The Power of Meaning Read online

  MORE PRAISE FOR THE POWER OF MEANING

  “The search for meaning just got a little easier, and a little more fun. To follow Emily Esfahani Smith in this great human quest is to undertake a rewarding journey with a sure-footed guide.”

  —DARRIN M. McMAHON author of Happiness: A History; Mary Brinsmead Wheelock Professor of History, Dartmouth College

  “All too often, we sleepwalk through life without examining it. The Power of Meaning shows us another path. How can we find purpose? What role does our work have in the search for meaning? This deeply researched—yet highly readable—book can help you answer those questions.”

  —CHRIS GUILLEBEAU author of Born for This and The $100 Startup

  “A powerful invitation to live a life that is not only happy but filled with purpose, belonging, and transcendence. By combining scientific research and philosophical insights with moving accounts of ordinary people who have deeply meaningful lives, Smith addresses the most urgent questions of our existence in a delightful, masterful, and inspiring way.”

  —EMMA SEPPÄLÄ author of The Happiness Track; Science Director, Stanford University’s Center for Compassion and Altruism Research and Education

  Copyright © 2017 by Emily Esfahani Smith

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crown, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  crownpublishing.com

  CROWN is a registered trademark and the Crown colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Smith, Emily Esfahani, author.

  Title: The power of meaning : crafting a life that matters / Emily Esfahani Smith.

  Description: First Edition. | New York : Crown, 2017.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016010610 (print) | LCCN 2016043371 (ebook) | ISBN 9780553419993 (hardback) | ISBN 9780553446562 (paperback) | ISBN 9780553446555 (eISBN) | ISBN 9780553446555

  Subjects: LCSH: Self-actualization (Psychology) | Meaning (Psychology) | Emotions. | BISAC: SELF-HELP / Personal Growth / General. | PHILOSOPHY / Ethics & Moral Philosophy. | PSYCHOLOGY / Emotions.

  Classification: LCC BF637.S4 S6336 2017 (print) | LCC BF637.S4 (ebook) | DDC 128—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2016010610

  Hardcover ISBN 9780553419993

  Ebook ISBN 9780553446555

  International Edition ISBN 9780451497307

  v4.1

  ep

  To my parents, Tim and Fataneh, and brother, Tristan, affectionately known as T-bear, doostetoon daram

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Introduction

  Chapter 1: The Meaning Crisis

  Chapter 2: Belonging

  Chapter 3: Purpose

  Chapter 4: Storytelling

  Chapter 5: Transcendence

  Chapter 6: Growth

  Chapter 7: Cultures of Meaning

  Conclusion

  Acknowledgments

  Notes

  About the Author

  What is the meaning of life? That was all—a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one.

  —VIRGINIA WOOLF

  On Thursday and Sunday evenings, a group of seekers gathered in a large room of my family’s home in downtown Montreal, where my parents ran a Sufi meetinghouse. Sufism is the school of mysticism associated with Islam, and my family belonged to the Nimatullahi Sufi Order, which originated in Iran in the fourteenth century and today has meetinghouses all over the world. Twice a week, darvishes—or members of the order—would sit on the floor and meditate for several hours. With their eyes closed and their chins to their chests, they silently repeated a name or attribute of God as traditional Iranian Sufi music played.

  Living in the Sufi meetinghouse as a child was enchanting. The walls of our home were decorated with sculptures of Arabic script that my father carved from wood. Tea was brewing constantly, perfuming the air with the fragrance of bergamot. After meditating, the Sufis drank the tea, which my mother served along with dates or Iranian sweets made with rosewater, saffron, cardamom, and honey. Sometimes, I served the tea, carefully balancing a tray full of glasses, saucers, and sugar cubes as I knelt down before each darvish.

  The darvishes loved dipping a sugar cube in their tea, putting it in their mouths, and drinking their tea through the sugar. They loved singing the poetry of medieval Sufi sages and saints. There was Rumi: “Ever since I was sliced away from my home of reeds, each note I whisper would make most any heart weep.” And there was Attar: “Since love,” he writes of the seeker, “has spoken in your soul, reject The Self, that whirlpool where our lives are wrecked.” They loved, too, sitting in silence, being together, and remembering God through quiet contemplation.

  Darvishes call Sufism “the path of love.” Those on the path are on a journey toward God, the Beloved, which calls them to renounce the self and to constantly remember and love God at every turn. To Sufis, loving and adoring God means loving and adoring all of creation and every human being that is a part of it. Mohabbat, or loving-kindness, is central to their practice. When we first moved into our new home in Montreal, Sufis from all over North America came and stayed for days to help my parents convert the brownstone, formerly a legal office, into a space fit for majlis, the name of the bi-weekly gathering for meditation. When a homeless man knocked on our door one evening looking for a meal and a place to sleep, he was welcomed in. And when my father complimented a darvish on a scarf he was wearing, the darvish gave it with pleasure as a gift to my dad. (After that, my family had a general understanding that you only complimented another darvish’s possessions with great caution.)

