There is something endlessly seductive about the idea that somewhere out there, someone has the answer.
Not an answer. The answer.
The one that tells you who to be, what to do, when to turn left and when to let go. A sacred instruction manual, with all the worrying replaced with clarity:
Page 17: “Say yes to the job; the first year will be tough but then you’ll hit your stride.”
Page 42: “He’s the one. Don’t sabotage this!”
Page 81: “Stop stressing about whether or not you’ll have kids. You’re gonna be a Dog Mom to exactly 9 dogs and you’re gonna love it.”
I sometimes imagine it arriving in the mail, wrapped in heavy paper, a letter addressed only to me. Inside, the pages would be worn at the edges but crisp in their certainty. I would follow it religiously. I would be obedient to its wisdom. I would finally get it right.
The longing for that kind of certainty feels almost biological — a tug from somewhere deeper than language. A tug toward something clean, something conclusive, something that would absolve me from the vulnerability of not effing knowing.
And yet, if such a manual existed, it wouldn’t take long for it to become - woof - debilitatingly, unbearably BORING. Am I right? If every step were already decided, what room would be left for wonder? For surprise? For the serendipity of a life that unfolds rather than executes?
The very thing that would save us from uncertainty would also save us from aliveness.
And something in us, even in our most desperate moments, knows: we are not here for efficiency.
We are here for intimacy.
Still, some part of me just wants to put the whole mystery-thing down and grab the lapels of God and yell,
“Oh just TELL me already!”
This past week, I found myself asking the question again — how should I live my life? — not in despair, but in the midst of something surprisingly bright.
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