Under the eclipse of existential reflection

My personal journey through the darkness and Into the light

Let me start this off by saying that I’m not depressed (though I do take anti-anxiety meds, which help immeasurably with decades-old angst), nor am I suicidal (not even the “ideation” brand). I’m not saying I’ve never struggled with depression, but it has, thankfully, been many years since I have – decades, in fact. And though I was an angry teenager once upon a time, one who found solace in (superficial, but nonetheless jarring) cutting, among other vices, I’ve never been suicidal. Nor am I now.

This odd preamble isn’t meant to cause concern but to set the stage for a candid discussion about (drum roll, please …) existential angst — a phenomenon certainly not unique to me but perhaps presented here through the lens of my own privileged (there’s that word again!), middle-aged (there’s that word again!) perspective. This angst frequently visits my thoughts, yet it doesn’t diminish the profound sense of purpose and direction that anchors me.

My life’s mission is to use media as a catalyst for change, encouraging people to view the world and their place within it through a fresh lens. My passion extends to animal rights, combating climate change, and cherishing my four darling rescued dogs and cat (oh, and the human members of my family, too).

Basically, my life is dripping with purpose, and none of that is lost on me, not ever. And it’s something I work, unendingly, on maintaining.

It’s probably no secret that workaholism and I have a long, sordid history; hey, it’s complicated! Because I don’t exactly think of myself as a workaholic (I do prioritize my #selfcare and time off); I just feel like when you love your work and your work loves you, then the line becomes blurred, and I don’t always see an issue with that (as long as you’re also checking the other boxes — working out, eating your veggies, engaging in healthy relationships with friends and lovers, etc). 

Sure, I have (ahem, younger) friends who basically think it’s insane the amount that I work (they'll proudly tell you that their goal is to work 45 minutes a week and make a hundred grand for it, and I genuinely admire them for this, even though we basically need to speak through an interpreter because we do not understand these parts of one another). But I’ve done enough therapy and twelve steps and coaching and bodywork and somatic practicing and you-fucking-name it and, let me tell you, I understand myself in a lot of deep and profound ways. 

And I like me. I think I’m pretty cool. Flawed, sure; needy at times, yep. A perfectionist? Absolutely! But I also like me. I’m funny and fun and devoted and I champion others like it’s going out of style (which it might be?). 

So all of this is to say that even though I like myself (“I really, really like me!”) and I get myself and I’ve put in the blood, sweat, and tears to show up in the ways in my life in which I want to show up (personally and professionally, which is only sometimes separated by a dashed line, if that), I still — I STILL! — don’t totally understand the fucking point. 

Cue the aforementioned angst. 

Cue the endless chats with my best friend Erica and the countless links to listen to this or read that or discuss this or noodle on that. 

Cue the therapists, the authors, the DMs I slip into, the sleepless nights, the friends who nod in agreement just to be nice, the friends who nod in agreement because they feel it, too. 

And cue the endless and futile search for meaning in the tangible — when there can’t be a tangible to this. 

But cue the Pound Puppy or the Rainbow Brite or the Champion sweatshirt or the Coffee Coolata or the impeccably placed apartment with the sliver of the river or the morning run in Prospect Park or the move upstate or the move cross-country or the move to Los Angeles or the celebs-as-real-people or the fancy business cards or the edgy haircut or the rocky coastline or the rescued dog or the second rescued dog or the third or the fourth or the trip east or the threaded eyebrows or the first foray into fiction or the compression bras or the mug cakes or the play you’re in or the house you’re in or the job you’re in or the sweater you’re in or the vitamins you take or the hell you take or the hell you make. 

Cue it all! All in a row or all at once; I don’t care. 

Because none of it, and I mean none of it, has any answer at all, not when it comes to the meaning of what really lies behind this angst. This chaos. This mayhem. 

I asked my wife, Moore, if she feels this kind of angst, too, and she basically said no. And yet, Moore is a person who runs very deep. She has overcome great odds and is very successful at what she does and wildly talented, and generous beyond measure. So do some people just take things more at face value than others? Or do some people just constantly seek out the deeper shit when maybe there is no deeper shit to be sought? 

If I can offer any kind of sensible answer here — any kind of possible glimpse into how to make sense of the complete nonsensical — it would be that the entirety of meaning lies in reducing suffering as much as we possibly can. And not just our own suffering (though that’s not nothing). If the point of anything, the key to my lockbox filled with many decades of angst has anything to say for it, it’s that we absolutely must do what we can to align our behaviors with liberation from pain and suffering. 

And we absolutely cannot and must not put judgment on what that could or could not mean for the next person, because we are not privy to their lockbox. Only they are. 

If you judge me, you have that right, just as I have the right to block you. If you laugh at me, you have that right, and I wish you no harm — I agree that most of this post is ridiculous and makes me sound like I’m high as a kite (I am, you might find funny, completely sober). 

And if any of this resonates with you, well, then, fabulous. I can’t wait to hear how your journey moves you forward. I’ll keep moving forward on my own journey, too, and I have zero doubt we’ll run into one another again along the way.

Happy Eclipse Day, by the way. In this light, as the shadow of the moon momentarily blankets us during a total eclipse, it serves as a cosmic reminder that amidst our individual quests for meaning and the navigation of our internal landscapes, we are all interconnected, sharing in the universal experience of wonder and the perpetual cycle of light and darkness. Just as the eclipse unites spectators under a single sky, it symbolizes the collective human journey toward understanding, acceptance, and the search for light in our darkest moments.

Let’s hope there’s something fascinating in yours, once the light turns on again. 

Xo,

jazz