Meaning & Life’s Clutter

I have not posted in some time. Why not?

I am now working part time in order to have time. Yet have not written. Most of the past three weeks Andy and I spent identifying, interviewing and selecting back up nannies for Lalani so she can focus on getting well this summer. This week we spent a couple of days with our three finalists.

Nothing could have been more healthy than writing about the experience, because the stress of finding a new nanny is like no other I have experienced. The decision about which person to leave your kids and home with somebody day in and day out is difficult enough of itself, and then it begs the question: shouldn’t I be staying home. All to easy to get sucked into a vortex of confused, muddled thinking. But somehow I couldn’t find the wherewithal to write, to try to find meaning. There was too much clutter.

Let me be specific. Monday I came to work, having left Lalani and one of our finalists at home. I felt uneasy, like I was in the wrong place. So I went home. I told Lalani and Alexa I’d be in my room if they needed me, doing a little work. I edited a couple of documents. Lalani came up to inform me there was a snake in the house. She saw it but then it slithered away and she lost it. I went down to help her find it. She described it as a black garden snake, a baby. But when we found it, it looked like a rattle snake. She grabbed a bag and a frisbee, ready to catch it herself. I told her she didn’t need a rattle snake bite on top of cancer, shut the bathroom door, blocked it with a towel, and called animal control. I went up to my room to finish editing. Lalani and Alexa got the kids up and went outside Then I heard Lalani running as fast as she could into the house. Terrified something had happened to one of the kids I charged downstairs. Lalani was in another bathroom being violently ill. I told her to sit down, take it easy. She said not to worry, she would never have left the kids outside if she were ill, she would have just thrown up on the spot. Nothing could have been less reassuring.

At five a woman came over to sing with the kids and play guitar. Andy and I danced around the room singing slipper fish, slippery fish. What if the hokey pokey really is what it’s all about? Dinner...bath...poems...milk...dishes...walk Belvy...bed. Kids woke up in the middle of the night.

Tuesday I went to work but mostly talked to Richard and Denny about how to convince Lalani to take it easy. Both had excellent advice, and I went home early to give it to Lalani. A good conversation. Then she went off to therapy and I stayed home to spend some time with the second back up Nanny candidate. She was superb. She got the kids up from nap and played with them. I tried to do a little work but couldn’t focus. Went to play with the kids while she cooked dinner. Dinner...bath...poems... milk...dishes...walk Belvy...bed. Kids woke up in the middle of the night.

Wednesday Lalani couldn’t come in at all so I stayed home the whole day working with another nanny candidate who was a lovely person but confessed he didn’t know how to change a diaper. Still, we had a nice day. A little work while kids at nursery school. Pick them up. Drop by store. Take stuff to Lalani. Lunch. Nap time. I did some work and David steam cleaned the carpets. David got Battle and Margaret up and did a good job keeping them happy. I read The Lotus Eaters for a couple of hours. Then went to play with kids, cook dinner. We had our family dinner. Then remembered we forgot to give Belvy her medicine. Andy got up to do it. Battle came over and asked for a “special chocolate treat” which had been promised. Andy gave it to him. Margaret came over to demand hers. Andy gave it to her and returned to finish his dinner. Five minutes later we discovered Margaret had gotten Belvy’s medicine which Andy had been interrupted from putting up on the shelf and eaten an unspecified number of pills. Panic ensued. Call to poison control Call to doctor. Determined everything fine. ..bath...poems...milk...dishes...walk Belvy...bed.

In bed, we decided we had two people we really like, Alexa M-W-F, Monica T-Th. And we figured out that we could get 55% of Lalani’s salary covered by Short Term Disability Insurance of CA. I was up for a couple of hours with Margaret in the middle of the night, but no worries. We had come through the vortex and I was ready to clear my mind, think great thoughts. I woke up Thursday morning planning to take a run and come into the office and actually work.

Instead, there was a text from Monica, who had a fever and probably strep throat, caught from Margaret. Then two huge piles of diarrhea on the rug we’d steam cleaned the day before. The twins were full of life and wanted to have fun. Andy and I made them sit in a chair while we dealt with the diarrhea piles and dragged the rug outside. Andy stayed home in the morning. I came to work for a few hours, then came home for the afternoon shift. Doctor called to see if Margaret fine. So much had happened it took me a moment to remember my absolute panic the night before. Had a distracted time planting wildflower seeds with the kids and scrubbing the carpet. Dinner...bath...poems... milk...dishes...walk Belvy...bed.

Friday better. Alexa and Lalani in. Andy woke up to more piles of diarrhea, which he heroically cleaned up. Breakfast, nursery school, and here I sit at work trying to make sense of it all. On the way in, an interview on NPR with a filmmaker who reads all the time. Has read all of Tennessee Williams, and 8.400 books, all of which he’s cataloged. How does he have time? Easy, he says. No significant other, no kids, lots of time on airplanes.

