You’ve been wandering around in a haze, my friend.
When I look at you, I feel like Ginsberg who saw the best minds of his generation destroyed by madness.
You say everything is meaningless, but you don’t believe that.
That’s not why you numb yourself with drugs and alcohol.
It’s because you’re scared and insecure.
You don’t believe you have any value to offer the world – that’s where the cry of ‘meaningless’ comes from.
You believe – or, at least, you say you believe – you’re only good at one thing and even that you’re not so good at. On the really bad days, you’ll say you’re not good at anything.
That’s where the cry of ‘meaningless’ comes from.
But remember that summer after Jason was struggling to recover when his cancer went into remission?
You took him aside every evening and you used that thing you say you’re no good at to heal him.
You always were the best carpenter in wood shop. And you had a way of teaching the craft that was more clear, more enthusing than any of the teachers could manage. You proved that again with Jason.
I’ve seen the furniture that Jason can make now. And he attributes his skill to you. He sings your praises.
That was important to him and it gave him something to live for when he found everything else meaningless.
You think you were just teaching him to sand and plane wood, but you weren’t.
You gave him his life back right when he was at the point of no return.
How can you say that’s meaningless?
How many more people could you help under the guise of teaching woodwork?
Would you say what I do is meaningless?
Teaching teenagers about poetry is a thankless job on the surface. And with the state of education today, not to mention how divided the young attention spans are, one could cry that what I do is meaningless. Sometimes I fear that myself.
But between the ages of thirteen and sixteen I thought regularly about killing myself. I didn’t sleep for years. I was on antidepressants (the brand that killed Nick Drake). And though there was no outwardly visible reason for my distress – after all, I had my physical health and I wasn’t being raised in poverty – I struggled to escape the notion that suicide would provide sweet relief from my pain.
Luckily I found a book that purported to teach the art of poetry. This book became my guide not only to meter and rhyme and all the tools available to a budding poet, but a guide to life. It was my companion in the early hours of the restless morning.
I devoured volumes of poetry and wrote reams of my own. That thing which many, myself included, might on occasion call ‘meaningless’ saved my life.
In my bleakest moments, I try to remind myself that there will be a child just like me in every class I teach.
I look at you and I see a keen intelligent mind. One not forged in the universities. What a strength!
I see a reservoir of passion cut off by a dam of pointless fear, insecurity, and anxiety. Those states are the only thing I find meaningless about you. The rest is a marvel.
You’re a miracle and you’re wasted when wallowing in self-pity.
You, who is no stranger to the pits of hell, find the prospect of rescuing others from the flames to be ‘meaningless’.
Do you really believe that everything is meaningless?
Or are you simply too lazy to apply yourself to the pursuit of meaning?
Most likely you’re afraid to aim and fail at something, thus rendering the whole pursuit meaningless in your eyes. But I promise if you could act despite your fears and anxieties, you would find that which you say life is devoid of in such abundance that you would have thought you found heaven.
But, though I pray to the contrary, I fear you’ll remain in your self-made hell for eternity. Unless you start today.
Yours with hope.
– B.