Sunday mornings, when I take the dog for a walk around the neighborhood, we pass all those neat nice houses. Flowers are blooming manifoldly in the front gardens, balconies are planted in equal elaborately. Windows are opened to let in the fresh summer morning air and allow one to get a glimpse here and there of the nicely and modernly decorated living rooms. More or less our house may give the same impression.
And still, I do not feel being a part of all of this. It seems, I do not care enough about it. We do keep the house and garden in order of course, but although I love gardening it is more out of responsibility than meaning. I enjoy the flowers to regrown each year in spring in the flower-beds, but it is not less joyful to observe this in the nature or even in foreign gardens.
We spend quite some time and effort in decorating everything in the house, thinking carefully how to put the furniture and hang the paintings at the walls. But once everything was done, it is more and more a burden to clean everything everyday without really wanting all this stuff and space.
What sounds like complaining on very high level, is indeed asking the question of meaning and where we want to go to. In searching for an answer for these particular questions the anxiety resonates of being wrong and miss all this once it is given up.
But then there is a deep inner feeling, which can not be explained by any rationality, that we have to give everything up and go for a different life, to find our own personal meaning.
We once saw a documentary about a abbey on some remote North-American island and a nun said, while she was working in the fields, that she found what gives her inner happiness and that she has not to do any searching for it anymore. What a blessed woman!
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