Everything You Always Wanted to Know and We’re Afraid to Ask

To find the meaning of life some people
say you must read between the lines.

Many people search for the meaning of life.  Some find it through religion, whether that’s a personal connection with a Deity or a spiritual awakening following rituals with or without clergy assisting. Others find it through nature, which could be a breathtaking sunset or an ant carrying a peanut shell ten times its size back to its home in the crack in the sidewalk.  Still others, like those of us who participate in the blogosphere, find it in the miracle of creation.  Stunned by the fact intelligent beings actually derive satisfaction from spending their time reading or viewing the dribble we blogafile pundits spew into the social mediated world, we discipline ourselves to tap away on our keyboards with determined inspiration.

Simon's parents
await his arrival.

So, since you found yourself here, either out of habit, because one of my three followers recommended you give us a look, or perhaps you accidentally clicked on a link your niece warned you not to go near, I am going to share with you the actual meaning of life. It’s birth. For some of you existentialists this answer probably seems quite ineffectual.  You’re saying, “But birth is just a point on the continuum of life; he could just have well said death or reincarnation.”  Sorry, I know we are all headed there, but even if, as some believe, our salvation can only be realized through death, or you plan to come back as an even greater being in the next life, these are but attributes and not the ah-hah moment. Birth is the ah-hah moment.

My grandson Simon.

Like most of you, well all of you if you’re being honest, I don’t recall my birth.  We search for it, or something like it, when we meditate in my yoga class.  My mother informs me my uncle took her to the hospital because my father could not get back from work on time. The weather was misty and my grandmother slipped on some black ice—not uncommon in Milwaukee in February.  The umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck, but I understand that, too, is not that uncommon. However, the moment I slid down the birth canal or was pushed out is less than a blur—it’s lost.

As you might have guessed, there’s a reason for all this meaning and birth story.  While we don’t remember our own birth, we remember the birth of our children, even decades later.  Hopefully women only have a limited recollection of labor, because if men were required to be the sex giving birth world population would soon reach zero.  As the partner who stood around and played “coach” for the delivery of my three daughters, I marvel at the miracle.  A few hours ago, my oldest delivered a 7 pound 8 ounce 20 incher named Simon.  In due course we’ll discuss what he remembers about the experience. But, when the phone rang and his mother told me I had a grandson, and tears ran down the cheeks of his grandmother as we heard some of his first cries, I knew why I am alive.