I certainly wouldn’t trade Tennessee Williams for Battle and Margaret. But I do crave time to read and think. For me somehow reading and thinking is where I find the most meaning. Making dinner, doing the dishes, mediating the sharing of toys--it’s hard not to find this mere busy-ness.

There is a complicated web of conflated ideas here. One is what I consider to be a “real necessity” and what a “luxury.” Dinner and dishes I consider to be “real necessities.” Reading a novel I consider to be a “luxury.” On the other hand, dinner and dishes I consider to be “meaningless busy-ness.” And reading a novel I consider to be meaningful. This puts me in an impossible bind. The real necessities have to come before the luxuries but are meaningless.

Two solutions. One is to find meaning in the “real necessities.” Not just race through them as quickly as possible in order to get to the meaningful luxuries. Certainly Margaret and Battle have a lot of meaning. As does Andy. Second, I need to prioritize the reading and writing as more than a luxury.

How can I find meaning in clutter? The first and most obvious thing is to be more fully present with the kids. Not try to work in the yard or otherwise multi-task when I am with them.

And as for finding a great nanny--nothing is more important, so give it my full energy and focus. It is both meaningful and a necessity, especially if I want to read and write and think.

As for dinner and dishes--they just don’t have much meaning. Try to outsource so I also have time to read and write and think...

But somehow when the necessities flare up I find it impossible to clear away enough of the clutter to go think/write. And I wind up feeling mugged by pigeons. When I go to a museum and contemplate how much harder life must have been for, say, the Greeks, I am astounded they found the time to paint their water vessels or carve statues or write plays. How did they clear away life's clutter? When I am putting the dishes into the dishwasher, I wonder: how did the founding fathers do it?

My kids and Andy are the most precious thing in my life by far. But they do create an awful lot of clutter that does for me cloud a part of my life that is important. In order to be present to that preciousness, I do need to find a way to clear some of the clutter away...That is the dishes, the food, the laundry, the yard work, cleaning. Take some of the clutter out of my job too.

The meaning of the f--ing blueberries

A friend of mine was telling me about his four year old daughter, who’s in the age of defiance. She asked for blueberries. He got her the blueberries, washed them, put them on a plate for her. She pushed them away. He said, “You asked for blueberries, now you have to eat them.” Pushed the plate back towards her. She pushed it away again. He thought, “You will not defy me!” and said, “You either eat the blueberries or go to your room.” She said, “NO!” He said, “GO!” She went to her room, cried for thirty minutes, came back and ate the blueberries. Enjoyed them.

The part of the story that struck me was what he thought. “You will not defy me!” Reading myself into the story now, I imagined that surge of rage I would have felt when she pushed the blueberries away. I’d like to say anger, annoyance, or something milder, more reasonable. But the sad truth of the matter is that reason drains from me when Margaret looks at me, smiles, and pulls the safety corners for their beds (I have since just pulled them off), or when I give Battle a bowl of blueberries and he flings them wildly across the floor. My reaction is pure mania: either hysterical laughter or white-hot rage rips through me. To be fair, sometimes I manage to repress the laughter and I never act on the rage, unless you count bellowing about the “fucking blueberries.” (Why is it always blueberries?) I’m not proud of it.

Thinking about my friend’s struggle with his daughter and her blueberries made it much easier to see what I should do with my own blueberry struggles. It seems reasonable to tell a child they have to eat the food they request. Reasonable to send her to her room if she doesn’t. The thing that gets me in trouble, though it didn’t seem to cause any trouble for my friend, is the thought: “you will not defy me.” Why does that “eat shit” grin and defiance from my kids get such a rise out of me?

I wrote that obedience is anti-meaning. Is defiance meaning? If so, my reaction to my kids defiance is pretty dangerous. Two very different questions: what does their defiance mean to them? And what does it mean to me? Let’s start with me :)

Sometimes it “means” I can’t get done what I intend to get done. I’m trying to get Battle in the car, he runs away; I’m trying to get Margaret dressed, she’s squirming. This sounds like a small thing, but the assault on one’s ability to carry out intentions is one of the most difficult things about being a parent. Before I had kids, if I intended to start a company, the result would be $30 million raised and 65 people working diligently. After I had kids, if I intended to take a shower, it might or might not happen. Indeed, I just don’t take a shower from Friday till Monday...On a good day, this is mildly amusing. On a bad day, it’s extremely irritating. On a terrible day, it can feel like a full frontal attack on my very existence. “I was put on this earth to uncover the meaning of life and instead I am just picking up blueberries.” The meaning of intention is something to ponder. Understand how it is different from the meaning of will. But I think one of the keys to enjoying kids is to be very, very careful about intentions. Whenever we are in a hurry to get out the door, there’s going to be trouble. Does it really matter if they are late to pre-school? Not so much. I’d rather have a nice morning and be 15 minutes late. Indeed, the great pleasure if children is they force you to let go of so many intentions. And to fight like hell for the ones you really do care about. But the answer is not to crush their defiance, to be angry about their defiance, or to find their defiance hilarious. The answer is to take responsibility for my own intentions, which are mine alone.

