Life seems as apt to break as to enlighten us.  This agony, through which we see some possibility, We experience more as sorrow,  than insight. Albert Camus begins “The Myth of Sisyphus”— “There is but one truly serious philosophical problem...suicide.”  Human longing for unity and reason;  the inability of the world to deliver. “The absurd,” he wrote, “is born of this confrontation between the human need  and the unreasonable silence of the world.”   Camus rejected suicide and leaps of faith,  both of which he thought denied one side or the other of this truth. In “Man's Search for Meaning,” Viktor Frankl, Holocaust survivor, said—  “...each man is questioned by life;  and he can only answer to life by answering for his own life;  to life he can only respond by being responsible.”  Frankl said we experience meaning— “by creating a work or doing a deed;  by experiencing something or encountering someone; a...

Wenatchee River, Leavenworth, Wash. The smell of trees And memories seep through the snow, Sheer moonlit peaks Faces obscured by valley mist, The slivered light of stars reflected in a stream, Towns, houses, barns Shed pools of light by silver roads, Bare river trees And orchard rows slip past half known.

So much of life we face alone. So many holocausts  and self-medications So much of our existence is more chaos than creation, So much of our experience more mental illness than stability. So many saints are rascals in disguise So many forest fires and volcanos so few uncomplicated childhoods  So many good intentions  cause so many kinds of harm. Is everything we try to say an exercise in wishfulness? A meaningless attempt to wrest  some meaning from the arbitrary fury of the world?

When Tina asks – “Why stay alive?” Some answer as though she's asking, “What are the benefits?”  They say, “Surviving makes you stronger,”  or “God's teaching you something,”  or they try to find some other silver lining. Some answer as though she means, “What's happening?”  They say, “brain chemistry”  or “development.”  And there's some insight here.  At a graduate discussion group,  I heard Joshua Seachris, then studying philosophy at the University of Oklahoma,  say what we want is a framework — a narrative — to make sense  of these “existentially charged elements of life.” My question eventually became whether the zebra of reality is randomness  with stripes of meaning  or the other way around. The gradual surprise is that there's anything at all. 

As in a dream, Surrounded,  Familiar places stripped of sense. Words not understood Familiar, unrecognized; A rising, nameless, fear. Someone asks if I'm okay, “Fine,”   Wrung out, squeezing. Wandering, Alone, Is small relief. I try to breathe; The singing crowd, Footsteps. A smile Am I okay? I nod. No words, Murmuring buzz, The rising song An admonition closing in; a door! Too bright! The singing squeezing, squeezing Awake, writhing, I try again to breathe.

Tears streaming down the drain Un-echoed screams Hand against the shower wall Heart-numbing solitude A covered face That shudders to be touched Sleepless, weary, pacing Unreasoned pain A pillow-smothered sob The shades and curtains drawn Oppressive sun Endless, black-fingered shade Minutes, weeks pass un-named Brain-breaking dark Numb, aching for relief Gasping the leaden air Another breath Another weariness

The summer after we'd been married for a year, one friend set an appointment with the doctor,  and I asked another friend to recommend a therapist. Tina cut herself. Her therapist sent literature.  We talked about self-harm and suicide.  Friends reminded me to rest.  We learned to say we'd try  and to turn back if something was too much. In July, we saw Les Mis' in New York City. Something in music  still gave her some hint of life.   In September  Tina contemplated suicide. Her mother came to stay with us.  One night some friends talked Tina out of buying  razor blades and sleeping pills while she wandered the super market. October 5, her therapist called me at work.  I'd just sat down for lunch. Tina couldn't promise to be safe.  We went to the hospital. I locked up medicines, and knives, and scissors.  Her mother came to stay with us again.  Nothing softens the not knowing  what eac...

I wish that I could stand for a thousand years beside the surf, Hooded, silent, equally against rain and sun; My heart inclined to where the sea and land collide, To hear the energy of waves and mark the tides, To see the many-colored light, and feel each creature's life; Gaze seeking to discern some wisdom in the wildness.

“I think; therefore, I am,” seems odd,  respect for Descartes notwithstanding. Descartes – If I understand – began his search for truth,  rejecting what he doubted.  The senses, he observed, could be deceived.  And so his mind became the thing he could not doubt.  But anyone who's had rocks in a shoe  recalls the persistence of a rock's existence.  We realize we are because we think.  But we don't imagine being before existence happens to us.  Though we do sometimes imagine  ceasing to exist.