Life moments are steps–keep running forward.
Figuring out the meaning of life is tiring, but it should be attempted. Why else are we here? There are two extremes involved in this debate: (1) there is no correct answer because any response is a human contrivance subject to human error; and (2) God will take care of it, just try to be good and you’ll be close to the meaning; i.e., don’t sweat it! Of course, sandwiched in between these extremes are the manifestations of organized religion.
Here is my favorite follow-up question: does knowing the meaning of life get you points in the hereafter? Buzzer time! What if there is no hereafter? Is that the real meaning: 72 years and you’re outtta here?
Actually, I know the meaning of life. But knowing is not like winning a lottery. In fact, knowing, or believing I know, is damn right frustrating. And tiring.
Last night the President delivered his first State of Union address of his second term while police cornered and presumbably killed an fugitive ex-cop who killed cops and their loved ones. The speech ended dramatically with a challenge to Congress to at least vote on a gun violence prevention bill. The President’s refrain was “deserve a vote,” issued after he cited each victim, each shooting horror of recent times. Meanwhile a forest cabin in California was burning, presumably again, with the cop killer inside.
I see the undeniable stain of gun violence dotting the the red, white and blue of our flag. Network TV was torn betwen a speech and a manhunt. Congress is torn by mutually exclusive ideals that translate into stalemates. A revolution without guns is required.
This post is for all those drivers who were glued to their cell phones when they cut in front of me. I’m over it now. Months weeks and days have passed. What’s the point of keeping that rage which caused me to scream and show a middle finger?
Now I’m in a contemplative mode. Who are these careless drivers? Maybe they’re good people with only one bad habit–endangering lives while breaking California law. I should share some of the blame, after all, I am an extreme commuter, often driving over 200 miles per day to get to work. What was I thinking? I should probably apologize for these near misses on 101,85 and 280. At least, I shouldn’t erupt with anger. I should turn in my car keys. Play safe in my house. Call friends on my cell phone.
I am wandering into a new social media, armed with years of mistake-fed wisdom and a long love affair with the written word.