It Means What I Make It Mean

I’ve always been someone who wants things to make sense. I want meaning in what I’m looking at. I want there to be a reason things are happening, not just random events unfolding.  I want it to mean something.

I understand where that probably comes from. I was raised in a world where everything had meaning, everything was serious, and you had to pay attention because you didn’t want to be left behind. Nothing felt accidental. Everything felt loaded with purpose.

As a kid, we talked about things being divinely appointed. Destiny. God’s plan. If God knew how many hairs were on your head, then surely He already knew everything that was going to happen in your life before it happened. It was all part of a prewritten plan. We were just showing up to play out what had already been determined.

That belief gave life structure. It gave it purpose. It made pain feel explainable. When bad things happened, you could chalk it up to God working out His plan. It gave suffering a reason. It gave life a storyline. It made things matter.

And I think that’s part of why I’ve always wanted to find meaning in everything.

But the older I get, the more I realize that not everything has a meaning—except for the meaning I give it. Not everything happens for a reason. Not everything needs a spiritual explanation or a metaphysical backstory playing it out behind the scenes.  Sometimes things just happen.

Sometimes shit happens for no reason other than shit happening.

And maybe what I’m really given is the opportunity to decide what it means.

At 63, I can decide what that number means.

I can make it mean I’m past my prime.
That I’m the “been-there-done-that” guy.

Or I can make it mean I’ve lived a full, rich, lived-in life.
That I’m grateful to still be here in this body and still get to explore a new era. That I get to be one of those rare people who sage instead of age.

I can actually embrace my inner sage. My inner daddy. lol
And be okay with it.

The more I think about it, the more I realize this has always been true:

It’s up to me to decide what things mean, or don’t mean.
It’s up to me to assign the reason, or be ok when there isn’t one.
It’s up to me to author the story, and live my own life.

That might be all meaning is. 

I’ll let you know when I find out what it all means. :)