The Search for Meaning in an Indifferent Universe

When the universe stays silent to our need for meaning, courage lies in creating our own to confront and navigate through life’s absurdity.

Meaning, even if self-fashioned, is a north star for our voyage through the cold empty space.

Arun Kumar

Summary: Life’s absurdity lies in our longing for meaning colliding with the universe’s indifference. While meaning is not inherent, to counteract, we can create personal frameworks through values, relationships, and purpose, as acts of our pushing back, granting orientation and resilience in a cosmos that offers none.

It is said that life is absurd.

Albert Camus, the French-Algerian philosopher wrote: “The absurd is born of this confrontation between the human need [for meaning] and the unreasonable silence of the world [in providing that meaning].” Søren Kierkegaard, long before Camus, called this tension “the sickness unto death” — a despair rooted in the self’s inability to reconcile its longing for “eternal” meaning with the silent void it confronts. Nietzsche stated: “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how,” perhaps implying that without a “why (i.e., the meaning),” the “how” (i.e., engagements of life) becomes unbearable.

You have probably felt this quiet dissonance yourself — perhaps while gazing at the night sky, where stars burn silently across incomprehensible distances, or standing atop a cliff watching the ocean stretch endlessly, turquoise in its beauty but indifferent to your existence.

In such moments, the significance of your existence flickers like a candle struggling to stay alight in a storm. In such moments, your existence feels naked, vulnerable, and exposed, stripped of the shelter that meaning of existence might have otherwise provided. You are here, undeniably present, and yet the world does not seem to notice or care. It neither welcomes nor rejects you. It is simply, well, indifferent.

This is the birthplace of the feeling of absurdity — you want to be noticed, but noticing you is the last thing on universe’s agenda.

Absurdity Defined

So, the notion of absurdity emerges from a collision between our hunger for a meaning for existence and the universe’s indifference to that existence. On one side stands the individual just wishing for a reason to get out of bed each morning. On the other, the cosmos: vast, silent, and governed by laws that do not give a hoot about whether you get out of bed or not.

Why in the first place, might we even think that the universe should offer us meaning or care about us? Meaning is not a property of matter or energy. It is not encoded in the spin of electrons or the curvature of spacetime. Meaning is a human construct, a comforting tale we want to tell ourselves to make sense of our place in the world. The stars do not speak. The oceans do not explain. The laws of physics do not comfort. They simply operate, indifferent to our yearning.

We are thrown into existence not by choice, but by the blind mechanics of biology and randomness. We are the outcome of evolutionary pressures, genetic mutations, survival strategies, and chance. We did not ask to be born, and yet here we are, thinking, feeling, hoping, and compelled to live.

This is the paradox and the crux of absurdity: we must live as if life holds purpose, even when we suspect it does not.

The Courage to Construct a Meaning

To live in the face of absurdity requires courage to stand up. It is not the courage of the heroic kind that slays dragons, but a simpler kind that gets us out of bed, make a coffee, and head to work. It is the courage to create meaning where none is offered. It is courage that made us stand up to a bully in our school days.

And so, to confront the absence of inherent meaning in life, we often craft our own — fragile, personal, and often, provisional. We create meaning by exploring what we value and then choosing actions that align with our values. That choice of creating meaning is our revolt, our push back, against absurdity. It is our freedom and strength to create a meaning. It is our agency through which to confront the absurd.

By choosing relationships, creative pursuits, or spiritual paths, we build scaffolding that allows us to stand upright in the face of cosmic indifference. Meaning, even if self-fashioned and intrinsically personal, offers us luxury of a coordinate system to orient ourselves. It is a north star for our voyage through the cold empty space. It is a way to navigate cosmic indifference without being consumed by it.

This courage to construct meaning is not to eliminate the absurd, for the feeling of absurd continues to exist. It is a stance, a posture, a way of being in the universe that does not care.

And so, the paradox is that we must live as if life matters, even when we suspect it does not. And in doing so, it helps to create a meaning but also be cognizant that meaning need not be absolute. All that matters if it is enough that it sustains us, even temporarily. And even if it is an illusory creation of our agency, it allows us to weather the Santa Ana winds of absurdity.

Epilogue

And so, life is absurd — and yet we must live it. In doing that, having meaning in life is a wonderful aid.

Not because meaning we create is permanent and will always make sense. Not because it offers guarantees. But because having it is like having the ability to slide into an exoskeleton giving us the strength to face the absurdity.