  On special occasions, like the visit of a sheikh or the initiation of a new darvish into the order, Sufis from Canada and the United States would stay at the meetinghouse for a few days, sleeping on thin cushions in the meditation room and library—really, anywhere there was space. There was a lot of snoring at night and lines for the bathroom during the day, but that didn’t seem to bother anyone. The darvishes were full of joy and warmth. Though they spent many hours meditating during these weekends, they also passed the time by playing classical Sufi music on Persian instruments, like a frame drum called a daf and the stringed tar, always singing Sufi poetry to the music. I sat on a tattered Persian carpet and listened, dipping my sugar cubes in my tea, just like they did—and trying to meditate, just like they did, too.

  Formal rituals also governed Sufi life. When the darvishes greeted each other, they said Ya Haqq, “The Truth,” and performed a special handshake by putting their hands together like a heart and kissing that heart. When they entered or left the meditation room, they “kissed” the ground by touching their fingers to the floor and then to their lips. When my mom and other Sufis prepared Iranian dinners, the darvishes sat around a tablecloth spread on the floor. I helped arrange the place settings and then waited with my parents for the other darvishes to sit down before finding a spot. The Sufis ate in silence. Generally, nobody spoke unless the sheikh spoke first—and it was understood that everybody should finish their food before the sheikh did so that he was not kept waiting. (Though, often, the sheikh ate slowly so that no straggler would feel uncomfortable.) These humbling rituals were important to the Sufis, helping them break down the self, which Sufi teaching considers a barrier to love.

  Such a way o
f life appealed to the darvishes, many of whom had left Iran and other repressive societies to live in Canada and the United States. Some Muslims consider Sufis to be mystic heretics, and they are severely persecuted in the Middle East today. But even though many of the Sufis I knew had led difficult lives, they were always looking forward. Their demanding spiritual practice—with its emphasis on self-denial, service, and compassion over personal gain, comfort, and pleasure—elevated them. It made their lives feel more meaningful.

  The Sufis who meditated in our home were part of a long tradition of spiritual seekers. For as long as human beings have existed, they have yearned to know what makes life worth living. The first great work of human literature, the four-thousand-year-old The Epic of Gilgamesh, is about a hero’s quest to figure out how he should live knowing that he will die. And in the centuries since Gilgamesh’s tale was first told, the urgency of that quest has not faded. The rise of philosophy, religion, natural science, literature, and even art can be at least partly explained as a response to two questions: “What is the meaning of existence?” And, “How can I lead a meaningful life?”

  The first question addresses big issues. How did the universe come to be? What is the point and purpose of life? Is there anything transcendent—a divine being or holy spirit—that gives our lives significance?

  The second question is about finding meaning within life. What values should I live by? What projects, relationships, and activities will bring me fulfillment? What path should I choose?

  Historically, religious and spiritual systems laid out the answers to both questions. In most of these traditions, the meaning of life lies in God or some ultimate reality with which the seeker yearns to be united. Following a moral code and engaging in practices like meditation, fasting, and acts of charity help the seeker grow closer to God or to that reality, endowing day-to-day life with importance.

  Billions of people, of course, still derive meaning from religion. But in the developed world, religion no longer commands the authority it once did. Though most people in the United States continue to believe in God and many consider themselves spiritual, fewer people go to church, pray regularly, or have a religious affiliation, and the number of people who believe religion is an important component of their lives has declined. If religion was once the default path to meaning, today it is one path among many, a cultural transformation that has left many people adrift. For millions both with and without faith, the search for meaning here on earth has become incredibly urgent—yet ever more elusive.

  —

  My family eventually moved out of the Sufi meetinghouse. We came to the United States, where the busyness of everyday life trumped the rituals of meditation, singing, and tea. But I never stopped searching for meaning. When I was a teenager, that search led me to philosophy. The question of how to live a meaningful life was once a central driving force of that discipline, with thinkers from Aristotle to Nietzsche all offering their own visions of what a good life requires. But after arriving at college, I soon learned that academic philosophy had largely abandoned that quest. Instead, the issues it addressed were esoteric or technical, like the nature of consciousness or the philosophy of computers.

  Meanwhile, I found myself immersed in a campus culture that had little patience for the questions that had drawn me to philosophy. Many of my peers were driven by a desire for career success. They had grown up in a world of intense competition for the merit badges that would get them to an impressive college, then to an elite graduate or professional school or a job on Wall Street. When they picked their classes and activities, they did so with those goals in mind. By the time they graduated, these razor-sharp minds had already acquired specialized knowledge in fields that were even more specific than their particular majors. I met people who could share their insights on how to improve public health in third-world countries, how to use statistical modeling to predict election outcomes, and how to “deconstruct” a literary text. But they had little to no sense of what makes life meaningful, or of what greater purpose they might have beyond making money or landing a prestigious job. Outside of an occasional conversation with friends, they had no forum in which to discuss or deeply engage with these questions.

