I suspect this is partly human nature: to make meaning from chaos in an effort to better understand the world around us. It's why we turn to science, to religion, and sometimes to alcohol. Me, I turn to clichés.
Take, for instance, my recent move. I live on an Army post and the housing company decided to renovate our neighborhood and relocate all the residents. (Sometimes you just can't win.) My husband and I decided to be our own advocates and see if the powers that be might be flexible in terms of timeline and relocation area. (The squeaky wheel gets the grease.) We tried to be as gracious as possible during the process because, well, you get more bees with honey. We ended up moving to an adorable house that we'd admired since we first moved here. (All's well that ends well.)
But now that we are here, we've found the new place to be far from ideal… like the giant solar-powered floodlight perched directly above our bedroom window or the fact that you can brush your teeth while on the toilet. (Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.) As we settle in amid the upheaval, I am desperately trying to make sense of things. From the mundane – where did I pack my underwear? – to the profound – can I get through this without killing my husband? – I wonder if we did the right thing, if this was all worth it. (Perhaps I shouldn't be second-guessing myself here. But if the unexamined life is not worth living, then maybe I should.)With each new frustration and quirk, the bigger picture plagues me. If life is what we make of it, do I need to take these lemons and make some lemonade? Or have I made my bed and must now lay in it? Perhaps I am wrong to try to fit this experience into a tidy little box. Perhaps there is no bigger meaning. Perhaps it just is what it is.
For now, I think I'll have a drink. Now, where did I put the wine?
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