Is this all there is?

That's the question that I asked myself this morning in the shower while slowly washing my hair. It's also the question I'm pondering as I sit here on the 5th floor of the San Diego office of one of the most influential corporations in the world. I look around my cubicle and I see the familiar trappings of comfort - Celine Dion, Bulbasaur, a 'Wicked' ticket stub, a poster illustrating all 490 Pokemon, a Bday card from Daniel, a picture of me with my old string quartet, even my favorite hand cream. I've worked so hard to make my cubicle feel like "home" - so I could feel comfortable and at peace while I whittled away at my 40-hour workweek.

But the truth is that I resent this place. It's not even that I don't like working here, because it's quite possibly the best working environment I could have hoped for - my boss never micromanages, my coworkers are quirky and interesting, we have a gym and a cafe on the first floor just for us, and I get an amazing wage based on the type of work that I do. It's so comfortable. I'm so content. I'm very satisfied.

Then again, "satisfactory" meant a letter grade of "C" in elementary school. What does that mean? Well, life is average. It's not bad by any stretch of the imagination, but it's not above average either. I could live and die in this same situtation, climbing the corporate ladder, slowly acquiring higher education and resulting higher salaries, until one day, I'm 45 y/o, sitting at my desk looking at all the familiar trappings of comfort wondering, "Is this all there is?"

Is it? If not, what other options do we have? Stop working and go travel the world until our savings run out, only to return to a similar job, looking at the familiar things that make it seem like home, and asking ourselves the same questions? Is happiness found in doing what you love? I once thought I loved playing viola. You couldn't find anyone around who was as in awe of it or enjoyed it as much as I did. Then I took it on as a job, and little by little, I realized that this was also a job, just like any other, and I asked myself the same question, "Is this all there is?"

I tried leaving LA to start fresh, both professionally and personally. And although I'm blessed to have what I have now, I still find myself in the same moral dilemma. Is there more to life than working, making money, and enjoying the company of friends and loved ones? Sometimes, I think maybe there isn't. Maybe life is not supposed to be more than a great meal, or making love to someone whom you trust and care for, or having amazing epiphanies about life and answering your own questions. Maybe I shouldn't be so selfish to ask "Is this all there is?" when I already have access to food, water, and sleep - the basic necessities of life.

At the end of the day, we are still animals, and our hunt for these basic needs to sustain life are over when we find them - until the next day when we have to search for them again. But for those who have already met the prerequisites, we wonder what more is out there for us to get involved in. What is out there in the world waiting to happen to us if we can find it, or experience it, or realize it?

I know that many of us extend our basic needs of food water and sleep to material objects. When will I be able to get the next DVD to complete my collection? When will I find my next boyfriend? When will I be able to purchase a new car? All of these are constructed by who we are, by our thoughts of what we may or may not need. And if those things improved our quality of life, then we wouldn't be on the hunt for the next DVD, the next relationship, the next car.

No, the meaning of life - the reason why we all exist in this universe - has to be something that we don't experience, but rather, something that experiences us. Is life about getting on stage and creating art unlike the world has ever seen or heard? Or is life about the circumstances and experiences that lead up to and help facilitate the same art? Did I just write this blog? Or did this blog just happen to have the experience of being written through me?

Are human beings the catalyst for events? Or are events the catalyst for human beings?