Hello Liz
None of us can know all the details of the personal history that caused us to land where we landed. But I do know that when my life's role was clearly defined by inescapable external events, it seemed simple to create quality in that life because there was meaning: like when the kids were at home.
Something profound happens when that job suddenly stops: the event ends when they leave; we become redundant in a sense, superfluous; meaning vaporizes; and quality of life slowly fades away.
One of the things I always knew-- but didn't hit me until late in life-- was this: it's our responsibility to assign meaning to our own lives-- and that meaning gives us purpose whose pursuit yields quality. The children brought that meaning without us even having to think about it-- and purpose and quality followed; we were fulfilled. But now that they're gone it's up to us to re-define the meaning of life-- and it's the hardest thing I've ever had to do; it's what led me to antidepressants.
My life was about them. They thank me and they love me, but I know they don't need me. The best way to make them happy as adults is for me to flourish in their eyes . . . but how to flourish in a universe that exists without purpose, in a world without inherent meaning.
How shall I define the time that is remaining to me?
It's the hardest thing I know. It's something everyone will encounter. There are no answers in this post-- it's just a conversation-starter.