  They were not alone. As tuition skyrockets and a college degree is seen as the ticket to economic stability, many people today consider education to be instrumental—a step toward a job rather than an opportunity for moral and intellectual growth. The American Freshman survey has tracked the values of college students since the mid-1960s. In the late sixties, the top priority of college freshmen was “developing a meaningful life philosophy.” Nearly all of them—86 percent—said this was an “essential” or “very important” life goal. By the 2000s, their top priority became “being very well off financially” while just 40 percent said meaning was their chief goal. Of course, most students still have a strong yearning for meaning. But that search no longer drives their educations.

  Educating students about how to live was once central to the mission of colleges and universities in the United States. In the first part of our nation’s history, college students received a rigorous education in classics and theology. They followed a prescribed curriculum that was designed to teach them what matters in life, and their shared beliefs in God and Christian principles served as a common foundation in that endeavor. But by the 1800s, the religious faith that grounded their studies was gradually eroding. The question naturally arose, writes Yale law professor and social critic Anthony Kronman, of whether it “is possible to explore the meaning of life in a deliberate and organized way even after its religious foundations have been called into doubt.”

  Many professors not only thought it was possible but that they had an obligation to lead students forward in this quest. Religion, it was true, no longer offered all students definitive answers to life’s ultimate question, but some educators believed the humanities could step in. Rather than leaving students to search for meaning on their own, these professors attempted to situate them in a large and enduring tradition of arts and letters. And so in the mid- to late nineteenth century, many undergraduates followed a college curriculum that stressed the masterpieces of literature and philosophy—like Homer’s Iliad, Plato’s dialogues, The Divine Comedy, and the works of Cervantes, Shakespeare, Montaigne, Goethe, and others.

  By reading these texts, students listened and ultimately contributed to a “great conversation” that had been going on for thousands of years. As they encountered competing visions of the good life, students were able to come to their own conclusions about how to live. Is Homer’s glory-driven Achilles a better model than the pilgrim in Dante’s poem? What can we learn about the purpose of our lives from Aristotle’s writings on ethics? What does Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary reveal about love and romance? How about Jane Austen’s Emma? There was no one right answer. But by drawing on these shared cultural touchstones, students developed a common language with which they could discuss and debate life’s meaning with peers, professors, and the members of their community.

  By the early twentieth century, however, the situation had again shifted. After the Civil War, the first research universities appeared on the American educational landscape. These institutions, modeled after German universities, prioritized the production of scholarship. To facilitate such scholarship, separate fields of study arose, each with its own rigorous, systematic, and objective “methods.” Professors pursued highly specialized areas of research within those fields, and students, too, chose an area of concentration—a major—to help prepare them for a career after college. Eventually, the humanities-oriented curriculum disintegrated, leaving students essentially free to pick and choose their classes from a menu of options—which, of course, continues to be the case today at most schools.

  The research ideal dealt a blow to the idea that living meaningfully could be taught or learned in an academic setting. Its emphasis on specialization meant that most professors considered the question of meaning
beyond their purview: they did not believe they had the authority or knowledge to lead students forward in this quest. Others found the topic illegitimate, naïve, or even embarrassing. The question of how to live, after all, requires a discussion of abstract, personal, and moral values. It does not belong, these professors argued, in colleges and universities devoted to the accumulation of objective knowledge. “An increasing consensus in the academy,” as one professor wrote several years ago, “is that faculty members should not help students discern a meaningful philosophy of life or develop character, but should instead help them master the content and methodology of a given discipline and learn critical thinking.”

  But something interesting has happened in recent years. Meaning has regained a foothold in our universities, and especially in an unexpected place—the sciences. Over the past few decades, a group of social scientists has begun investigating the question of how to lead a good life.

  Many of them are working in a field called positive psychology—a discipline that, like the social sciences generally, is a child of the research university and grounds its findings in empirical studies, but that also draws on the rich tradition of the humanities. Positive psychology was founded by the University of Pennsylvania’s Martin Seligman, who, after decades of working as a research psychologist, had come to believe that his field was in crisis. He and his colleagues could cure depression, helplessness, and anxiety, but, he realized, helping people overcome their demons is not the same thing as helping them live well. Though psychologists were charged with caring for and studying the human psyche, they knew very little about human flourishing. And so, in 1998, Seligman called upon his colleagues to investigate what makes life fulfilling and worth living.

  Social scientists heeded his call, but many of them zeroed in on a topic that was both obvious and seemed easy to measure: happiness. Some researchers studied the benefits of happiness. Others studied its causes. Still others investigated how we can increase it in our day-to-day lives. Though positive psychology was founded to study the good life more generally, it was the empirical research on happiness that blossomed and became the public face of the field. In the late eighties and early nineties, there were several hundred studies about happiness published each year; by 2014, there were over 10,000 per year.