To The Lighthouse

Saturday was my birthday, my 40th birthday. It was a substantially better day than my last birthday when I was struck on the nose with falling ice. This year I have two beautiful new babies instead of a swollen proboscis to take my mind off aging and the even more pressing issue - what does it all mean?
Don't we always expect, on milestone days like birthdays, births, and the beginning of a new year, that somehow proverbial lightening will strike us and we'll discover - without the aid of introspection - the meaning of life?
Perhaps. But if it didn't happen to Virginia Woolf, what hope do I have that such a revelation it will come to me? I think Ms. Woolf summed it up the meaning of life (and I agree with her assessment) better than I could hope to: What is the meaning of life? That was all—a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark.

book: To The Lighthouse • author: Virginia Woolf