When we compare our life-spans to the World’s and the pace at which It goes about a great degree of Its business, our time here is pitifully, perhaps mercifully, brief. This is a fact. So it stands to reason, then, that people should contemplate this concept at some point during that brief moment. We are all going to die. We all know this. And anyone who doesn’t think about this is lying to himself. So how could we not pause at some point to ask ourselves about our functions on this earth, wonder about the point to our lives, and grapple with the question regarding whether there is, indeed, a point, and if there is not, how we could go about finding one.

There are those who do not think about such things. You can call them the Simple Souls who take things at face value and do not cave to the curse of Knowing and Wondering. Or they are too busy. Or too pragmatic. I used to think them lucky and unburdened. But now, I neither envy nor disdain them; I simply comprehend that they are different from I and that Knowing is not a curse, per se, but a heavy mantle I willingly accept. The Simple Souls are Human, of course, but they live a life closer to that of a different class of animal. This sounds disparaging and/or intolerant, but that is not how I mean it. The truth is that if these wise or lucky or uncomplicated folk go about their days without stopping to think about those days in a meta-manner, they have reduced their existences to a series of needs, and if our needs govern our actions, that does not “lower” us to the level of animals, maybe, but it makes us analogous to them. There is nothing wrong with this; it just differentiates those making use of their reason from those who either choose not to use it or never had it in the first place.

You could say the Existential Crisis is a problem only the Bourgeoisie or the upper classes sustain, but someone without time and money can just as easily, perhaps more easily, begin to question his lot in life and whether he has a calling or a place here or if it is “‘all for naught”, and if it is, then attempt to figure out how he could remedy this situation, etc. So to claim those suffering Existential Crises are but the self-indulgent wealthy is as inaccurate as it is ignorant. Moreover, anyone who has taken a moment to notice the painful disparity in wealth between people and in the justice within the world’s many systems and in luck, and anyone who has seen the arbitrary temperament of Nature and Human Nature, has found himself facing an Existential Crisis and a Crisis of Conviction, one in which he has wondered Why? and either found a dearth of answers or has made the choice to wade through an outlook morose or apathetic by feeling gratitude, having perspective, and providing answers where none were supplied. This is not a diatribe against religion or those who are religious–far from it. Those who do not question the Truths of life because they subscribe to a series of principles laid out in an existing and extant religion, philosophy, ideology, or home-grown set of tenets that accounts for the questions such Truths must create, 1) are not necessarily Simple because of this, 2) may never even have considered a Crisis, 3) may have consciously rejected the need for a Crisis because they have answers, 4) may have arrived at comfort through a Crisis, 5) are still capable of doubt and Crisis, and 6) belong to a true and other camp of Human who displays its Humanity through its creation or following of a set of thoughts that describe life as containing something More–perhaps even an After-Life.

You could also argue those riddled with questions regarding Meaning and Meaning-as-it-relates-to-Life have found themselves in this “predicament” because they have “watched too many movies” or “read too many books” and so now, as a consequence, have unrealistic expectations about life and all-too-romantic dreams the unfulfillment of which yield days painfully mundane and ultimately meaningless. But that’s not the case, either. People have considered their Existences since they evolved from that animal, quadrupedal state. “Existentialism” simply names in Movement form what people have felt, even if in passing, for millennia. Movies and books have come into being because creative people sought to record such feelings and share them with others, and we treasure these records because they, too, give a name to something we have all felt since we could give names to feelings and not simply surrender to the visceral world of need.

“Suffering” an Existential Crisis, then, is a deeply Human thing. It may even be a rite of passage, one we must all go through at least once to make sense of what on a fundamental level lacks it. Of course, the Crisis may morph into something negative when you can little see the light or practical aspects behind and within life, and it becomes a true Crisis, rather than simply a series of questions the asking of which may still allow you to function (albeit groggily), when it leads to lethargy and despair and a Nihilism of the spirit. In its worst form, it could lead to anger, violence, and/or self-nullification. Those are the extreme cases, but the Crisis is and should be common, and ultimately, it does not have to be bad.

Crisis connotes a highly negative experience, but if it passes, it forms a cataclysmic event that may also act as a sort of catalyst. In its best form, it serves as an impetus to action. It forces the complacent out of our reveries (or forms of “dogmatic slumbers”, if you will) and reminds us of the ticking clock in our midsts. Without wondering about our purposes in life, we would simply sit here waiting for death. Without feeling Existential urgency, we would do very little during and with life. So the Crisis jogs our minds into finding a task and attempting to best make use of what time lies before us and abilities lie within.