But the mind wonders — are there different approaches to finding that meaning? In the face of the absurd, can we choose to revolt, and stand, against it; can we choose the path of lucid acceptance, or can we carve a path of a fusion of two, i.e., a lucid embrace of life being absurd combined a defiant revolt.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

When the Surf Breaks Unevenly

On the left side of the beach,
there is a first Christmas—
a newborn daughter,
wrapped in gifts
she cannot yet appreciate.

On the right,
a friend with lung cancer
is hoping
to make it
to the month of
January.

Perhaps Nothing

What is next?
the mind asked.

Perhaps nothing—
came back
the reply.

 

Translational Symmetry of Choices and the Burden of Moral Obligation

If we wouldn’t forgive our ancestors for destroying the Earth, why do we expect our descendants to forgive us for doing the same?

We do not inherit the Earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children.” — Native American Proverb

Arun Kumar

Summary: A thought experiment places us at the midpoint of a 10,000-year timeline where all generations possess today’s technology. It challenges our moral decisions about environmental stewardship, and explores how psychological biases like moral licensing, temporal discounting, and social validation distort our responsibilities toward future generations.

Let us begin with a thought experiment, one that takes a longer view of humanity — longer than we are accustomed to, longer than our boxed imaginations are trained to stretch.

Imagine a 10,000-year timeline. Not a timeline of primitive tools gradually giving way to rockets, but a more unsettling proposition: at every point on this line, from year zero to year 10,000, humans existed with the same technological capabilities as we do now. Same machines. Same plastics. Same global transportation networks. Same capacity to extract, burn, pollute, clean, conserve, recycle, or destroy.

And here we are, you and I, placed squarely in the middle of this timeline. The year is five thousand. Five thousand years before us, a long unbroken chain of technologically adept ancestors made choices and left their mark on the world we inherited. Five thousand years ahead, a line of equally capable descendants awaits the footprints of choices we will leave behind.

Now here is the question — simple, elegant, and damning: do we want our ancestors to have made the same choices we are making now; and if not, then why are we making them?

Why should we expect moral wisdom from our ancestors while indulging in moral neglect towards our future generations? Although we may think so, however, we do not hold a special place in 10,000-year timeline.

Now imagine a series of tall, neon-lit messages standing upright along the timeline — visible to every generation as they pass by. The Golden Rule, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” is etched across it. But when we look there is something lost in translation. We cherish the Golden Rule when it applies to people sitting across from us at the dinner table or walking beside us in the neighborhood. But when it comes to those who came before or those who will come after — suddenly, reciprocity of the Golden Rule is an inconvenient truth.

The bottom line is that the visual symmetry of this timeline is striking — whatever we choose to do, can also be chosen by any generation. If we choose to pollute, extract, and waste with abandon, then we implicitly accept that our ancestors would have done the same. But if we grimace at the idea of receiving a ravaged Earth from the past, we must also recognize that we have no moral ground to do the same for the future.

So why the disconnect?

Why, with this clear visualization of translational symmetry of the consequences of our actions, do we still act with such reckless asymmetry in choices we make?

Let us begin with the most cited culprit: The Tragedy of the Commons. The phrase sounds poetic, but its implications are brutal. When shared resources — air, water, forests, climate — are unregulated, individual users act in their own self-interest and overexploit the resource, even though it is against everyone’s long-term interest. We all know this story. No one wants to be the sucker who conserves while everyone else exploits. So, we all rush in. We grab what we can. We rationalize.

If I do not take this flight, someone else will.

If I do not drive this car, if I do not build this factory, if I do not expand this business — someone else will.

And so, we participate in the tragedy of the commons. Collective action toward the greater good, when left to individual choice, becomes an entropic impossibility. It is like expecting that, in the absence of a brain, the trillion cells in our body will act independently yet somehow coordinate well enough to sustain our well-being.

Then there’s temporal discounting, a psychological trait for how we routinely undervalue the future. This is not just selfishness; it is baked into our biology.

Our ancestors evolved in environments where immediate threats — predators, famine, disease — mattered more than far-off consequences. If the berries are ripe today, you eat them. You do not save them for a hypothetical famine next year. That impulse — consume now, worry later — may have served us well in a world of short lifespans and local consequences. But today, that same impulse does not serve us well. No wonder, saving money for the rainy day or for retirement is a hard commitment to make and follow.

And perhaps we do not honestly believe the future exists. Not in a visceral way. We speak of our grandchildren, but we do not picture them living in a degraded environment. We live under a kind of moral anesthesia, comfortably numb to our fingerprints on time.

