The Oblivious Man

Am I Shallow, Or Have I Simply Settled On Some Things?

Here is what it looked like outside my bedroom window on Sunday morning as I sipped coffee and surveyed the world through the interwebs:

It was not a particularly beautiful morning, but I think one can objectively declare that this is a nice way to wake up and take coffee. I am grateful for it. I have a lot to be grateful for, but as the “to be” in that sentence indicates an aspiration, it is insufficient. There is a lot that I AM grateful for.

I’m thinking about big things like this because my father suffered a fall (again) over the weekend, and my mother has had two in a short period (by the way, if you’re talking with them, DON’T mention that you read about it on my Substack, OK?) My sister and her husband who live close-by are doing their best to manage my parents’ decline, ably assisted by my brother and his wife (who are facing similar issues with her parents). My sister and brother and their spouses are among the things for which I am grateful.

This whole concept of gratitude is important to me. I’m not sure why, but I think it has something to do with my concept of self. I have never—not once in my life—wondered about the reason for my existence, or my purpose in life. I have never—I really don’t think I’m overstating it here—never questioned “the meaning of life”, which is something those who invariably wonder about the meaning of THEIR lives tend to do. Please do not think for a moment that I am being critical of those who ponder these questions. I’m not. My guess is that people like me, for whom the meaning of life is a settled question, constitute a tiny minority.

So, you may ask, what is the meaning (or purpose) of my life, if I’ve been so clever as to figure it out? The answer is simple: cellular respiration. That’s it. The FACT of my existence is the JUSTIFICATION for my existence. I am not here to fulfill some greater purpose, though I have pursued great purpose enthusiastically. There have been great failures in my life and there are ambitions that will sadly never be realized. But their pursuit was never the point of my existence. Their non-attainment is not evidence of a lack of meaning.

I am here, because over fifty-nine years ago my parents started a chain reaction that continues at a molecular level today. The purpose of my life is to continue that chain reaction. What I DO with my life, how I SPEND my life, the impact I MAKE with my life—these are important questions in the here and now and because I believe so, in the afterlife. They are important because I hope to be a net positive to the universe while I carry out my purpose, which is to respire. Their answers however, do not constitute the reason for my existence.

Which brings me back to gratitude. Because I do not attach the attainment of unfulfilled wishes, or future events I wish to bring about, to the meaning of my life or the fact of its existence, I do not carry around the assumed weight of those things. There is no hole in my life that needs filling. I get that it is easy to be grateful when you are healthy and happy and living a fortunate life with a person you love. I can understand the teeth-sucking going on out there among some readers as they tut-tut about this self-indulgent and meandering essay. But ask yourself this: how many healthy people do you know who are living “fortunate” lives—and are not happy? Are not grateful? They are EVERYWHERE. Happiness and gratitude are not lesser included offenses of fortune. They are separate and distinct.

A great flaw in my theory here is that my approach to life has not REALLY been tested. Would I be grateful if I were sick? Would I be grateful if I were alone? Would I be happy if I were facing privation? Will I be as be as sure as I am as to the reason for my existence if that existence were threatened? If I were diagnosed tomorrow with a terminal disease and given six months to live, would I all of a sudden be awakened from my smug dreamscape and realize the existence of a warehouse of unfulfilled and unexamined meaning? Will the eventual deaths of my feeble 93 year-old father and ailing 89 year-old mother shock me into a new state of meaninglessness and purposelessness?

Am I The Oblivious Man?

Thirty-plus years ago, I had the honor of serving on a ship with a group of officers I referred to as “..the greatest gathering of men since the Second Continental Congress…”. One of those officers was my boss. The man was a dynamo, the hardest-working man I ever saw, totally mission-focused and without equal in his knowledge of what was required from our ship in a time of war. In this, he was a bit of a savant, as there were other facets of life on Earth that seemed to escape him, something that earned him the nickname of “The Oblivious Man” from his fellow department heads. In jest, of course. Wink. Nudge.

I thought about him today as I gazed out the window at the ducks swimming lazily in our cove. (Note: we haven’t had ducks in our cove in numbers in a long time. I am grateful for ducks returning to the cove). Am I The Oblivious Man when it comes to the deep ponderables of meaning and existence? Am I just shallow and lazy? Am I papering over a lack of depth and inquiry by embracing a superficial state of contentedness?

Let’s go back to the “you’ve got six months to live” question. As I sit here in a state of solid health (confirmed by my recent VA physical) and think about what would happen if tomorrow morning I got the six month death sentence, how would my life change? Like I tell people when they talk about how they would react in combat, you never know how you will react in combat until you’ve been in combat (I haven’t). I suppose it is the same with terminal illness diagnoses. Until you actually face one, your Sunday morning Substack musings are meaningless. Or maybe not.

I have no bucket list. If I want to do something, it generally happens (my wants and my means are pretty much aligned). More importantly, most of the time I am doing what I want to be doing. So if all that were to have a six-month expiration date, I’d like to think I’d keep living like I am today. Well, I wouldn’t WORK mind you, I’m not an idiot. For as long as I could though, I’d drink coffee in bed with my Cat and my cat. I’d watch Hallmark romances. I’d read some books. I’d call some friends, and we’d bitch about UVA Basketball. I’d have lunch with the fellas at the club, and I’d lose money at the gin rummy table. I would watch Jacques Pepin cooking videos and I would poorly apply what I learned. I would howl at the moon about the shortsightedness of our national security apparatus and its approach to resourcing seapower. I would Tweet into the void. I would write letters to my girls and in them, I would remind them that I am not to be referred to as “Bryan” to their as yet unborn children, but some appropriate name is to be found for referrals. “Grampy” would be good. Or “Commander”.

I do not think that I would—I daresay I hope that I would not—spend my time wondering why I was placed on Earth or lamenting about unachieved meaning. My death would be the answer—I had been here to respire. Everything else was what I did while breathing.

Navy Stuff

If you have a hankering for some Navy stuff from me, go over to the Commander Salamander Substack and find my latest essay over there (due to go up Monday AM 12 February. It is titled “In Praise of the Military-Industrial Complex”, and it is a doozy.