Sometimes it “means” I’m worried about their safety. On a good day, I am worried. On a bad day I am terrified about loving them so much that I have become fortune’s hostage. On a terrible day I become a neurotic wreck over their safety. My imagination runs amok with scenes of their gruesome deaths and the subsequent hel of my living. Battle darting a few steps away from me in a parking lot can feel like a full frontal attack on my very existence. And might be met with the rage one reserves for such an attack. We went to the beach and I warned Margaret in such graphic terms about the danger of the waves that she really didn’t want to get anywhere too close to them. I’m inclined to think that was the right thing. We had a great time at the beach and when we got home she said, “I love the beach.” Better than fighting her the whole time. Same thing with cars. A delivery truck came in the driveway, and Battle came screaming up to me, genuinely afraid, “Cars are dangerous!!” Again, the answer to the fact that I am now a hostage to fortune is not to rage at their defiance, but to try to help them see risks for themselves.

Sometimes it means I’m worried that they will become spoiled, nasty people. “I want blueberries, fuck you for getting them for me.” Again, raging at their defiance isn’t the answer, most especially because I then become the spoiled, nasty person.

What does the defiance mean for the child? Why did my friend’s daughter push away what she just said she wanted?

Maybe it means curiosity: she just wants to know what will happen if she does. This is how she learns.
Maybe it means she changed her mind.
Maybe it means she feels more alive in a stimulus-response world; if she does one thing, she can make her father behave in a certain way.

The meaning of writing about meaning

Putting Margaret down for a nap, I found myself in baby jail, trapped underneath a lightly sleeping two year old, afraid to move a fraction of an inch, and thus free to ponder the great verities.

What did I ponder? I wondered why it has been impossible for me to write all week. Not just all week but my whole life. Since high school I have struggled unsuccessfully to find an hour a day to be alone with my thoughts. To spend just a little bit of time every day thinking about one thing: what is the meaning of my life?

Today at work my colleague Jeff asked me why I loved the Frankl book so much. I told him that all my life, the thing that has seemed the most urgent to me is to answer this question: what is the meaning of my life? But somehow I have felt it was illegitimate to think about it. As a child, when I asked the question, I got answers that Tedlow would characterize as, “Shut up, he explained.” Somehow I came to feel that the question was a toxic combination of self-indulgent, dangerous, and useless. So I explored it in stolen moments--after homework was done, dishes were done, after I’d finally gotten off the phone with my friends and boyfriend, but before bed time. That is to say, never. And then I read this book and I found that there was a whole school of thought that found meaning to be the primary driver of mankind. Eureka! And furthermore meaning could be found in a concentration camp--I didn’t have to make millions of dollars and retire in order to start thinking about meaning. This book was a revelation. But I have still found it awfully hard to make time to do what I find most meaningful--think about meaning. Talk about the meaning of life, etc.

As I lay there underneath Margaret, I was itching to get upstairs and start writing. But I wondered, why can’t I just lie here and think? Why do I need to go upstairs and write? What is the meaning of writing about meaning?

Writing is clarifying. I generally have a jumble of confused and conflated thoughts and writing does for them what a hairbrush does for tangled hair. So first it helps me communicate with myself.

Second, writing can be shared, and shared differently than conversation. Sometimes conversation helps me communicate with myself, is a hairbrush for tangled thoughts. But sometimes it adds to the tangle. You get different reactions to written than to spoken thoughts. So it’s a different way of communicating with others.

Third, there’s something permanent about writing. Not that I believe that people will read what I wrote after I am dead, not an immortality thing. It’s more for myself. That I can go back later and see what I thought. It’s like a personal map. I don’t want to forget where I’ve been.

I have today in three different ways had the thought that it’s time for me to make the hour or two I want to spend every day writing about meaning a priority. Time to stop treating it like a useless or dangerous self indulgence. I had the thought when I was brushing my teeth: I need to write and exercise an hour every day. Two hours I don’t have but can find. Then in the conversation with Jeff. Then when trapped under Margaret. And now in fact...

The meaning of a job

On the way home from work I listened to an interview of people who’d been out of work for over a year and then landed horrible jobs but were happy to have them. A guy who’d been making over $100k as a manager took a $10/hour job taking customer service calls. A branch manager at a bank took a $10/hour data entry job. The jobs didn’t really cover many bills, but these men were happy to have them and their wives equally so. Why? Work has meaning. It gave them a chance to make a contribution.

This was surprising to me. Data entry or answering customer service calls as a source of meaning?

Similarly, a few weeks ago I listened to a story on The Feminine Mystique and there was a line about women wanting to work outside the home because they needed to do something that had meaning. This wasn’t just surprising, it floored me. Most jobs are banal, and family life so rich. I know I said just a few posts ago that my children were the chief joy but not the meaning in my life. However, if I had to choose between my job and my children as a source of meaning it would be no contest. I’d drop the job and go charging home.

