So many people talk about contentment as if it was some state of being that everyone yearns for and might even achieve.

To one it means sitting in front of TV watching the Mariners with a beer in hand and pretzels at arm's reach. To another, it might mean a good night's sleep. I can certainly identify with the latter after doing night duty for my husband since he came home from the care center. My puffy, dark circled eyes aren't just allergic symptoms.

Many years ago when I was tending babies round the clock, I yearned for adult conversation during innumerable diaper changes and tried to make sense of babbling syllables. I loved my children but at the same time wondered what my place in the universe truly was.

It was during baby naptime that I scribbled bits of philosophy into a notebook. Here is one I found buried in my memorabilia from the past.

Where is my place?

A place for my wearied hands to feel the smoothness of a rock

And then belong

Not be uncomfortable

For if I grasp a handle not carved out for these long thin digits

I will look too long at the tool and not securely at my task

Where is my place?

A place for minds like mine to settle and be sought

To soak up sponge-like

To spill what cannot be absorbed

And draw across the slate of knowing

To make way for newer dust.

Where is my place?

A place where happiness is not a feverish dream

Of rash desires

Or futures unattainable

Nor contentment eating up the stirrings of tomorrow

But a place for all time to grow on.

So what does contentment really mean? Does it mean making lemonade when one is stuck with lemons? Does it mean possessing the most updated fashions or technology? Or does it mean realizing one's strengths and using them to make a decent life for oneself?

Even within the English language, there is room for misinterpretation and misunderstanding of the term contentment. Emotions often cloud the meaning of the word. Anger and hatred certainly close one's mind to peaceful ways to achieve this state of being.

In a world fraught with war and terror, perhaps contentment is just feeling safe and secure. Perhaps it is finding comfort in belonging. Or maybe it means discovering one's own sense of worth.

Whatever you think it means, go for it. No need to wait until you have answered the question, "What is the meaning of life? " No one human being may ever know the answer to that monumental question. Why do you think sages have for centuries been contemplating their navels in a desperate search to uncover the mystery of what life has in store for each one of us? It is to save us from worrying about it.

Isn't that pure contentment?

Georgie Bright Kunkel is a West Seattle resident who writes regularly for this newspaper. She can be reached at wseditor@robinsonnews.com