There is another human trait that deserves mention: moral licensing — doing something good and feeling that we have earned the right to do something less good (or bad) afterward without guilt. We go for a run in the morning and then feel fine eating an extra slice of cake later. We buy a reusable bag and feel we have earned a vacation in Bali. We switch to LED bulbs and celebrate with a weekend shopping spree.

We mistake awareness of something for action. We confuse intention with impact.

And then there is the evolutionary desire to be seen, to be validated, to rise in the pecking order. A small hybrid car is good. A bigger hybrid SUV is better. Who can fly more to attend climate summits at faraway places and reach the million-miler status first and to bring that up in casual conversations.

All of these traits — evolved instincts, psychological quirks, social pressures — create a fog through which we look towards the future. If we can articulate the temporal symmetry of choices, and believe in the Golden Rule, then the moral burden of our action is squarely on our shoulders.

It is a simple question to ask: If the environment we have today had been ruined 5,000 years ago by people with our level of capability and our level of negligence, how would we feel?

Would we curse them?

Would we say, “How could they have known and still done nothing?”

Even if we pretend that we are not sure about the consequences of our actions, should we not err on the side of caution? Should we not hope that our ancestors would have done the same for us?

But now, if you will excuse me, it is time for me to drive four miles to the neighborhood coffee shop. I need to buy a tall cappuccino made from beans shipped 6,000 miles away, served in a disposable paper cup with a plastic lid. I will sip it while basking in air-conditioned comfort and pretend to feel virtuous because I brought my own straw. And there I will ponder, with renewed energy brought on by coffee, the moral burden of the choices I (we) make.

Ciao, and thanks for reading

 

The Meaning of Life and the Meaning in Life

We may never uncover life’s cosmic purpose, but we can still shape our own meaning — through connection, purpose, and conscious daily choices.

We may never know why we are here. But we can choose how to be here

Arun Kumar

Summary: This essay explores the distinction between the meaning of life — a metaphysical inquiry into our cosmic purpose — and meaning in life, the pursuit of personal fulfillment through daily experiences. By separating the unknowable from the actionable, we give our agency a chance to craft purpose, joy, and meaning within our finite existence.

There is a persistent tension woven into the human psych. We not merely have the need to exist (and exist without a feeling of emptiness), but we also have a deeper urge to understand what that existence is for. Simply being often feels insufficient; our consciousness complicates the matter by asking what that our being is for.

This tension crystallizes into a deceptively simple question: What is the meaning of life? That question contrasts with a different question about what would make our existence feel meaningful. To engage with these questions, however, one must first clarify their scope.

The question about the meaning of life is a metaphysical question that seeks our place within the workings of vast cosmos, and also, the meaning of cosmos itself. The other question about the meaning in life is an introspective search for feeling a purpose in the context of activities that shape the contours of our daily existence.

To conflate these inquiries is to blur the boundary between cosmic significance and personal fulfillment while we exist. By distinguishing them, we can begin a more nuanced exploration: one that considers both our existential position in the universe and whether the span between birth and death feels imbued with purpose, direction, agency, and fulfillment.

The Meaning of Life: A Cosmic Inquiry

The question of the meaning of life is old, vast, and perhaps unanswerable (and my own perspective, tilts towards that there is no inherent meaning). This question is in the domain of metaphysics, theology, and speculative philosophy. It asks: Why does life exist at all? Is there a purpose to the universe, or to human consciousness? Are we part of a divine plan, a virtual reality simulation, or an inevitable consequence of random unfolding of matter and energy within the guardrails of laws of “physics”?

The question is not entirely academic but also has practical consequences. It is the question that leads to sleepless minds or to dark thoughts at 3am in the morning when we lie awake. It drives religious devotion. It fuels existential despair about the meaning of our ephemeral existence.

To seek the meaning of life is to ask whether life has intrinsic purpose; whether there is a reason we are here that transcends our individual stories. It is a question that often leads to bafflement, or to myths, or to faith. And yet, even in its elusiveness, it constantly shapes an inner longing for resolve.

The Meaning in Life

In contrast, the meaning in life is not concerned with telos of consciousness but with our personal significance in the context of our day-to-day life. It asks: What makes this life worth living? What makes me get out of bed? Where, and in what activities, do I find joy, connection, or purpose?

This question is the realm of lived experience and whether my consciousness finds that lived experience engaging and life does not feel empty.

