Today is the youngest you are ever going to be.
It is true.
Many people wonder about the “meaning” of it all — life, the Universe, the clockworks, our being. And many search for their “purpose” in life, their function, and their line.
What name is our spirit, and how does it all work?
Perhaps there is no meaning. Perhaps the meaning is everything. How do we know?
I think about this often.
But it crossed my mind heavily today, as I saw it is Anna Mary Robertson Moses’ birthday. She came into this world on September 7, 1860. Of course, we all know her better as Grandma Moses.
She was an extraordinary American folk artist who didn’t start painting until she was 76.
She thought the act of painting was pretty incredible when she was just a child. But she didn’t explore it then, perhaps because of her busy little life. Born on a farm and then “hired” out to a local family to clean, cook and care for their children.
Then, in adulthood, she started having children of her own. Ten children, in fact.
But in her later years, when she had a moment to breathe, she took to the canvas with her brush. Over her remaining years, she produced nearly 1,800 works. Beautiful, wholesome, wonderful scenes.
I won’t go into all the details of her life, as there are many. But her painting ability was “discovered” in 1938, and by 1940 she had her own gallery show. People went wild for her work. She appeared on the covers of many magazines and loads of greeting cards.
Yes, Hallmark licensed her work, and they sold more than 16 million greeting cards — in 1947 alone — that featured her various paintings.
Her “style” of painting is called naive. Naïve art is visual art, created by a person who lacks the formal education and training that a professional artist undergoes. Sometimes it is called primitive. Sometimes, folk art.
It doesn’t matter. It is what she loved to do.
Anna found her way of painting.
She kept painting until the end of her life, which happened when she was 101 years old.
I used to think my “purpose” in life must be etched in stone somewhere, and somehow I hadn’t been able to find the magic slab of rock it had been chiseled on. Or maybe written in some golden book.
Now?
Now, today is the youngest I’m ever going to be.
I am pretty sure my purpose in life had changed over the years, turning at every corner. Not just one, but many.
Yes, that purpose shifts and changes and wiggles itself around. And I keep finding it as I go. I’ve learned it isn’t some profound earth-shattering clap of thunder from the heavens, but some simple thing like finding a grocery cart, tottering away in the parking lot, and pushing back to the cart corral.
Or helping the frog get out of the pool and rinsing it off with some cool water, then giving her a ride in my hands back to the big pond.
It’s making a melted cheese sandwich for someone. With mayo.
It could be watching the white puffy clouds roll along in the sky, shape-shifting as they go. “Oh, there’s a bunny. Wait, it looks like Winston Churchill now.” Just noticing the moment.
We all paint on our canvases every day. The picture we paint is our own.
What we paint is our own.
And that is our meaning of life, I think.
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“Life has no meaning. Each of us has meaning and we bring it to life. It is a waste to be asking the question when you are the answer.”
― Joseph Campbell
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There is only one meaning of life: the act of living itself.
— Erich Fromm
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My dog doesn’t worry about the meaning of life. She may worry if she doesn’t get her breakfast, but she doesn’t sit around worrying about whether she will get fulfilled or liberated, or enlightened. As long as she gets some food and a little affection, her life is fine.
— Joko Beck
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The painting we paint, no matter where we are.