I can’t answer the question of why data entry or answering customer service calls or a career was a source of meaning for other people. But I might if I think really hard and am honest with myself be able to figure out what meaning my job has for me.

Everything about my job is great. I work for a great company, I have great colleagues, the content of what I do is interesting, I am able to be home for breakfast and dinner almost every single day, I have a nice office with lots of natural light, I get paid well. But meaning?

If you asked me why I work, my flip answer would be, “For money.” If you ask me why I went to business school, my flip answer would be, “Because I want to be a writer, and I figured I could make more money in business than waiting tables.” In short, my whole business persona has been about creating a situation where the “real” me can flourish. About affording a room of my own since I didn’t have a rich aunt to do that for me.

I could quit and write now. It would mean less travel, less yard help, fewer meals at fancy restaurants, but we could definitely pull it off and still live quite well. Yet I have not. So my flip answer is not the whole story.

Three separate questions emerge: one, what is the meaning of money? two, what is the meaning of a job? three, what is the meaning of work?

Let’s take the middle one first: What is the meaning of a job? The meaning of having a task to do, a place to do it, and people to do it with?

Plutarch found bricklaying to be meaningful; Spinoza, grinding lenses. I have found some meaning beyond just the money in starting Juice, in building up the AdSense/YouTube/DoubleClick teams, and in my current job. What is it, exactly?

It is about creating an environment in which I and the people around me can do our very best work and be our very best selves. Creating an environment in which people can find meaning as individuals and also collectively. It is about collective meaning as well as individual meaning. It is about collaboration to bring something out of the imagination and into the real world in a way that leaves the world better.

The problem with writing and not getting published is that I am just getting something out of my head and onto paper. The problem with getting published is that it’s just a form of conversation--so there’s some collaboration, but it’s lacking the physicality of say gardening. It’s still pretty much in the mental world, not in the “real” world.

The problem with treating a job as nothing more than a paycheck is that I miss the whole meaning part of it. And then I can’t find it in my writing. And I defer the writing until such time as I don’t have to work. Very easy for the money aspect of a job to take me into a deep dark spiral of meaninglessness.

What if I couldn’t have this job, if the only jobs available to me were say being a bank teller--a job I had once and hated? What would the meaning be then? It could be the same: a job needs to be done, done well, and done well with others. However, I think I’d try to get a job as a gardener instead...For me, a big part of finding meaning in work is to be able to do it joyously, and that means to do work I’m good at in an environment I can love with people I can love.

The meaning of rules

I may not want my kids to obey me. I do want them to listen to me. I want to be at least one of the inputs they consider before taking action. Indeed, the reason I don’t want them to obey me is that I think it will lead to an all-or-nothing situation in which one day they just have to block me out altogether in order to hear the other inputs and make their own minds up.

Problem is, there are cases when I want to be the only input. For example when they are wondering what would happen if they put their hand into a flame.

Take, for example, Battle walking along a planter in the yard. We have a flimsy fence in front of a two and a half foot drop. I was asking him not to stand there because of the risk of falling.

“Battle, please don’t stand there. You might fall.”

He looked at me and didn’t move.

“Battle, I said, please move.”

He looked at me skeptically.

“Battle, get down from there right now!”

He worked on perfecting his most mischievous, charming, infuriating smile. Sometimes I can’t help myself from laughing when I see that smile. Today, I had the thought: why not let him learn the hard way? One fall will save me a lot of breath...He probably wouldn’t get hurt too bad. Then I saw a vivid scene of the bloody nose he had a couple of days prior.

“Battle, ONE, TWO...”

He stepped down, slowly. He obeyed, sort of. I don’t want obedience. Except when I do. And if I don’t understand when I do and make it clear, then I’m going to get the worst of the chaotic and the totalitarian worlds.
The thing is there are like 60 things per hour you have to tell a two year old to do or not to do. It’s annoying to me and I am sure to them. Maybe it’s better to get comfortable with the school of hard knocks now. Warn them and then let them see I was right...

For example, after three days of fighting about the little child proof things on the corners of their beds, I just took them off. They are going to have to learn the hard way not to fall on the corners of their bed, of the perils of jumping on the bed. We had one bloody nose already. We all survived it.

I think on the safety things, the best course of action is to warn them and then let them make their own mistakes, let them fall. Unless the situation is life threatening. For some reason, for example, they take the danger of cars very very seriously. I guess because I do.

So what is the meaning of protectiveness? It can be loving. It can also be lack of confidence. It can be fearfulness. And that mixture is toxic for love. So beware of safety as the justification for demanding obedience.

The other reason for demanding obedience is parental irritation. Take putting feet on the table. I don’t want them to do it. Not because it will hurt them, but because I find it irritating. What do I do then? “Margaret, please take your feet off the table.” “Margaret, if you don’t take your feet off the table, I’m going to give you a time out.” Then if she doesn’t I turn the chair around. That’s more a case of pure obedience. You can’t put your feet on the table because I find it annoying. I think if the end of the sentence were “and I’m bigger so I get to call the shots,” then it would be problematic. But there are plenty of things I find irritating that I do put up with. Battle running the vacuum cleaner all the time, for example.

