When a waterfall of pain starts in your abdomen and sparkles up through your chest and down into your legs, it’s easy to wonder, “Why is this happening?” And of course, there is a scientific explanation for such an occurrence, if your doctors are smart enough to figure it out. But when people ask “Why?” I think more often they are asking a metaphysical question—Why does this happen to anyone ever? Why is this happening to me? Why exactly does the universe or god or whatever great intelligence I believe in think that this is okay? Why can’t or won’t they fix it?
Absurdism, however, offers something different. Freedom from the why.
On one hand, thinking it doesn’t matter (everything is meaningless, after all) can seem overwhelming or depressing. But on the other hand, it frees you from thinking about this question at all.
“Why is this happening?” becomes irrelevant. All that is relevant is, “This is happening, so what are my options for moving forward?” And you could argue that even this line of thinking is more-or-less irrelevant, in the grand sense. (Though, how you move forward absolutely does matter in the immediate and personal sense.)
Of course, freedom from the why doesn’t also equal freedom from the irritation, the anger, the frustration, the sadness, the grief, or whatever other emotions might be wrapped up in moments of pain.
But it does create a parallel between you and literally everything else in the universe. A connection point.
Though, my dog might actually be wondering why he isn’t being petted right now…
A tree doesn’t sit and wonder why humans are cutting it down or why the universe would allow such a terrible thing to happen. (At least, I imagine this is the case—I suppose it is possible trees have this sort of intellectual capacity and we just don’t know it.) The tree doesn’t wonder why its roots are rotting or fungus is infecting its trunk, or why the sun hasn’t come out in weeks. Deer don’t wonder why their water tastes like poison or why they’re being shot by a hunter or eaten by a wolf. Grass doesn’t wonder why the blade of the lawnmower slices its head off every week (or every three weeks at my house lol), dirt doesn’t wonder why it’s being torn up to make it easier to plant seeds, seeds don’t wonder why they’re being coated in pesticides, bugs don’t wonder why they are dying when they eat a plant that should be a perfectly acceptable food source to them.
Not wondering about The Meaning saves a lot of time and energy for a different kind of wondering, about more interesting things. Like wondering at the way the light shines through the leaves of the tree creating gently dappled shadows below. Or at how the lightning sparkles and lights up clouds the size of mountains with every bolt. Or at how big the sky is compared to a human, and the size of the universe as a whole. Or wondering about how time works. Or at the fact that somehow, all of infinity fits in the area of a circle where r = 1.
The why becomes less and less interesting, and the what is becomes more so.
For me, I find this process also helps with processing loss and death. No longer does it matter why Deidre died. Or why my grandmother died. Or why anyone died.
All that matters is that they did. And it’s okay. And my pain and sorrow and loss is okay too. I can look back and see the fullness of their life, no matter how long and short—I can see that they were. And they always were, and neither time nor death nor lack of meaning can take away their existence or the impact they had on my life.
I can see all of who I knew them to be, and keep my vision of them close. I can celebrate who they were, treasure who they were, and remember them as I knew them to be.
And I can leave the agony of why behind me and live in the comfort of what is.
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