The Thanksgiving weekend and the approaching holidays is a good time to ponder an age-old question… What is the meaning of life? Except, let’s make it more specific, shall we: what is the meaning of our own, individual lives? As we run through our everyday — wash– rinse–repeat, sometimes it’s good to ask ourselves: why? What are we running toward, exactly?

Part of the reason I’ve been thinking about this is the book I’ve been reading, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People by the now late Stephen Covey. It’s one of those books you must read slowly, taking a month or so after every chapter, to let the lessons sink in. Because, as the book warns, this isn’t quick-fix advice. Life-changing wisdom is supposed to take a little longer.

So… I’ve been ruminating on mankind’s biggest question: why is my life important, really?

My answer has been two-fold: love and stories.

LOVE

My everyday is filled with the love for everything I have been given — the beautiful faces of my family, the bitter-sweet taste of coffee every morning, the brightness of the autumn leaves, the blueness of the sky above my head. My love is strongest for the things and the people closest to me, but sometimes I love the strangers too. I love that old neighbor who smiles at me every morning like he means it, and when I ask him, “How are you?” always answers, “I’m still breathing, aren’t I? What can be better than that?” I love a tired, determined young mother in a store who doesn’t notice her toddler making goofy faces at strangers. I love the possibility of the world’s future written across a teenager’s intelligent face.

STORIES

I also live for stories. I love the ones dancing, wild and half-formed, inside my head, or entertaining me in my dreams, just as much as I love to watch the stories mature with each revision. Of course, I also adore the flawlessly executed ones, those delivered to me between the hard or soft book covers.

WHAT I LIVE FOR

Stories — and love — are what I have been born for. Love and stories are all I have to give.

To love my family and give them everything I can. To love the strangers, love the world in small, invisible ways. To appreciate both its darkness and its beauty. To recognize the magic outside of us, and within us. And to pay homage to it, by adding to it all through my stories. That’s what I live for.

Is this enough? What do you think? What do you live for?