Cogito, ergo sum.–Descartes
Years ago, when I was still young and idealistic, I remember vividly a conversation I had with my beloved grandmother. We were standing in her kitchen tending something over her stove, and I was engaged in some type of discussion about the meaning of life, or perhaps I was airing my distrust of the establishment, or the hypocrisy of society, or some equally youthful discourse .
She told me simply, “You think too much.”
Under any other situation, and coming from any other person, I might be highly offended by this observation, but coming from my grandmother it seemed neither accusatory, or in any way anti-intellectual. It simply was. I think back to that statement often, because it really is true!
I do enjoy the flexing of my mental muscle. Nothing excites me more than reading a poem and getting goosebumps because the author was able to manipulate words in such a way as to express the wordless. I love exploring religion and philosophy; I acutally enjoy the elegance of mathmatics and the raw truths held in the scientific fields. Subjects like evolution and quantum mechanics make me giddy with joy as the human mind stretches it’s search for the source and reason for our existence.
And yet, often times, these thoughts often take me to dark places. I search deep into the meaning of our existence, hoping to find answers to the question that have plaqued human kind for millenia. And to what end? Does it make me happier? Does it improve my life? Lately it seems it hasn’t.
I yearn for a simple existence, to find meaning in the plain doings of daily life. I want to rise in the morning, shuttle my kids off to school, go to work and be satisfied, come home and take my kids to soccer practice, fix something comfortable for dinner, wash my littles in the bathtub, tuck their little pajama feet into bed, make love with my husband, and drift off to sleep. I want to enjoy these things and nothing else.
I don’t want to think too much. I just want to be.