The Meaning of Life

Most children love animals, and my daughter was no exception. Once the basic life skills of walking and talking were finely tuned, her curiosity about birth and living beings increased. Her godmother's young cats became teen mothers several times during my daughter's summer stays, and through these witnessed, miraculous, and slimy beginnings, we inherited a number of our cats. A baby bunny conceived at her preschool arrived, years later a puppy, even an unasked-for goldfish. There were nature camps with bug and butterfly chasing, rat care taking duties during school vacation, and a 5th grade veterinarian mentorship. As an only child, the animal kingdom was where my daughter found her siblings, and it was where she began to learn about the meaning of life.

A few weeks ago, I took an “Insight Seminar” at our local university titled “The Meaning of Life.” When I mention I took a class on “The Meaning of Life,” most people roll their eyes. In fact, the professor began by explaining to us that of course the topic is an impossible, dare he say absurd notion of study. But as I sat there among the sea of predominantly mature, eager learners, I did not find the theme humorous at all. I have always been a rather serious human being. Once I learned to talk, that was it. I've been a talker and a wordy philosopher ever since. So the seminar merely gave me more thought tangents to follow, and a strong desire to capture those thoughts on paper.

Days blended into weeks, and I just could not face the blank page. Then I awoke one morning filled with the memories of my daughter's love of animals, and especially our visits to our County Fair. At this fair she could barely reach up to the animals she wanted to pet, but her small hands lovingly caressed each creature she met. We introduced ourselves to hens and roosters, rabbits, sheep, goats, sows and baby piglets, and even took a turn at milking a cow. What held the most fascination, however, was this clear glass, box-shaped incubator full of soon-to-hatch eggs. We noticed cracks in a few and stood staring as a tiny tip of a beak appeared. My normally antsy-to-roam preschooler's eyes never wavered from this birthing experience. Time slowed to a snail's pace as we stood in front of this transparent world. The information sign said it could take hours for a baby chick to hatch. We waited and watched. We watched and waited. I suggested we veer off to the sheep barn and then come back.

Over the next several hours, we wandered through the fair's animal kingdom, periodically returning to the incubator. The crack was enlarging, the beak was lengthening. Other cracks were appearing on other eggs, but my daughter only saw “her egg.” This birthing process, this simple lesson on life's beginning, entranced both my new awakening daughter and my older, more experienced self. We both had an insurmountable measure of curiosity and patience as we marveled at the struggle these little chicks were enduring to be born.

By now, two tiny eyes and a fuzzy head appeared. On a later return one wing poked through the shell's opening and then another. During our final visit, the chick insecurely wobbled onto the hay-strewn bottom of the enclosure. My daughter and I excitedly and quietly jumped up and down while waving our arms and doing a sort of welcome-to-the-world dance. There was our chick, our creature of the universe, beginning a new life.

The daughter is grown now, and the mother is in her sixties. If asked about the meaning of life, I would zero in on the exhilaration we felt at witnessing the completion of our chick's birth. Life's meanings, for I believe there are more than one, come from opening our eyes to the simple “acts of being” happening around us every day. At the fairgrounds that mild August day, our eager willingness to learn something new, our ability to enjoy the slower moments of time, allowed us to experience the wonderment of living. If we each take the gifts of our “seeing” opportunities plus our “life-lesson” understandings and share these with other humans, then the meaningfulness of life can expand and evolve.

During my daughter's later growing up years, she would shed tears over her beloved dying cat, Blackberry, feel the biting sting of her outdoor rabbit Licorice's tragic, violent death, and sit with our aged, suffering cat, Luna, as we gently put her to sleep. This cycle of living and death gave us the additional gift of realizing that the meaning of life is sweeter for its impermanence.

For me, Emily Dickinson sums up my thoughts on baby chicks hatching, curious children learning, and meditative adults philosophizing on the meaning of life: “I find ecstasy in living – the mere sense of living is joy enough.”

© 2011