The no feet on the table thing is a rule. There are rules that Andy and I have set that we just don’t change on. Letting them put feet on the table sometimes but not others would just be annoying. I guess letting them set some of the household rules sooner than later is one way to prevent them from being meaningless.

The meaning of compromising to avoid mutual irritation--the meaning of a few rules--is joyous cohabitation. Teaching the kids that their desires matter and that my desires matter is important. But to make that work I need to demonstrate to them that I’m bending too, as is Andy.

Obedience is anti-meaning

What a relief to dismiss death as meaningless and move on! Belvy came through her surgery just fine. No mass in her abdomen...

My plan was to think about the meaning of authority, and then I heard Tina Fey discussing her book Bossypants on the radio and it seemed a funnier way to think about it.

Why do I have such a wide range of emotions when my kids don’t obey me? Sometimes, I think it is funny: I love that they challenge me. Sometimes, I find it absolutely enraging in a way that I am barely in control of.

How have I felt about authority in my own life? Mostly I have rejected it. But when it does assert itself even in small ways I tend to have a panicked reaction. I feel unduly threatened. When I get pulled over by the police for speeding I have a physical reaction, my legs and butt tingle. Much like a reaction to almost falling or dropping something breakable. Out of control. A different reaction than to danger. When I almost stepped on a rattlesnake the other day, the reaction was in the top half not the bottom half--in my mouth really.

I started Juice in no small part because I didn’t like having a boss. What I found of course is that I didn’t escape much by being my own boss. And that I had to come to grips with being the boss, which I was ambivalent about. I didn’t like working for the man so I became the man. Frying pan to fire. I escaped both by taking time off to write. But then I found I missed the external challenge and validation.

One novel I’d like to write someday is “the boss.” It means something to manage other people, but generally the opposite of what one expects. A big part of what it means to be a manager is that you are the screen upon which everyone plays out their feelings about authority. Unresolved parental issues, unresolved anger at a previous boss or teacher...Another thing it means is that people watch what you do more closely and disagree more vehemently but tell you less often. You are more, not less, likely to be hated and mocked. You are also less likely to know it. And so on...

But the real question I have is this: do I want Battle and Margaret to feel they have to obey me? A radical question as it’s just assumed that one of your jobs as a parent is to get your kids to obey you. And it’s equally true that kids are programmed not to obey. They test the boundaries. They want to see for themselves what will happen if...That is how they learn.

It feels a little bit like as parents we set ourselves up in opposition to the way that kids learn. That feels like the beginning of repressing who they really are, rather than encouraging it. And the beginning of the feeling of panic I have when a cop pulls me over.

Having said that, I don’t want Battle and Margaret to bite each other. When they do, they get a time out and told no biting, biting hurts. It’s not a don’t bite because I told you so. But there is a punishment imposed by Andy, Lalani or me. Not sure how to get around this.

On the other hand, as I was leaving today, Battle was crying for my iPhone. I was inclined just to give it to him as I didn’t really need it today. Lalani said, no, don’t because then he is setting the agenda, not you. I don’t actually have a problem with him setting the agenda. In fact, I want him to set the agenda as much as possible. Sometimes, we do what he wants. Sometimes what I want. That doesn’t mean I will cave every time he cries or spoil him rotten. But nor do I feel I have to set the agenda all the time. Indeed, one of the great joys of parenting is following the interests of Battle and Margaret. Sitting and watching Margaret watch a stream, fascinated by throwing leaves in the water and watch them zoom away. Fascinated by the sound of it. By the splash of rocks. She could have sat there all day. And I was inclined to let her. There are times when the kids have to do what I want when I want them to do it. But the fewer of those times there are the better. Why not leave my iPhone with Battle? I don’t think consistency means we always do what I want to do.

Another contest of wills this morning was over the corner things we put on their beds so they don’t gouge an eye out. They don’t really stick so well and Margaret wants to pull them off. I told her no. She got a big grin and a twinkle in her eye and pulled one off anyway. I laughed and hugged her and explained that they are there for a reason, that she needs to leave them on. Yesterday, though, I got mad and said, “You must mind Mommy.”

Several options with these ineffective corner covers: I could just take them away. Not a huge hazard--corner not that sharp. Or I could keep saying leave them there, they are there for a reason. Or I could say, you must mind.

I think the “you must mind” is out. Similarly, Lalani said to them, don’t say no to your mother. But, I want them to feel free to say no. I want dialogue, not obedience. I want to earn their respect, not demand deference.

What is the meaning of obedience, exactly? A quick scan in the OED says it’s about submission. The definition of submission? “To place oneself under the control of a person in authority or power; to become subject, surrender oneself, or yield to a person or his rule, etc.” I do not want Battle and Margaret to surrender themselves. I want them to stand up.

