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...
Friday, April 22, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, April 11, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, April 4, 2011
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...
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...
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