The meaning in life is found in the small and the specific: the thrill of creation, the connection in friendship, in sharing a glass of wine, in renting a house along the beach for a week and inviting family and friends to come over and be together. It is found in the rituals we craft, the stories we tell. It is not a question of why we exist, but of how we choose to exist. The consequences of this question exercise our agency and choices we make.

Why Distinction Matters

To confuse the two is to risk paralysis. If we wait to discern the meaning of life in the same vein as the meaning in life, we may find ourselves adrift, or worse, totally miss out on an opportunity of having a meaning in life while trying to grapple with the much tougher (or perhaps, insolvable) problem of understanding the meaning of life. But if we recognize that meaning in life can be cultivated independently in the absence of cosmic answers, instead of being paralyzed, we reclaim agency to shape its outcome.

This distinction is also cognizant and respects the diversity of human experience. Not everyone is questioning the grand narrative of existence. Some are content to just live and with finding meaning in this life. They find meaning in art, in activism, in spending time with their grandchildren. The meaning in life is not singular and is personal.

Moreover, the two inquiries can coexist. One may believe in a divine purpose and still struggle to find meaning in daily life. Conversely, one may reject metaphysical meaning and still live with a sense of profound purpose, fulfillment, and satisfcation. The meaning of life may be unknowable; the meaning in life is always reachable and something within our capabilities to create.

Cultivating Meaning in Life

Although the meaning of life is a question we may never answer, the meaning in life is something we can cultivate. Its cultivation requires recognizing what we value, a good recipe for which is to take a critical look at the totality of activities we have and evaluate which ones are engaging, or create a sense of flow, or make us get out of bed in morning. Once we know what we value, then the task is to build ourselves a portfolio of engagements that actualize what we value. Doing this exercise may help us cultivate meaning in life.

Epilogue

Ultimately, the two inquiries into meaning are not adversaries but companions. The search for life’s meaning can evoke awe, humility, and wonder — offering guidance on what truly matters and what does not. If this finite life is all there is, then what is the point of holding grudges? In building walls and refusing to open up. In not reaching out, even if it makes us vulnerable. In the light that this finite life is all we have, meaning in life is not just a distant abstraction — it becomes a quiet invitation to live more openly, more courageously.

Within those guardrails of the meaning of life, the cultivation of meaning in life can be built to offer joy, resilience, and peace.

We may never know why we are here. But we can choose how to be here. And in that choice, repeated daily, we may find a kind of meaning that does not require cosmic validation. Inherently, life may be meaningless, but it does not have to be empty.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

A Diabetic’s Remorse

The chocolate dissolved slowly on my tongue,
the caramel-glazed cheesecake
caressed my lips.

They felt heavenly,
almost orgasmic.

I will pay the price—
for those moments of surrender.

 

Flashes in the Internet Sky: A Retrospective at 200 Posts

Marking 200 posts, I reflect on writing, mortality, retirement, and the quiet joy of inquiry in a world overflowing with words.

We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect — Anaïs Nin

Arun Kumar

Summary: A contemplative reflection marking 200 posts, this essay explores writing as a practice of presence, adaptation, and inquiry. From evolution and mortality to retirement and pickleball, it traces a journey of thought shaped by time affluence, existential curiosity to keep asking deeper questions.

My first post on Medium was published on August 1, 2021, titled “I have something to say, would you be interested?” It emerged from a quiet contemplation: in an age of the internet and practically infinite content, how does one’s voice find its place? The web’s explosive growth has created a vast, ever-expanding universe of words — so wide that being found within it feels like a cosmically improbable event.

In that post, I questioned whether originality was still a prerequisite for resonance. Must every idea be new to matter? Or can recycled concepts, reframed, still strike a chord? I suggested that a blog post, like a supernova, does not need to be groundbreaking to illuminate. Its value lies in the moment it “flashes” into someone’s field of view — when its words, however familiar, feel freshly lit against the backdrop of their attention.

I concluded with a line that became my manifesto: “If the words [you write and post] flash through the right part of the internet sky that I look at, I am interested in what you have to say.” That sentence gave me permission not to be exceptional, but simply to write and offer my thoughts. And that was enough to begin. Since then, the journey has continued.

And today, on September 3rd, I mark my 200th post.

I am quite proud of having stayed the course — committed to posting at least once a week, with each article scheduled for Saturday at 10 a.m. Writing has become a steady companion, a definitive part of my portfolio of activities. It is self-sustaining, requiring no coordination with others, and as long as my cognitive faculties remain intact, it is something I can continue indefinitely (though, of course, there is the ultimate limit set by mortality).

