Some wisdom comes easy. Some wisdom comes hard.
I've been around for a half-century and picked up some wisdom along the way. The deepest, and costliest, came twenty years ago.
My childhood was comfortable and relatively happy. Our family consisted of my mother (who ran the show), my father (who dutifully worked at a steady job and listened to my mother), me and my younger brother Richard. (Those are my parents on the left.)
Everyone obeyed my mother -- she had the overpowering force of a tsunami. Grown men quivered at the prospect of upsetting her and quickly complied with her instructions. We all knew there was no choice. Having my mother mad at you was a no-win situation: she would grind you down until you capitulated; the only question was when that would occur. As they say of The Borg, resistance was futile.
Despite her forcefulness, my mother was loving and she sincerely intended to help us. She believed she knew what was good for us and she was going to make sure those things happened. Our opinions didn't count because she assumed she knew better.
My brother Richard was a year-and-a-half younger than me and he idolized me. I urged Richard to find his own interests, pursue his own path but he doggedly followed me. This started in early childhood when I, as older brother, led Richard around and looked after him. It continued into later years even as I was exploring new things. Richard imitated me to the point of choosing the same activities I engaged in (e.g., academics; sports), but unfortunately he always had less success with those activities. I hated seeing Richard measure himself against me and come up short, so I tried to boost his self-confidence by steering him toward activities I had never engaged in and praising his efforts, wherever they reached. (That's Richard on the left.)
All said, in retrospect, I had a happy upbringing. Certainly better than some people's. My family loved me; I loved them; we spent lots of time together; and we went camping every year. (Camping is a vacation families take when they don't have a lot of money.)
So it came as a shock when, 20 years ago, my mother died. She had breast cancer and passed away at the early age of 54. My family reeled from the dolorous event.
Then, the following year, my brother Richard died of a heart-attack. He was only 33.
These events rocked the foundation of my world. My signposts, the people I used as landmarks, suddenly disappeared. Their absence was disorienting. Who was I, if not Barbara Jo's son? Who cared if I died myself? Where was I, if not in the company of my family? Is the universe cold and uncaring?
I wrestled with these issues long after the shock of the deaths wore off. I struggled to understand the central question in all our lives -- What is the meaning of life? Why are we here?
The answer I came up with, which I don't preach but merely state, is that we find meaning in our relationships to others. For me, loving people and being kind is my natural calling. Seeking to understand others and apply that knowledge to improve their lives uses my talents in the most important way. I choose to help people -- and doing that creates meaning for my life.
The effect on me of the deaths of my mother and brother was so powerful that, even now, my chest heaves at the memory. That tectonic emotional force propels my commitment to help people. I believe that helping people is the meaning of my life.
Have you figured out the meaning of your life?
