I had a coffee with a good friend recently.
We usually meet once every two months and try and set the world straight.
We always cover various topics, such as out of body experiences, astral projection, consciousness, the self, fear… and Trump.
I brought up the issue of asking why, no doubt because of a previous post on this blog, whereby I spoke about how, whilst playing with a magnetic alphabet, my student, a young boy, looked at me and said “There is no Y.”
I understood the Y as “why” and I had a good laugh to myself, all the while the small Taiwanese boy was looking at me as if to say, “Foreigners are weird.”
My friend, whilst sipping his mocha-latte, hit upon something interesting:
“Every time I think I’ve got it sussed out – my purpose for being here, that is – something happens out of the blue, which makes me go back to the drawing board.”
I’m not sure about you, but this has happened to me countless times.
Every time I think about “why I’m here” and I think I have the answer, life seems to say,
“Okay, what about now, when I do this?” leaving me looking like I’ve been given an algebra equation to do, whilst standing on my head.
I had completely forgotten about this routine I go through with life.
We loosely concluded, (loosely because we concluded that conclusions never quite conclude anything we want to really bring to a conclusion!) that life enjoys us asking why, because it keeps the dance going, and it loves dropping us hints and clues (feelings and chance encounters, for instance) because life is playful like that.
So asking why is child’s play at its grandest and we should never grow out of it.
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