time until I died.  Thus my existential angst.

I saw in a flash that morning, as the caffeine cavorted through my neurons, that life does indeed have a purpose, and it’s not complicated or mystical.  The purpose of life is simply to be lived.  Do what you do consciously and with awareness, and then don’t worry about it.  So I have been fulfilling my purpose all along, sort of.  I didn’t realize it, because I wasn’t paying attention.  My only meaningful accomplishment, though, has been to have squandered vast amounts of emotional energy in my search.  But I’m not going to worry about it.