Quite frankly, those who do not and choose not to experience some form of Existential Crisis are not and cannot be truly Human. If they have managed to avoid it, not through the use of numbing agents like substance or delusion but through a sort of compartmentalized, dogged, and efficient self-righteousness, they have become automatons. They have used their agency to shut off agency for good. Why question? To question is to lead to discontentment, they may think. So they choose comfort over catalyst. But think, rather, that the Existential Crisis reminds you not that you are “only Human”, but Wonderfully so.

I don’t know that I believe that anymore. Or, if I do, it is that I believe that we–you and I–are like prisms. We refract light differently depending on the angle at which you gaze upon us. Now, again, that is not to say that who we are depends, as would be so in the perverted version of the Heisenberg Principle, on who looks upon us–only that we are not always the same person or people and that the situation in which we find ourselves is the thing that governs which self emerges most clearly and dominantly at any given moment.

That is to say, it’s not that I’ve given in to the truth behind either the “nurture” side of the nature v. nurture debate or that of the “nature” side, which I guess is the one I may have semi-unwittingly supported before–only that in my more mature state, I have thought that both have a deep impact on who you are but also that where before I thought the self unchangeable, I think that the meaning within the worn-out cinematic phrase “you’ve changed”–said with an air of melancholy or heavy disappointment–is, indeed, possible, and if cliche, then it’s a cliche born from truth and not unnecessary grandiosity.

I say this because I have changed. As I’ve said before, I did not think it possible. I clung to the stubborn belief that the “I” beneath the other “I”s and all the crazy things I had gone through or that I had learned and ingested was the same, no matter the age or place. But that’s simply not true anymore. In fact, I can little recognize the “I” of two years ago as it compares to the perhaps more adult incarnation of the “I” I see every morning in the mirror (and the “I” of two years ago little compares to the “I” of two years before that, and so on), unclear as it is at such an early hour.

Perhaps I over-think things. Be that as it may, I still believe that we are prisms. When we go through new things, the light we contain at our greatest hour can manifest itself in various ways within us, and that, in turn, can see its release from us in various forms. The things I held dear before are those I hold dear now. But am I the same I? I’m not so sure anymore that I am. My priorities may, at their core, be the same, but the way I comport myself, the things that I think when I’m driving long stretches alone with the music only touching one part of my consciousness, are not the same. I think it’s a function of age and that experience. I think that it follows that when you learn new things, the things you will consider will change. But there you go. Maybe buried deep (or really not so deep) within this new self is that old one and that older one and that older one still, but the one you see, the one I feel, is different. And maybe that’s OK. Maybe I’ll revert back to a self I was before. Or I won’t. And that’s OK too.

I want no more of resentment. I want no more of self-doubt. I want no more of gossip. I care not what others think of me, insofar as it leads me to question my selfhood for the worse. I will relax and be myself and know and like who that self is. I will not cloak faltering insecurity in livid arrogance, and I will not fear what I do not know or understand or what differs from myself. I will be patient–with others as with myself. I accept that I am and will always be far from perfect and that I will fail and do so often, but I comprehend that that is an unavoidable part of being human and that even though it does not always feel like it, being human is a privilege and a gift–as is the life in which I find myself and that I must–want to–claim and make my own.

I will be dutiful but will not lose perspective. I will perform my actions with integrity and intention. I will strive for excellence and enjoy what I do. I will bring light to life and bask in the light that others bring forth as well. I will take pride in my accomplishments and savor those of others. I will not be selfish. I will not be selfless. I will just be and continue, forging a path that can only be my own.

I disavow petty vendettas and painful self-consciousness to embrace tranquility, hopeful exuberance, and ultimate gratitude. I am thankful for who and what I have and for who and what I am. I will make the most of these things and will give back to my world. I am Deborah Ilana Nijensohn Stokol, with the glorious weight of selfhood and history at my back and the promise of daytime and night time ahead of me, and I am happy to be alive.

because

I do not enjoy

the works of those

who describe

the Human Condition

in too graphic of terms,

preferring, rather,

the ones who may cloak it in shades of blue and innocence,

fleeting wisdom,

unshaded contours that are no less deep,

occasional irony that sears with greater potency,

who tip-toe around it as if it were sly and mercurial,

a sometimes kind,

often cruel,

little creature–

for that is what it is.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I have synesthesia and see letters and numbers in color. But then again, so does she. And it’s not that I care more about this kind of thing than she does because I know out-and-out that’s just not true. Yet it’s become a point of pride with me and not necessarily with her.

