I wake wondering why I live.

Not morbidly wondering like Hamlet – “To be or not to be.” Not frantically wondering, like Lear, who thought he had things figured out. Not o’ermastered by a vast passion, like poor Anthony for Cleopatra. But mildly, curiously, wondering what makes me tick.

You’d think I knew after seventy-two years. But few of us scrutinize our natures, poke for the why beneath the what. We do what we “ought” or “seems best”, fulfilling expectations – “duties,” “responsibilities” – inherited, not our own. We’re too busy to ponder – besides, what’s the point? We’re trains on a track, chugging toward depots we did not choose or, if we did, it was long ago, before we knew much about ourselves or the world.

I wonder for fun – and to tease out a topic for our morning stroll. Retirement gives me time for such languid lucubration. The essay was invented by a bored guy with empty time (Montaigne). He wanted to schmooze, but no one in his chateau suited, so he invented an interlocutor (us) with whom he might while the hours. He was not an entertainer, preacher, teacher, or huckster peddling wares, just a guy aching to talk. Reading was grand, but after reading you wanted to discuss. He’d had such a pal, a bosom buddy, but the poor guy died. Essaying, that is, fantasizing another, was the next best thing.

In my working years, busy chasing, I seldom wondered why. To pause would diminish my chance of success. Eyes on the prize, fella.

Now there is no prize, no pot of gold, just now and, in due course, never. Chores done, which consume an hour or two a day, I can do as I please – and it pleases me to pause – and puzzle – posing questions I mightn’t otherwise.

To my surprise, the answer to this morning’s question wasn’t obvious, which is why I’m tussling it here. Yes, I love beauty, writing, loved ones, the quandary of being alive; I bless my luck for such good seats at the show. I’m eager to know why things happen and how they’ll turn out. But what I seek, what drives me, is engagement, sharing with another the thrills and chills of being here now.

It’s like dancing. (I dislike dancing, but I like the metaphor.) Who wants to dance alone? The beat is pulsing; you’re adjusting your motions to the music and each other. It feels grand in sway, a victory of sorts over disorder and doubt.

So with being. How grand to share yearning, striving. The striving may be for attainment, health, understanding, the next rung on a ladder. The goal matters less than intensity of longing and sharing with another the strain and suspense. One comes to love one’s fellow aspirants. You need one another for this great attempt.

I don’t love anyone who doesn’t need me. No more can you love a rock. Another’s need, if only for companionship, gives me purpose. Otherwise, I’m dancing with a mannequin.

I love you because you’re reading me. Your choice of reading suggests a shared need – to transform the cacophony and clumsiness of being into a momentary quadrille. The questions we wrestle have no sure answers – not for long – but it feels fine to strive. I love the makers I love because they invite me into their explorations. I need them because they need me.

I live for love. Love is weakness, incompletion, inadequacy, aching, yearning, codependence, the courage to confess. Love is trusting another to help haul us from the morass of meaninglessness. Love brings order. Love is a dance.