Searching for purpose in the changing seasons
This is an entry from my journal.
It is a cloudy day. The past weekend was rainy. My country went through several months of draught. Some of my plants—strawberries, grapevines, and a few trees—did not survive, despite my best efforts. Conditions are more favourable now. I will continue trying in full knowledge that my power is limited. The world will continue to go through its cycles despite my intentions and regardless of my will. All I can do is conform with what this state of affairs renders unavoidable: live the moment, the sequence of moments that is impressed upon my conscience as my life.
It is tempting to ask whether there is any point to all this. Why should I bother with the plants, when it makes no difference in the grand scheme of things? More generally, why express any preference when all that is perishable shall perish and thus whatever I made will disappear accordingly? I have no way of knowing whether the cosmos has an end, let alone what the specifics of that may be. Religiosity is, in a way, human’s attempt at filling in these gaps: to provide an answer or, at least, a satisfactory narrative about the cause of being and the reason for being.
I do not need such a justification to carry on living. Grounding my moment-by-moment experience in some theology adds nothing to what is already inherent. When I observe the changing colours in those oak trees, I feel wonder and amazement. It is not because some priest told me this is the right thing to do. Each time I am in awe, I react spontaneously. There is a sense of connecting with something greater, which eludes rationalisation, yet which nevertheless is unmistakably distinct from other experiences. Any given narrative is bound to appeal to my reason, in an attempt to convince me of its merits and truth. But my immediate environment does not have to persuade me in any way: it just is and I, guided by what is built into me, find resonance in what is immanent throughout.
I think we are miserable when we cannot appreciate moments unless they fit into a neat analytical framework. Theology is, in this sense, a product of rationality like science (yes, I know…), which finds its terminus in the constraints of human language. One may not capture the beauty of a sunset or a close-up encounter with eagles through words: they may only experience it. Yet words is all we have to convey in written form; useful, for sure, though imperfect. Instead of recognising that what is written is subject to interpretation and thus not a priori true, we expend our energy trying to find some deeper meaning in our works and from it arrive at the grand purpose behind everything. We thus make things complicated.
The world cannot care about every one of us and treat us all as special. This sense of self-importance is at odds with the indifference of the natural magnitudes to the prevailing conditions that inform one’s subjectivity. When there is no rainfall, it is not that the gods specifically want us to learn a lesson—not least because teaching a lesson in a manner that is subject to many interpretations is ineffective—but that we happen to be present in a state of affairs that causes rain to happen. This does not mean that there is no immanent mind in the cosmos, but that it is not anthropocentic the way we would like it to be.
What I find around me is a living universe. This is a continuum of life everlasting, with forms of life coming and going. Process, pattern, ratio, cause are all expressions of the mindful matter we are made of, immersed in, conditioned by, and in interaction with. I cannot tell why this is the case and what the goal is. All I know, based on my intuitions, is that I have a certain presence in this present. Should the presence change, it would be, at best, be a different presence in another subjectively understood present.
I freed myself from the angst of justifying my being, of basing it in some higher authority. I have let go of all the narratives we have about who we are. I am not anymore special than the birds around me. If I can continue to survive is because I am in some ways more potent than them. But this does not make me special: other forces are more powerful still.
Life forms around me inspire me to not worry about matters that are none of my business. If there is an almighty God, then it already is omnipotent so me providing a helping hand makes a mockery of said omnipotence. If there is an omniscient God, nothing I will ever do will teach it anything, as that would run counter to the notion of omniscience. An omnipotent and omniscient God does not need to run any experiment and does not require any assistance whatsoever. This alone makes all the religious preoccupations pointless, despite their claims to the contrary.
What I do is trivial and this is okay. I shall plant more trees not out of a conviction that the world depends on my actions and I must thus do the right thing, but only based on the fact that this presence of mine, in its particular constitution, is disposed to behave in certain ways. Whether there is a purpose is not for me to decide. I will continue to act, as I cannot afford otherwise, and I will continue to age in the process.
These changing seasons, the inevitability of it all, do not disempower me. No! They have liberated me from the aspiration to live in a perfectly comfortable world where every question has its complete answer. Instead, I tolerate discomfort and uncertainty. When I experience a certain moment, I experience it for what it is and not based on whether I will be around again to live it one more time.
In the here-and-now of my presence, I will continue to do what I can. It is neither good nor bad. It simply is. Matters of propriety are relevant for our own affairs as people and how we perceive of our relationship to the rest of the planet, though those too are significant in a limited sense. The world still does not depend on them.
To live simply. How difficult can this be?