I want them to learn that they can’t get their way all the time, and how to work out a compromise that does not fill them with a panic that their very essence is at stake. I want them to be able to get a speeding ticket without feeling they are about to be thrown into Lubyanka prison. I want them to be able to have a boss without feeling they are losing their soul.

And there are times when I just want them to get in the f-g car seat...When I have no more time or energy for the conversation. I think that is where the impulse to make children obey comes from--sheer exhaustion.

But bottom line is this: if the meaning of life is self-expression, is, to paraphrase Hess, living in accord with the promptings which come from one’s true self, obedience and submission are anti-meaning.

The meaninglessness of death

Belvedere is right now at the vet being operated on. What is the meaning of the death of this dog who reminded me of the possibility of joy?

Asking that question was perilous...

She has somewhere between 0 and four different kinds of cancer. A sarcoma on her head growing every day, which is what we took her in for. And what I should have taken her in for months ago. She had a bump on her head a year ago that was a sort of zit. Somehow I was sure this bump was the same zit returning. So sure I didn’t take her in. Finally my father in law, a doctor, told us we need to have it checked. And sure enough it appears to be a sarcoma.

It reminded me of a time I was swimming with dolphins, and noticed there were some sharks in the water too. Oh, those are sand sharks, I told myself, wanting to continue swimming with the dolphins, something I had always wanted to do. Suddenly it dawned on me I had no idea what kind of sharks they were and I better get the hell out of the water.

Exact same feeling with Belvy’s sarcoma. I decided the meaning of the whole situation was a big warning from the universe--pay attention! don’t live in denial! never be afraid to be a hysterical woman! (this advice given to me by the lover of a man who refused to go to the doctor until it was too late).

Having indulged in the guilt for ignoring the lump on the head, it was natural then to feel even more guilty about how much I have in general ignored Belvy over the past two years, since the kids were born. We haven’t taken her to the beach, I haven’t thrown the ball to her, taken her running. Haven’t allowed her to sleep in our room...

And then I started thinking about in general about what I did to Belvy in the name of love. I took her from her mothers and siblings, prevented her from having puppies, won’t let her run around in the yard because I don’t want her digging up my flowers. And I have fed her processed dog food--no wonder she has cancer...A selfish, horrible kind of love. I have often thought that if I were to write about the way that men used to love women before women were educated, I would just borrow my feelings for Belvy.

And so I went to a dark place that was threatening to negate the meaning that Belvy’s life had for me: the possibility of joy.

Finally I talked to my sister, who reminded me that Belvy has always gotten to go to work with me or Andy, has always been surrounded by people who love her. That the kids have been dropping lots of good food for her, and she’d probably trade that for a run any day. And I recalled how several friends have said they’d like to die and come back as Belvedere. So I haven’t treated her so badly...

In the end, I have decided that her death simply has no meaning. It’s her life that has meaning. And I am going to do everything to make the rest of her life as joyous as possible. We took her to the beach on Saturday and she was her old puppy self. The possibility of joy was fully realized.

Looking for meaning in death took me to a strange, dark place. Better to look for meaning in life.

What's the difference between joy and meaning?

I realized as I was thinking about my last post that the quest for meaning and the quest for joy are totally conflated in my head. Is it logotherapy I want to write about just the pleasure principle?

It’s too hard to answer that question in the abstract. A few specifics: children. dogs. flowers. the rabbit I saw in the yard today.

Children. Did I decide to have children for meaning or joy? Definitely joy.

When I was deciding whether or not to leave a man I loved in order to have children, I thought obsessively and endlessly about the role of children. Everyone told me that you don’t have children for pleasure, for joy. You have them for meaning. Perhaps because I was coming down on the side of not having children, I decided that my life would be just as meaningful if I did have kids as if I didn’t.

There are two major reasons why having kids can’t be the meaning of life. One, there are too many people on this earth. Really, it’s a selfish thing to do, having kids on an overpopulated planet. Two, if your life doesn’t have any meaning without children then all of life, all of human existence is sort of meaningless. My life has no meaning till I have kids, then my kids life has no meaning till they have kids, and so on. Human existence becomes a sort of treadmill, questing for meaning but never getting there.

When I met Andy and having kids became the easiest and most natural thing in the world to do, I still felt like they were not the ticket to meaning. Andy wisely refused to articulate why, exactly, he wanted kids. He just did. This sort of examination is fraught. You might say that I was also refusing to articulate why when I said it was for joy. But it seemed to me that joy was the very best possible reason to have kids. And I stand by that.

So Battle and Margaret and Andy are the chief joys of my life, but not the meaning of it. Not even the chief meaning of it. Which is not to say they have meaning. They do. But defining that is so enormous. Simpler to look at some things in my life that bring me joy and have meaning meaning for me but are not meaning itself to understand the difference of having meaning and being meaning.

