Do you ever have deep philosophical conversations in your own head about what your purpose in life is or whether you have one or whether anyone really has one? Oh, sure you do. C'mon. Play along. (Maybe that's your purpose in life...to humor Andrea! Think about it. Ooo, deep.)
Anyway. N E Way. What brings this up, you ask? Coupla things.
One an offhand comment on a mental illness board I read, where a parent tossed off a comment that "a life without [blank] isn't worth living." It kind of pissed me off, (oh, yeah, big surprise) because D's life and the lives of many people who read that board or whose loved ones read that board are without [blank], and I don't think they should all go out and kill themselves. Nor do I think, less drastically, that their lives are not worth anything or have no value.
I started thinking about what I would say to D if he felt his life, as it is now, was not worth living, what I would refute that with. My first thought would be to say that "You're happy sometimes now; there are things you can take enjoyment from." Because there's a part of me that thinks that's what life is really for--that we take those few fleeting moments of pleasure and joy in life that we get, and if we get a few here and there, that's it. That's the reason to keep getting up every other day of our lives. That's what makes life worth living. That the transcendent joy in the perfect kiss or perfect meal or perfect sunrise or perfect home run by Mr Ramirez is why whomever ordered the universe wants us to be here.
And then I thought that I would say "Your life is worth living because of what you give to me. I value so much the love that you give to me and the love you take from me. And you have made me a much better person." But, while that is very true, and perhaps closer to how society measures our lives--what we do for other people and/or what we accomplish--I think deep down that I don't believe that. That our worth is not in what we give or do, or rather, that our purpose is not in those things. That D has made me a better person has worth, that D can love and accept love has worth, but I don't think that is, or should be, his reason to exist.
I don't think by most measures I am what is usually considered a selfish person, my $189 platform shoes that would clothe a whole village in Bangladesh notwithstanding. But I think, philosophically, that no one exists for what they can give to another person or people or family or village or country or society.
The second reason this topic comes to mind is that in the last few weeks I have had two separate conversations with two separate individuals in which mocking of newspaper obituaries was involved. Specifically, mocking of the one line descriptor of the dead person. In one case, it was so-n-so was a "communicant of St Whatever Church"; in the other, so-n-so "enjoyed bingo." Really? You die at age 50 or 70 or 90 and that's the most remarkable thing they can say about you? I was poking fun at it as well and saying, only half-kiddingly, that I better get on the stick and accomplish something in my life before I croak and get a really insipid obituary tagline like that. "Andrea ______, age 45, avid blogger."
But seriously? I dunno. Maybe enjoying bingo is why so-n-so was put on Earth.
xoxo
3 comments:
Bill Cosby once observed that any PE major can answer the philosophical question of "why is there air?". (To blow up volleyballs with, natch). It seems right to assume that larger questions like "why are we here?" would have similarly simple answers.
The mocking, if it were mine, (mea culpa), would be intended for those who misunderstand and mistake the important bits from someone's life, and could write something so insipid and meaningless (to me, anyway) as the location of someone's communion in place of their entire life.
The problem, as I see it, is in who gets to define our "purpose", and write the line. If it's the lazy obit writer at the local paper, or the well-intentioned hack from the funeral home, or even our best-intentioned family, there's the simple and profound flaw in the process that it's not the person defining it for themselves.
Maybe writing ones own obit might spiral the despairing past the point of their possible return, but I think today that the secret is taking the pen in hand, (or the keyboard), and writing a new line every day. For ourselves. About ourselves. With no one to judge or say it's wrong. Maybe it's to play the new GTA 24x7 and find all the hooker-oriented easter eggs. Maybe it's to play soccer. (My vote). Maybe it's to cure cancer. But it's not for anyone else to say, that's what I say.
There are those who have written their own obits (as in,"I SAID I was sick!"). It's a good plan. The funeral homes bother the survivors with demands for biographical information at a moment when coherent thought is a real effort. It's no wonder so many obituaries are so pathetic.
Once you gain a certain degree of notoriety, the news media will write you an obit long before you die, and just keep updating it. The task provides steady work for journalism interns. Since I'm at work on a will update, maybe I'll insert a self-made obit as well. (I'm thinking of "Well, that sucked.")
Purpose? I think Snoopy said a dog's reason for being was to sleep in the sun and bite people on the leg. I don't know that one can do better than that.
I like the idea of writing one's own obit. "I SAID I was sick" is a classic, though I might be inclined more to "I TOLD you you'd miss me when I was gone."
It's an interesting exercise to think about what you'd want people to think/remember/say about you after you're gone. I'm leaning towards "she loved her cat, she was kind to babies, and she had cool shoes."
But, also, really, if any of you want to consider humoring Andrea your purpose in life, the position hasn't been filled yet.
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