In search of meaning… really???

A friend called today. She mentioned my blog. I told her it was over. She flatly told me that I couldn’t stop. She told me how another journalism friend and she had recently discussed how proud they were that I was writing again (gulp… gulp…). “Please don’t say things like that to me – especially now that I’ve quit” I whimpered back. “No pressure, no pressure…” she replied (in glee???). And of course, she went on to say how the other friend was inspired to start writing again (gulp…gulp…).

I would so want him to write again. For he writes beautifully. I would want the friend I was on the phone with, to start writing again. For she writes beautifully. And I would want all the others to do the same for the exact same reason. Interestingly, of our journalism group, only two remain journalists and writers today. The rest of us drifted away. And yet I remember how we would be in awe of each other’s writing prowess, position and perspectives, energy and ingenuity. We were all so very different - we had absolutely nothing in common and yet writing was the thread that bound us. The notes we exchanged in class (in rhyme and poetry, mind you) made for the most fun, hilarious and at times profound and insightful reading ever. We seemed to be an explosion of chaos and creativity - much like our time in the journalism department - with our idealism and energy; deliberation, youth and creativity.

I could picture my friend rubbing her hands with a “my work here is done” smugness.  Truly, her work was done. We joked about it as we joke about everything – the surly man at the office I was waiting at, her failing to pass the driving test, having used press cards to get out of situations…” And yet, I knew I would get back home and write. And I did just that.

Illness makes you reflect on a lot of things. Maybe it is simply because you have more time to do so and less energy to do other things you would have normally busied yourself with. If that is wise or really silly, I don’t know. But I do know that when I told my friend I wasn’t going to write anymore, the writing had seemed like an inward, withdrawn and lonely matter and I didn’t want that.

But my friend’s lovely, sunny (and at the time annoying) voice told me that it was anything but withdrawn and pulled me out of my shell. I wondered why I responded so quickly to her words.  

I suspect we are constantly in search of meaning. I suspect we want to be part of a greater community, a greater sense of being. I suspect we want our actions to matter more and maybe I viewed my writing as being withdrawn and “only for me” and I didn’t want that anymore. Each time we question the meaning of things - the smaller thing - the things that we enjoy - the things that seem natural – I believe we create trouble for ourselves. And I suspect a lot of the smaller things we do are more meaningful, more connecting, more wonderful than we imagine.

As for my friend, I can see the naughty sparkle and satisfaction in her eyes as she reads this.