The mundaneness of meaning

I haven’t written here lately because I haven’t had much to say. I’ve watched the world in chaos and while some people’s words matter more in those times, words in general began to feel less and less.

This pandemic is not convenient, nothing like this ever is or could be. But, it did come at a weird time for me personally. We went into lockdown after I moved out of the home I shared with my husband and many months have passed since then and I think like a lot of people out there, the mundaneness of the days is getting to me. When I decided to get a divorce I faced a lot of different personal questions, and a big one was, “what does my life look like now that it’s just me? what does my life mean if it’s just me?” And I’ve only continued to struggle with that as time has passed.

The sameness of my days are a glaring reminder of where I am right now. I don’t have any children, I don’t have a partner I’m sharing my life with, I don’t see my friends, my dog moved in with my parents and my three somehow still living plants are not much company. Each day I wake up, make tea, work, scroll twitter, work, make more tea, eat, clean, read, and sleep. Sure everyone’s days right now are some variation of this, surely with much more chaos for those with families. It’s struck me though how much it’s forced me to face the question of what my life means, what value it holds in the world. And I’m not quite sure to be honest. All the things we associate with value output I don’t do, I’m not raising a person to make the world better once I’ve left it. I'm not exposing some grand injustice in the world, I’m not writing life altering literature. I am just me. I don’t know what my life means, or if it means anything beyond inherently being just that–a life.

In my book research I am reading a lot about philosophy, climate change, space, suffering, death and these evergreen questions of- what does it mean that we are here in the first place and what does it mean if we’re not here one day. In order to answer the latter, we must first at least have some clue about the former. The infuriating thing is I’m not sure anyone who’s ever lived has been able to confidently answer that question. We grapple with it our whole lives and one day we’re done grappling. I’m sure my life will be no exception. It does make me think a lot though about identity and society. We attach our identities to things and people that we like, that we love, in order to subscribe to some meaning and comfort. I am X’s spouse, I am a writer/publicist/teacher whatever it may be, contains some thing we grew up valuing even if we don’t know why. I think I know the things I’ve always wanted, those outside things that contain value for me and while I don’t have them and maybe I never will, it’s left me wondering what’s below all of that once it’s stripped away.

Who are we when it’s just us? And what is a “life” if it is made of days filled with tea and editing and nothing else. I don’t know and I don’t think the answer to that question lies in a quarantine day, but maybe it does.

In the meantime, the water is boiling and I have work to do.