First, my dog Belvy. A good friend of mine, who was having a dark moment, said of Belvedere when she was a puppy, “She reminds you of the possibility of joy.” In essence, that was why I got Belvedere. I needed to be reminded of the possibility of joy. It was right after September 11, I was in a terrible relationship, my life was not working out the way I had hoped. So Belvedere’s animal spirits had meaning in my life. They were not the meaning in my life. But her animal spirits were the meaning in her life.

Maybe it’s silly to say that a dogs life has meaning. But it does to the dog. The opportunity to express her leaping bounding gobbling hurray I am alive self.

I think that the wildflowers I’ve sown this year have much the same meaning to me--and to themselves. The sort of joyous burst of life. They are what they are, nothing more, nothing less. Just, boom, a burst of orange and green and pink and white and purple and yellow. Of course I’ve had to kill a lot of weeds to get them to grow.

I guess that’s why it’s so easy to lose site of the hurray I am alive part of ourselves as humans...it’s the choice we have in the matter.

So it’s the choice that gives meaning to human life? Since we don’t get to stop at the leaping bounding gobbling hurray I am alive part of ourselves? Or is the choice just a distraction, something that knocks us off course from the joy we could otherwise feel?

I had breakfast outside this morning and a rabbit hopped by. That is why I love where we live so much. Rabbits and coyotes and hummingbirds and hawks and titmice and so many animals come roaming by, but we’re not totally isolated in the country somewhere.

Did that rabbit give meaning to my day, or joy? Joy, of course. But it means something to me to live here, where we do. It also meant something to me to live in Manhattan. But I think that if I had to live in Memphis, for example, my life would be robbed of some of its meaning. It was too hard to be myself there. Somehow it is easy to be myself here. Or in NYC.

Maybe the meaning of life is the ability to feel that joy. I was playing with the kids in the car in the driveway yesterday. From there I could look out and see the flowers I’d planted, trees, and in the distance the bay and the hills. Lovely. I wondered if I could have enjoyed the kids in the car as much if I were in a suburban driveway. And honestly it would have been hard.

Would my life have had less meaning?

Does Belvedere’s life have less meaning when she is cooped up all day and not allowed to dig? Not allowed to chase a ball? Not allowed to snuggle on the couch? I sort of think it might. I am tempted to stop writing and let her out right this minute. But I don’t want her to dig up my wildflowers. Bringing me back to that tangled web of joy, meaning, freedom and choice.

The scene for which The Color Purple is named describes how nothing could take away the slave’s ability to feel joy at the sight of the color purple...

Part of the reluctance to link joy and meaning too deeply is that there are times when it’s almost impossible to feel joy, and we don’t want to be robbed of meaning at those times as well. Also, there are things that bring great joy to one person but may hurt others. Things that bring joy now and pain later.

But why did Tolstoy dismiss happy families as all alike? As uninteresting. Why does wisdom have to come drop drop in our hearts from pain we cannot forget. Why can’t it come from watching rabbits and hummingbirds and dogs and children?

Now I am conflating meaning not with joy but with that which is interesting, or with wisdom.

Bottom line is this: for me the meaning of my life is to be my best self. And to express it in words and actions.

Part of being my best self is being joyful. So joy--witnessing it, feeling it, sharing it, creating it--is a big part of the meaning of my life. But only one part. Only one part, or is that it? A question for another day. Time to let Belvy go dig. But not my wildflowers...

meaning in joy

BANG BANG BANG. Battle knocking at his door to get up and greet the day. I jumped out of bed with a surge of joy to see him, Margaret, toddling behind, both of them still in their sleep sacks.

Sleep sacks off, and Margaret put her little feet into Andy’s big flip flops, getting the leather thong between the wrong toes and reaching for my hand to try walking. Another physical tingling of pleasure in my shoulders and head at the sight of that little foot in that big shoe, the trusting hand in mine.

On top of all that pleasure, it was a warm morning and the kids were dancing in their swimsuits, ready to go outside and play in the hose as I left for work. Daffodils and Douglas irises blooming, lots of baby blue eyes on the hillside.

These moments of intense happiness used to come upon me once or twice a year. Since having children, once or twice a day. (Ditto for the fits of rage...)

It’s hard to write about these moments, though. Rage is the stuff of comedy, drama, tragedy. But joy?

Richard and Donna came for dinner and played jump on the mattress after. Learning to jump. Learning what the body can do. What it feels like to get a little boost from the mattress on the floor up to the bed, what it feels like to fly through the air just a little. Ecstatic squeals.

The next morning Richard and I talked for an hour about how that kind of exuberance needs a witness, but defies words. So hard to make it meaningful. Because it is its own reward; you don’t need to find compensation for pleasure.

Maybe that's why writers spin this gold into lead. NPR did it to me just this morning--read this to me on my way into work:

Lines Written in Early Spring
by William Wordsworth

I heard a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined, 

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind.



To her fair works did nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think 

What man has made of man.



Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And 'tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.



The birds around me hopped and played:

Their thoughts I cannot measure,

But the least motion which they made,

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.



The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.



