Notes on the Meaning of Life

 Photo by Greg Rakozy on Unsplash

As 2025 draws to a close, like many others, I find myself reflecting on what has passed and what might lie ahead. One question in particular presses a little harder with each turn of the calendar: What is the meaning of life?
 
The question, of course, is an ancient one, rooted in the moment humans first recognized their own fragility and their inability to obtain clear answers from the world around them. Like most people who have lived long enough, I’ve asked it too. Many today find meaning through faith; I sadly expect my experience will end when I die, so I look instead to what countermeasures I can enlist here and now.
 
At sixty-six, the question feels more insistent. Each year brings new frailties, losses, and reminders that time moves quickly. The runway ahead is certainly shorter than what has already passed beneath me, and the finite limits of my life are more visible. With them comes a measure of existential unease. To keep that unease from ruling my days, I try to steady myself with a few essential preconditions—the small set of things I've found I need to stay grounded.
 
I know how fortunate I’ve been. My career unfolded during a period of progress and possibility, in an era when architecture’s tools and horizons expanded and when my own circumstances allowed me to grow. I did not face the barriers my parents endured, nor the deprivations of a world war or a Great Depression. I have lived through what, for me, has felt like a golden time, and gratitude for that shapes my answer to the question of meaning today. I do not take anything for granted.
 
I’ve lived this life alongside others—colleagues, students, friends, and fellow citizens. Their presence guided my days as much as anything I did alone. I’ve found meaning in shared work, conversation, and the ordinary ties that bind people together, making it both communal and personal. Even amid uncertainty, I still take joy in everyday moments: watching an Oregon Ducks football game; sharing a meal with my wife, family, or friends; walking under Eugene’s gray winter skies. Such moments remind me that meaning isn’t only found in grand gestures but in the texture of daily life.
 
With that in mind, four imperatives remain:
 

• Take care of myself. The ability to move, think, and manage daily tasks is the foundation; without it, the rest cannot hold.

• Sustain a lifelong partnership. Marriage to my wife is my greatest source of steadiness and meaning.

• Keep writing. Writing keeps me engaged, curious, and able to make sense of experience.

• Protect the living world. Everything depends on the systems around us; my efforts are small, but I contribute what I can to preserve the ground beneath our feet.

 
Others might add friendships beyond family, an inner life, avocations, or civic and teaching commitments—all of which matter deeply to me. But when I assessed what I could not surrender, these four remained. They are minimal, sufficient for me, even if imperfect. Others will arrive at different answers; these are simply the ones I have found I cannot give up.
 
When I fulfill these imperatives, the question of meaning grows quiet. When any one imperative is threatened, it returns loudly. The closest thing I’ve found to an answer is simply the stability these four provide in the face of the unknown.
 
My thinking didn’t emerge in a vacuum. I recognize the Stoic focus on what lies within my control, the pragmatic test of belief through results, the existentialist resolve to choose without guarantees, and the humanist conviction that meaning is rooted in this world—through health, partnership, expression, and care for the Earth. Meaning, for me, is not a single revelation but a mosaic of fragments tested against lived experience.
 

At the end of Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life, a hostess in an evening gown (well, Michael Palin in drag) opens an envelope and reads in a bored voice: “. . . it’s nothing very special. Try and be nice to people, avoid eating fat, read a good book now and then, get some walking in, and try to live peacefully and harmoniously with people of all creeds and nations.” Comic, yes, but also plain-spoken wisdom.
 
My four imperatives are a footnote to that list—just what I’ve found I can defend day after day, after every grander answer has fallen short.
 
So, that is all I have for now, on this threshold of 2026. May the coming year remind us to care for ourselves, honor our partnerships, keep writing our stories, and protect the living world we depend on. May gratitude and meaning accompany us each day. May we continue to return to this question with fresh eyes, renewed humility, and the lightness of laughter. And may we remember the communal moments that make life feel whole.