Making Meaning

I've tired of the great need to make meaning, the endless search for meaning, the compulsive urge to create meaning. The need for meaning is measured by sorrow. No sorrow, no search for meaning.

No one ever asks why or why me in the middle of happiness... No "why did we have a wonderful, beautiful baby?" No "why did I meet the perfect partner whom I love endlessly?" No "why are my finances so strong?" No "why am I so healthy and well?"

The "why" always shows up as sorrow's shadow. The need for meaning, for answers, always accompanies the tragic, the flawed, the grief-stricken, the fallen, the wounded, the injured. I understand the desire to know answers that make sense out of the senseless, and have invested every ounce of who I am in tracking down meaning.

But I'm at a different point now somehow. I don't want answers to questions. Now, I want to live as freely and fully as I can, fearless both because of and beyond any answers I've gotten so far.

Instead of chasing after meaning, I'm letting it come to me. And it's showing up in the most ordinary, wonderful places and people. It's rarely accompanied by angels singing or bright, white lights, and it doesn't take me out of myself nearly as much as it resonates with the best of who I am.

Feels good not to be seeking, searching, struggling, begging the universe to reveal its secrets. I'm making friends with the universe and I'm not so sure it's been keeping secrets anyway....