If this belief from heaven be sent,

If such be Nature's holy plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

The pleasant thoughts don’t have to turn to sad ones. People do joyful things to and for each other all the time.

My goal is to find meaning in joy. We look too much to suffering for meaning.

Thoughts on Hess

I’m told it's easy enough to understand why toddlers rage. Choice/control/will. Tonight Margaret didn't want to get into the bath. I tried to reason with her for a while and found it useless so just picked her up and plopped her in the tub. Screaming, flailing, water splashed into mouth, choking, parental and toddler distress ensued.

Was it choice/control/will? Or was it feeling misunderstood/ignored? She was telling me she wanted to go downstairs. I was trying to tell her I’d take her downstairs after the bath. I wonder, what would have happened if I’d just taken her downstairs to see what she wanted. Over time would that turn her into a willful spoiled brat, or just make her feel heard?

When I dropped Battle off at daycare today there was lots of wailing and gnashing of teeth. I decided to harden my heart and leave quickly. I drove to work. Staff meeting for an hour. Then drove back to pick the twins up, drop them at home with the nanny, and started to leave again. More wailing and gnashing of teeth. This time, I told him I was going to leave in a few minutes and hugged him as he cried. After about three minutes he looked at me and said, Mama go to work. No more tears. Cheerful waving even.

I don’t know if the rage is about wanting control, or just wanting to be heard. But I tend to think it is about being heard. I think that parents tend to try to tell kids they want what they don’t want, feel what they don’t feel, etc, from a very young age. I think that’s a big part of the answer to Hess’s question:

I wanted only to try to live in accord with the promptings which came from my true self. Why was that so very difficult?

I want to give Battle and Margaret the freedom to live in accord with the promptings that come from their true selves. That is my goal as a parent. Not to shape them. Just to love them, to create a safe environment for them to express their true selves.

That doesn’t give me any guide to whether I should have spent the time to take Margaret downstairs; or just plop her in the bath and say “tough shit, it’s bath time honey.”

Children and adults need a witness to their joy and their rage. I’d rather witness joy, so I’ll try to create the environment for joy as much as possible. But if I get rage, I’ll deal with that too. Not be afraid of the rage.

But my real question yesterday was not about toddler rage. It was about my rage. How is it that Frankl could control his reaction to being put into a concentration camp but I cannot seem to control my tongue when my son throws blueberries on the floor?

The reason for my rage is that I have a deep fear that if I don’t watch it, if I don’t fight for my life, my whole life is going to get eaten up by tasks like cleaning up blueberries. The real reason for my rage was that I wasn’t going to be able to go and write during naptime. Instead I was going to clean up blueberries. The real reason for my rage then and almost always is that the minutia of life makes it really hard to stop and think. And it’s when I stop and think that I feel most fully myself.

My sister, when she read yesterday’s post, pointed me to David Foster Wallace’s commencement speech. He claims

It will actually be within your power to experience a crowded, loud, slow, consumer-hell-type situation as not only meaningful but sacred, on fire with the same force that lit the stars -- compassion, love, the sub-surface unity of all things. Not that that mystical stuff's necessarily true: The only thing that's capital-T True is that you get to decide how you're going to try to see it. You get to consciously decide what has meaning and what doesn't. You get to decide what to worship.

My tenth grade English teacher pointed me to this quote when I was wrestling with the same thing back then.

"within you there is a stillness and a sanctuary to which you can retreat at any time and be yourself, just as I can. Few people have that capacity and yet everyone could have it."

The main way into that sanctuary for me is through the written word. I don’t think I can find my way there when I am in a consumer hell type situation. I can find my way there when I clean up blue berries if and only if I have had some time to read, to write, to think.

The Meaning of Life, Etc.

When I was at business school I learned from one of the many personality tests they had me take that the only activity I really enjoyed was something they called "talking about the meaning of life, etc." My 15th reunion is coming up in just a couple of months and I realize now that I learned something very valuable and never acted on it. I have not spent nearly enough time over the past 15 years talking about the meaning of life. I got thrown by the "etc." Sort of a dismissive, gratuitous etc.

Fuck the etcetera!

I am going to talk about the meaning of life.

Victor Frankl said that "everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms--to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.

Given that my favorite activity is talking about the meaning of life, given that I called this blog Logotherapy, the school of psychotherapy that Frankl founded, and given that Frankl is my hero, it pains me to say this. But I am not sure he is right about that.

If he's right, why did I yell at my two year old son, "Stop throwing the fucking blueberries on the floor!" I don't know if my kids are the meaning to my life--but certainly they are chief among the delights of my life. And I have all kinds of freedom. I could keep working. I could stop working. I could have had a nanny there, but I chose to have some alone time with my twins that particular morning. I would never choose to lose my temper over the fact that my two year olds behave like two year olds.

What is the meaning of the toddler rage? The rage that the babies clearly feel 100x a day and that once every two or three weeks infects me and even once every two or three months gets to their father, who is really the soul of patience?