10/13/10

Cooking Up A Meaning For My Life

This sentence is uttered often and in different variations: “I hate my life, my purposeless, driven-less, pointless existence.” Sometimes, a pronouncement of this sort can work in magical ways. What appears to be a simple statement confided in a spouse, therapist, or any non-confidant is often meant to soar straight into heaven, landing on God’s ethereal ears. It is a cry for help. He, knowing that the source of distress was merely a person who had not yet arrived at their meaningful moment, will give them (sometimes) a gentle push in the right direction. People often describe their moment of clarity coming suddenly, surprisingly, and right in the nick of time.

But what of those not destined to cure cancer or touch a life or paint a Mona Lisa? Does he bother to help them? What of the people He simply created without planning, like a thoughtless batch of sugar cookies on a Sunday afternoon? Without the effort of, say, a soufflé, couldn’t he theoretically make easy desserts that serve no purpose out of boredom? Space-fillers?

What an awful notion. Everyone wants desperately to believe that they were put on this Earth with a special plan in mind because we are force fed the idea that we are all special and different and wonderful in God’s eyes. But surely this can’t apply to everyone.

When one of these space-fillers complains, space-fillers who don’t realize they’re space-fillers, and yearns for the same gentle shove, is his answer to consume them? I’m picturing a musing, androgynous mix of bearded grandfather figure and plump, motherly, kitchen-dwelling woman; Santa Claus meets Mrs.. Cleaver. I picture prayers floating around this figure like snowflakes. Some, he chooses to let dissolve on His tongue, yet others land, negligently absorbed, in the snow. A person who needs guidance to fulfill their life’s meaning will get help when asked. But does our creator care to council those who are just…here? That completely depressing thought (that maybe some people just aren’t worth saving or helping) washed over me. It was disgusting. No cavalry is sending me a “purpose” to trip over just when I think all hope is lost. Maybe God or Allah or whatever is up there or around HELPING those who need guidance, gets sick of hearing the complaints from the worthless people. So he just invented adult chicken pocks. Or accidental pianos falling on people in the street. All those goofy ways to die are just God’s way of sifting out the riff raff. And…am I the riff raff?

The question remains, can we assign meaning to our own lives? Do we have the power? When we send up our prayers, mourning, and weeping is it all for naught against the grains of fate? How do you know if you’re a soufflé or a sugar cookie?

1 comment:

  1. i've loved this since the day you wrote it. very profound. don't ever stop writing.

    ReplyDelete