Killing bugs and why we're not all astronauts

Meaning gives us purpose. Purpose, ideally, spurs us to action. And the fruits of action? Well, sometimes it can be bitter fruit indeed.

Sometimes, the meaning-purpose-action-result cycle can be incredibly demoralizing. I mean, here we are, all built up as small children to grasp onto meaning, and let it guide us in to purposefulness. So we reach for things that are familiar: we say we want to be lawyers, because we want to enforce rules we believe keep things in order; we say we want to be doctors, because we want our friends and loved ones to be well; we say we want to be astronauts, because earth cannot contain the limitless nature of our curiosity; we say we want to be soldiers because we want to be strong and defend our country.

As we enter the world, this concept of world-saving becomes blurry. Our meaning becomes a little more self-serving, a little more about status. We want to be lawyers for the money and the fact people will think we are smart. But we're not all smart. No, we're not.

We're not.

...some of us are. But most of us aren't. Sorry. Some of us are fucking stupid as bricks. Some of us can't grasp the human language to the extent that we can form a coherent sentence, let alone utilize that language to represent empathy for our fellow man. We simplify. We boil it down life to its core elements.

Survival. Reproduction. aka. Murder. Sex.

Am I getting too dark for you? Maybe I'm just in a dark mood. But let me continue, because I've still got more left in me.

So our meaning becomes a little more dire, and a little more realistic as we age. So what? That's fine. We need realism to continue on. We can't all be astronauts you know. No, we can't.

My meaning comes and goes. It waxes and wanes, and mostly is found in other people. So my purpose then, is their sustenance. My result? It can feel like I'm just treading water. The people I sustain don't know I'm doing it. I didn't know anyone was doing it for me, when all I wanted was to be a doctor to take care of other people.

This perhaps, will be known as one of my most incoherent blog posts. I've had two tall cans of cider and sat in the sun for two hours while my 5 year old played games with other 5 year olds. They were funny and brutal. They killed bugs and laughed heartily as they threw arms around one another and chuckled.

I imagined the scene would have been the same 1,000 years ago. 2,000, even. The camraderie of little boys and its brutality is timeless. Their brutiality, hard wired for leadership and Machiavellian mobility may not even have a place in the future. What will I tell my son about meaning then? And the fruits of his action? What if my sustenance, my own meaning, gives him an undesirable result?

So, I try and find my meaning in other places. I write. I try (and fail) at starting a career that is a ghost of the high-minded ideals I had as a child. But I also try and instill a varied sense of meaning in my son. It's not all about killing bugs and saving the world. No, it's not.

Okay, maybe it is.