I had my first existential crisis long before I knew what the words meant.
I was a 5-year-old in kindergarten. I remember being alone at the front of our house on Holly Hill Drive in Atlanta. Something in my little brain was trying to figure out my place in the world.
I can’t tell you why. I doubt normal 5-year-olds have such thoughts, but I seriously pondered who I was and whether I mattered. The questions hung heavy on my little heart, because I desperately needed to matter.
Suddenly, I had an answer that somehow made sense to me. I was 5 years old — and there were five people in my family — so that coincidence had to mean something. I must be important.
All of my life, I’ve experienced one crisis of this sort after another. The specific questions change, but they all mean the same thing.
Do I matter? Do I matter to you? Do I belong with you? Are you my home? Can I trust you to love me?
Ordinary miracles fill our lives, while we still demand wonders
Barack Obama’s effort to imitate FDR’s ’36 campaign full of danger
How can I share what’s obvious when nobody will listen or see?
NYC schools ban ‘birthday,’ ‘crime,’ ‘dinosaur’ and ‘divorce’ from tests
Surreal dream wakes, shakes me; which is reality, which is dream?
People don’t confront ideas today; they lob bumper stickers at others
Love drives us mad, but madness rescues us from ‘horrible sanity’
At life’s end, who we’ve loved will matter more than what we’ve owned
My old fear of looking foolish is strong incentive to do good work