I’ll recite these natal days to their owners at will, proving this feat with abandon and vigor, and sometimes even frightening them into thinking it shows some sort of not-so-latent obsession, like I set out to remember their birthday because it’s theirs, and whoa!..when really, once someone’s told me his or her  birthday, I’ll pretty much remember what the person said–even if it was a life time ago, we’re not friends, and/or we haven’t spoken in years.

But just because it doesn’t illustrate some freakish obsession I may have doesn’t mean I don’t care a great deal and don’t put great effort into trying to make birthdays special for those I love, either. I do, and I do.

Sometimes, though, much as I would like to, I can do nothing about those days but stew.

There are certain birthdays I hold sacred and during which I think about the person all day but can do little but keep it to myself because that person has passed away or we are no longer in touch.

So for those for whom that may apply, just because I haven’t sent a happy day missive doesn’t mean I have forgotten; it just means I’m celebrating in silence.

…That is what often happens. You go into an experience, live it to its fullest, immerse yourself in it until you’re almost tired of it but at the same time can little imagine any other reality but the one you’re in. You finish it, overwhelmed, exhausted, and satisfied. For awhile, nothing else seemed possible. Now, when you try to recall what took place in this colossal, certainly magical, time in your life, you cannot remember. You sometimes list details to yourself or to others, but they don’t feel vivid, and you rattle them off without the conviction that it was you who lived them or that they happened to you.

But as time passes, you gradually begin to remember. There will be a sight or song or stray comment that will call another memory to mind, and it will seem real again, like it was, indeed, you who lived it, and it happened to you. And then you will smile…

Recorded by Deborah Stokol, August 14, 2011, with Michel Legrand’s “Un Ete ‘42″ playing in the backrgound.

He moseyed over to a thin tree and put down the basket and a coffee he’d somehow been holding this whole time, resting the drink on the tree’s waiting branches. He had a grizzled face, a dirty-blonde ponytail, and wrap-around sunglasses that lent him an air of inscrutability.

Suddenly, he stooped down and reached into the basket, hands emerging with a bloated black bunny within their grasp. The man removed a leash and tied the animal to the tree trunk in a vision of Easter come early and gone awry.

The man proceeded to make a phone call and drink his coffee, watching the rabbit out of the corner of his eye. His conversation seemed to absorb him, but not so much that each time the bunny sought to escape both its owner and its leash, the man was not there, agilely ready to keep his charge there with him.

Look, I know even robust minds atrophy at some point. He’s three years older than I am, and I’m old. So it’s not that I’m surprised, just sad. That’s all.

So I walk into his apartment today. And I’ve known him for, what, 40 years? More? And he’s been there for quite some time. We’ve always valued different things, he and I. I was a professor; he’s never really been a man of letters. But he had a fine mind on him—the kind that could get him founding and leading a bank.

He put stock (no pun intended) in the outward display of wealth. That’s just the way he was. So where I was more than all right with a nice, elegant, but no less manageable, apartment, he wanted something a bit more grand.

And he got it. He had a beautiful house and everything, but when he got older, he and his Lady purchased a beautiful apartment. This was years ago. As I said, I’ve known him for quite some time, and I make a point of visiting him often. I always have. But it’s especially true when he’s one of two friends I have left. That’s what happens when you turn 92; your friends start disappearing. If you’re being honest, they disappeared a long time ago. And you have to start living through the memories you have of them—or through the moments you witness occurring in the lives of your children, your grandchildren, and if you’re lucky, your great-grandchildren too.

So as I was saying, I visit him pretty often, maybe every couple of weeks. And while I’ve never really found his conversation the most stimulating affair, he’s a good man, and we have history. It feels good to relax, maybe reminisce. He’s a great host. I told you he’s big on display, and he skimps none on the tea and herring. It’s like the old country, or at least what my mother used to say you’d find there. She would have been proud; he gives his guests the works.

Well, I get there today. And he recognizes me and everything. It’s not that. He’s always been a strong-willed sort. It takes guts and discipline to start and maintain a Bank. All that. He’s friendly as usual, very solicitous.

But then something odd happens. Well, it’s sadder than it was odd. I knew what was going on, but I didn’t have the heart to say anything to him about it.

He asks me to see his impressive new apartment. His new apartment?! He shows it to me with all the pride that comes from recent acquisition. But I tell you, he bought it years ago. I don’t even know how many, but I know the place well. Very well.

And here he is, living confused. Like I said, he’s three years older than I am, and I’m old. Terrible. What could I say? I said nothing, but it deeply troubled me. It made me sad for him—and for me. One of the few friends I had left, another bastion of a lost generation.

I just couldn’t wrap my head around the thing. You should write a story about it.

***

Ok, Grandpa I will, I promise.