|Not the Answer, but a Nice Try|
I found a note in my Google calendar this morning. It popped up as a reminder on the phone with today’s date and the words ‘Find Meaning of Life’. Between ‘Buy new socks’, and ‘Phone insurance about drain’, I had remotely prompted myself to resolve the mystery of our presence in the universe.
I was rather surprised by this. I have no memory of placing this reminder in the calendar, nor any idea why I should have chosen, presumably some time ago, this particular Monday morning to begin the search for purpose.
I am not nagged by the sense that my life is without meaning. In the end, it probably is, but I’m perfectly happy with it. So far the only sign of mid-life crisis I have observed in myself is the increasingly urgent desire for a microlight aircraft, which is likely to remain unfulfilled, because apart from the price of them, Mrs Hickory would have to take a bottle of Valium every time I went up in it.
My life is not empty, I barely have time to analyse the things I’m not doing because of everything I am doing, and I have no idea what the message refers to. Perhaps it was a book, or the Monty Python film, that I wanted to hunt up, or a reference to something I half-remembered reading or writing long ago. Or maybe Cupertino intervened. I shall probably never know.
But I have, as a result, spent the day distracted by the responsibility I had accidentally given myself. Until I finish the task, I can’t tap the screen to illuminate the green tick which decrees it done, and it will keep appearing, day after day. Tomorrow I shall try again. The answer must lie somewhere. If there is one, that is. I hope so. I have a green box to tick.