A Life Well Lived

Sing like no one's listening, love like you've never been hurt, dance like nobody's watching, and live like its heaven on earth. ~ Mark Twain

There's a lot that stinks about having your "very worst thing ever" play out in a public forum. However, like everything else on earth, there is always a silver lining.  The greatest gift I have received in the past six months or so are the stories of heartbreak, loss, and painful experiences that have been entrusted to me.  Some of the stories came from close friends who had been keeping that pain hidden because, well, that's what we do, right? We push the pain down, put our heads down, and plow forward.  Other stories came from acquaintances who made themselves vulnerable and transparent for a moment so that I would feel less alone.  Other stories came from perfect strangers who had heard from someone who heard from someone that I had a broken heart and they wanted to help put in a few stitches to help me begin mending it back together. Those stories have been so precious to me.  They have sustained me.  They have validated my experience and given me tremendous hope.  

When we hear about tragic losses and the most unfortunate of events like the stories I've heard, well-meaning and good intentioned people often respond with platitudes like, "Everything happens for a reason" or "It's all in God's plan."  That's always bugged me.  Even when my life was more Rockwellian, these statements bothered me.  I know we all have a desire to make sense of things.  I totally understand the desire to find the "whys" behind all of the "whats."  I mean, last night I went to a party and they had free tarot card readings.  I was eager to give it a try; getting a glimpse into my future to remove some question marks was super appealing. I was skeptical and astounded when the things she said seemed to match up with my experience perfectly.  It was eerie and creepy and kind of validating in a weird way.  It made me feel like my pain had purpose because it was all part of the arc of my life story.  However, this morning after the buzz from fun and a teensy bit of alcohol has worn off, my skepticism returns.  

I recognize the motivation that drives the use of these platitudes, but, in the end, I still call "bullshit" when I hear them.  I just cannot abide by the notion that God chooses painful paths for some people and not others.  He's not a screenwriter for Lifetime, for heaven's sake.  He doesn't write scenes in which new mothers lose their babies or teenagers die in tragic accidents so that we can all have some sort of important lesson in the end.  Maybe everything does happen for a reason, but I think the reason is that life is just not fair.  Bad stuff happens to good people.  Good stuff happens to bad people.  And vice versa.  And really, aren't we all just a little bit of good and bad rolled up into one imperfect human being?  And don't we all have some "stuff" we've dealt with at some point? I guess my point is that I just don't buy the notion that our life experiences are pre-destined.  Sorry, Tarot Card Reader.  I still think you're a nice lady.

What, then, do we make of our pain?  How do we make sense of our stories if they aren't part of some plan?  If we throw out the notion that things happen for some reason that impacts the greater good, how do we get an answer for the "whys?"  Maybe we don't get those answers.  Maybe we are asking the wrong questions.  Instead of searching for meaning created by something or someone else, maybe we need to start seeing our painful experiences as opportunities to make meaning.  As an action oriented "do-er," this idea appeals to me.  

Today, Facebook suggested I read an op-ed that appeared in the New York Times. Sometimes Facebook's suggestions kind of stink. Sidebar: No, Facebook, I do not want to read about how people used to photograph dead people as though they were still alive...well, maybe I do, but I always regret it after I read it because it's creepy.  This suggestion, however, was a real winner.  In this piece, David Brooks examines the lives of "good people" and attempts to figure out what makes them good.  He writes, 

"People on this road see life as a process of commitment making. Character is defined by how deeply rooted you are. Have you developed deep connections that hold you up in times of challenge and push you toward the good? In the realm of the intellect, a person of character has achieved a settled philosophy about fundamental things. In the realm of emotion, she is embedded in a web of unconditional loves. In the realm of action, she is committed to tasks that can’t be completed in a single lifetime."

He argues that good people who do good things and lead lives that leave true legacies are not super-heroes with no faults.  Instead, they are people who stumble, make mistakes, experience heartbreak, and then keep going.  They stay true to themselves and their ideas even in the face of adversity.  He closes his piece with this, 

"The stumbler doesn't build her life by being better than others, but by being better than she used to be. Unexpectedly, there are transcendent moments of deep tranquility.  For most of their lives their inner and outer ambitions are strong and in balance.  But eventually, at moments of rare joy, career ambitions pause, the ego rests, the stumbler looks out at a picnic or dinner or a valley and is overwhelmed by a feeling of limitless gratitude and an acceptance of the fact that life has treated her much better than she deserves.

Those are the people we want to be."

So, my friends, let us stop asking "Why?" or at the very least give those queries a time limit.  Instead, let's make our lives meaningful - not because of the pain, but in spite of the pain.  Let's encourage one another to be our best selves. All the time or at least as close to all the time as we can.   And when I stumble, please don't tell me it's God's plan.  Take my hand, tell me you care, and walk with me as I begin the next chapter with my ideals and values intact.  I promise to do the same for you.

Hopefully yours,

Sara Renee