Do you wonder what your life means?

No right or wrong answer here. Other species might rate the question preposterous. What does mean mean? We’re here now, facts are facts: why fuss?

Only humans measure ourselves against imaginary metrics. Success is what we say it is. My definition will differ from yours. Human discourse – and confusion – arise from the contest of competing value systems. My victory you may account defeat, as in today’s politics.

Curious, isn’t it, how we come by these convictions, often so deeply held we’re convinced they’re fixed. Moses, unable to regulate his unruly tribe, passed the buck to God, as rulers often do. The Ten Commandments are a typical tyrant’s trick: not I say, but omnipotent Jehovah, whom you don’t want to mess with!

Spinoza, who liked to think, thought one could reason one’s way to an optimal value system, a reasonable set of moral imperatives upon which all, if they thought about it, would agree. He could prove, point by point, why love is better than hate, peace than war, justice than tyranny, etc. The proofs may be hard to follow, but if you try – and are really smart – you’ll get there, and order your life accordingly, as he did, who died happy.

His is a seductive dream, that exudes optimism. Humans could be so good, if only! Problem is, humans are not reasonable creatures. Logic is a recent invention which may seem irrefutable, but what really drives us is an inarticulate irresistible nameless force which, in our helplessness we’ve tried to name and tame. Call it Will, Nature, Instinct, Id, Passion, Gut, it overwhelms our reasonable restraints or uses reason to achieve its unreasonable aims. Wily misleaders can prove, point by point, why hate is better than love, war than peace, tyranny than justice, etc. Read the headlines: they do it every day. Mendacity uses logic when convenient and discards it when it isn’t: vide, Trump.

I’ve no idea what my life – or any – might “mean.” I suspect meaning is a bedtime story, recounted by Spinoza and other admirable souls, for our ease. Yet that suspicion doesn’t dissuade me from trying to lead a life I deem good. What does “good” mean? A life I can feel proud of. Let me craft my own Ten Commandments, not so different from Moses’ or Jesus’ or Spinoza’s, and live by them. Let me worship the God I’ve experienced, though I’m pretty sure He was a spasm of my brain.

I’ve no program to preach, anodyne to peddle, no ten easy steps to a tranquil heart. I work every day to figure out my own best way and it’s often hard. My conclusions are less than comforting because they’re always asterisked, subject to revision. Of everything I think I think I ask myself, “Do you really?” My only certainty is that certainty is a symptom of either stupidity or exhaustion. A bird settles on a branch when it’s tired of flying: likewise a soul.

I weary myself with my investigations. I may you. Enough already! But isn’t that the peculiar magnificence of the human adventure – that we’re never certain, always in flux. Puppy Henry ridicules my writhing (and writing): he knows what he knows, no ifs or (one t) buts, why sniff farther? Humans reform reality with our inventions and enlarge experience with our doubts. The subjunctive – would, should, may, might – is our curse and blessing, supplying any human with a mission, if you choose to accept it: Discover where you are! Describe your moral whereabouts; defend them. Tell stories to while away the night.