The moment you lose the illusion of being eternal (or special, or whatever), meaning is from then-on, laid down at the feet of us ordinary individuals, and we are given the chance to take responsibility for it. We can no longer look for meaning to be handed down to us (as from parent to child, state to citizen, or priest to congregation).
Well, we can look for this, and many of us do, but it is this freedom that I reckon we fear. We would often rather play the child, and have someone sell us a story, at the expense of some sort of freedom. The more afraid we are of our own participation in our world of meaning, the more we call the stories of others (Parents, Priests, Politicians) that we buy into, grandiose things like TRUTH.
The real illusion (and this is a great act of self-trickery), is that all those blankets of meaning, no matter how much we find ourselves struggling under the weight of them, were knitted by us, yet we perform the best disappearing act in history. We CON-vince ourselves we were not involved in the illusion. This is why I think, we humans, are great illusionists, magicians and tricksters. We all get something out of buying into the illusion, even if they are illusions that are seemingly to our detriment, and even if it is for gaining something as mediocre as comfort or convenience.
The real illusion (and this is a great act of self-trickery), is that all those blankets of meaning, no matter how much we find ourselves struggling under the weight of them, were knitted by us, yet we perform the best disappearing act in history. We CON-vince ourselves we were not involved in the illusion. This is why I think, we humans, are great illusionists, magicians and tricksters. We all get something out of buying into the illusion, even if they are illusions that are seemingly to our detriment, and even if it is for gaining something as mediocre as comfort or convenience.
Until we fully accept our individual participation, in the knitting of our world of meanings; we will not be fully free, and we will limit our personal growth. We will continue to be like children wanting to be parented, buying into someone else's meanings, narratives, stories, reasoning, understandings. I believe it is a human predisposition to do this, because we have all been children, but I believe we can only grow as we slowly let go; as we let the stabilisers of other people's ideas be taken off our little emotional bicycles. Although, that is not to say that we won't craft our very own stabilisers and bolt those on as a replacement, which may be a temporary fix, however, I just don't think we really need the stabilisers.
My best guess is that we were always participating in the warp and woof of those worlds of meanings, and I am suggesting that we own up to our own handiwork. The moment we stop passing the buck, we begin to participate in the hard task of finding out who we are, and what we prefer, and decide what we want for ourselves. This is the moment we begin to take a little more charge of our lives: how we choose to be, where we choose to be, the way we choose to be, in relation to ourselves, others, and life in general.
I actually don't think we need much meaning in our lives (even if we may be addicted to it). I reckon we generally just go along, and do what we do, with or without grand schemes of meaning. Many of the stories we have secretly written are probably not even that beneficial for us; for our mental health and for our ability to deal with all that life presents. These kinds of meanings, are ones we would be best to free ourselves from. If the stories we hold are effective at helping us get on with our lives, and flourish (if it is indeed flourishing that we want to do) or damn ourselves (if is is indeed damning ourselves that we want to do), then, we may carry on unquestioning.
I do think that part of the human experience, and human need, is to find stories with which to interpret our experience of our life. However, I imagine that we are best to keep the stories simple, related to the ordinary, which might prevent the destruction caused when the meta-meanings collapse and can no longer sustain the life they are supposed to be expressing.
One of my hardest trials in life, came when I let go of my meta-meanings, like a child letting go of a bunch of pretty helium balloons. I stood there feeling abandoned, and choked up with a sense of loss. And then came the dawning that I was still the same person, with all the same habits, and reactions and feelings, but, I was now just feeling a lot more alone, a lot more naked, and a lot more exposed. I was the empty-handed child.
I actually don't think we need much meaning in our lives (even if we may be addicted to it). I reckon we generally just go along, and do what we do, with or without grand schemes of meaning. Many of the stories we have secretly written are probably not even that beneficial for us; for our mental health and for our ability to deal with all that life presents. These kinds of meanings, are ones we would be best to free ourselves from. If the stories we hold are effective at helping us get on with our lives, and flourish (if it is indeed flourishing that we want to do) or damn ourselves (if is is indeed damning ourselves that we want to do), then, we may carry on unquestioning.
I do think that part of the human experience, and human need, is to find stories with which to interpret our experience of our life. However, I imagine that we are best to keep the stories simple, related to the ordinary, which might prevent the destruction caused when the meta-meanings collapse and can no longer sustain the life they are supposed to be expressing.
One of my hardest trials in life, came when I let go of my meta-meanings, like a child letting go of a bunch of pretty helium balloons. I stood there feeling abandoned, and choked up with a sense of loss. And then came the dawning that I was still the same person, with all the same habits, and reactions and feelings, but, I was now just feeling a lot more alone, a lot more naked, and a lot more exposed. I was the empty-handed child.
So, there I was, unadorned. I was without the meta-meanings but I was still the same. The smokescreen had cleared, and there was the once-great magician: not that great afterall. He had just been hiding in the smoke, in the mist of his words, but he had never left the stage at all.
