I’m looking for relevance; nothing new there, lately. My pulse, the whoosh of the blood, tells me I’m here, physically. It’s the “Now what?” question that’s gotten hard to answer.
Existence sans purpose is like a train ride to nowhere—taking an interminable journey for no reason and with no destination.
The fickle winds of youth provide fits of relevance—carry us on the eddies and whirls of life toward the next undisclosed moment—toward at least something—often with great expectations.
No pulse-checking when hours are full, absent of despair, when we’re needed and have important things to do, even tomorrow. But Empty Hours and Desperate Hours build gaudy neon signs to advertise and incite my discontent—plunder my stash of purposes.
Empty Hours and Desperate Hours are twins with different aspects. One vacates our allotted time—simply removes us from the hunt. The other feigns nothing, skips all guile, tells us who we’re not, asks us why we’re here, and yawns at its sedition.
I hear the drumbeat from my neighbor’s party and wonder why I’m not there. Would I be relevant if I were?
Purpose in youth is built in, privileged—a rudimentary function of organic nature—if left undiminished by diminished others. But youth is self indulgent by design; cannot anticipate what it cannot imagine; cannot prepare us for the consequences of unheeded self neglect—for the Twins’ neon sign.
The Twins don’t cut deals; just remind us that nothing’s a given. A call from my children to see if I am still alive is a game changer, an unplanned visit a bewitching relevancy enhancer! To talk about anything with them turns off the cheeky sign for awhile. Ah, is that the author of these words!
I felt relevant then, when they needed me—when I needed them for a purpose greater than the next breath of air. 32 years until the second one hit 18—countless more, as it were, if and whenever they needed me. It’s a habit of core relevancy that hooks us; undisputed, a commitment to nurture, protect, teach, prepare—a natural addiction. It’s about them.
And then … as in a dream unfolding …
Our roster of siblings and friends gets short. In unguarded moments we reach for the phone to call someone who will not, cannot answer—who hasn’t had a phone number for … how long now?
In line at the super market I realize I don’t know a single celebrity on the magazine covers. I never read them anyway but I once knew their names, knew they lived in my time, which meant I lived in theirs.
Temporary! That’s the word I neglected—should have embraced so the Twins couldn’t ambush me … challenge me with what, of course, must be.