For some reason, I woke up this morning with this question on my mind… “What is the meaning of life?” That kind of thinking must have derived from the allergy medicine I had to take last night because, believe me, I don’t consider myself a deep, philosophical person. Besides, I discovered the answer to this question a few years ago.
However, when I was in my 20s, that question was constantly nagging me. “Why are we all here?” “What is the point of the daily grind of getting up and working most of the time, only to die in the end?” Pretty grim, right? Yep, those were my 20s, pretty grim.
Still, in my early 30s, I struggled with “No, really, what is the point of it all?” Then I met a wonderful man I fell in love with, someone I could actually picture myself growing old with and having a child with. I consider my husband to be one of the greatest treasures I have.
Four-and-a-half years later came the next of my greatest treasures… my son. That’s when I understood…. “Ohhhh, I get it! The happiness, the love, the being needed and wanted… this is what it’s all about! I actually feel like a complete person!” Life itself is a treasure. And every experience I share in life with my husband, with my son, us as a family, gets stored away as a little treasure in my treasure chest of life.
While this may not be the meaning of life for some people, it is to me. My family, my husband, my son, the love we share, the good times; these are all treasures that make my life complete. One day, when I’m old and gray and sitting in a nursing home, rocking in my chair, wondering where my X-Box controller is, I will sift through the contents of my overflowing treasure chest that contains so many beautiful memories in which I’ll be able to say, “Yeah, I get it, and it was great.”