Writing also serves as a kind of existential pivot. If physical pursuits like pickleball were ever to fall away due to injury or age, writing would remain — a durable backup, and perhaps even a primary engagement. It has given purpose and meaning to reading and deepened my commitment to continued learning.

Over the past year, the emergence of AI tools like ChatGPT and Copilot has made the learning process more fluid and accessible. They have become collaborators of sorts — sparring partners, sounding boards, and accelerants to thought.

Across these two hundred posts, a distinct cluster of themes has emerged, each orbiting the central questions of change, meaning, and the human condition. Evolution and the inevitability of biological emergence — natural selection, adaptation, and the architecture of the senses — have been recurring subjects, explored through the lenses of biology, psychology, and perception. Journaling has served as both method and mirror, capturing reflections on mortality, existential inquiry, and the transition into retirement. Philosophy threads through it all. sometimes solemn, sometimes playful. probing the contours of selfhood, time, and truth. Politics appears occasionally, reflecting what is currently going on. And humor, ever present, provides levity — a reminder that even amid meditative musings, the absurdity of life deserves its own space. Together, these themes trace a journey of change, aging, and the quiet passage of time.

At this stage of life, certain aspects of writing have become easier. I no longer feel tethered to metrics — likes, shares, or the need for fleeting validation. That said, I will admit: every now and then, a cue triggers a rush of dopamine, nudging me to check the stats. But that is okay. It is a gentle reminder that I am still human, still responsive to connection.

Being closer to mortality has also deepened my contemplative musing. Questions of existence, meaning, and impermanence arise more frequently now, offering fertile ground for exploration and meditative flight. Writing has become not just practice, but a way of channeling these reflections into a quiet dialogue with my finitude.

On the personal front, a significant transition unfolded between my 100th and 200th post: I retired. The preparation and intentional thinking that went into building a portfolio of engagements to ease that shift paid off. Retirement, often feared for its potential to become void, has instead offered a time affluence, a spaciousness I have put to effective use. It has not become the monster it could have been.

We also moved from Maryland to the South, into a 55+ community, and we were pleased with the choice. The environment suits us, and the rhythms of daily life feel more attuned. Pickleball has become a joyful pursuit, and I have grown quite good at it. In parallel, I have also begun posting some articles on LinkedIn, extending my reflections into new spaces and audiences.

In the years ahead, as I march toward my 300th post, the journey into meditative inquiry will persist. I will continue to find myself drawn to pondering our existence against the vastness of a universe perhaps absent of intrinsic meaning — tracing the cosmic journey woven from glowing stars and swirling galaxies, down through the improbable rise of self-replicating molecules and onward to the unfolding of life’s evolutionary path that brought forth you and me. My thoughts will meander through social norms, wondering how progress alters the very landscape in which natural selection operates — particularly when we seem to have broken through its guardrails. But perhaps it is a process that never truly ends, only the players in the arena of war of evolution change.

As I look to the future, I will continue to contemplate the trajectories humanity might follow if current patterns endure — all while quietly observing and building stories about everyday moments and reflecting on lessons gathered from the pickleball court.

As one grows older and mortality draws nearer, certain questions acquire a sharper urgency. Chief among them is the quiet reckoning with the fact that one day, there will be no “me” left to know that there ever was a “me.” The legacy I might leave behind, subject to exponential decay, is no consolation to the self who will not be around to witness it.

But before I drift too far into the maudlin, let me pause here. I look forward to being here again — with my 300th post.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

Returning the Loan

Across the street—
on the wrap-around porch—
a rocking chair sways gently—
holding the outline
of someone
who chose to return
the borrowed atoms.

 

Do not Confuse Meaninglessness with Emptiness: A Message for Mort (and to the rest of us)

Even in a meaningless universe, life need not be empty. We can shape purpose through presence, connection, and courageous action.

Meaninglessness is not only a void; it is also a blank canvas.

Arun Kumar

Summary: Reflecting on a brief scene in Rifkin’s Festival, this essay explores mortality, meaninglessness, and the human capacity to fill the void that existence can bring. It contemplates the indifferent nature of the universe while asserting our power to create fulfilling lives through conscious action, despite life’s impermanence and the absence of cosmic design.

Today, I revisited an old post of mine — Serendipitous Moments, written on August 12, 2023. It centered on a quiet exchange between Mort, the protagonist in Woody Allen’s Rifkin’s Festival, and Death. It was not a climactic moment in the film. In fact, it was fleeting and easily overlooked. Yet the scene stayed with me a long time after the credits had faded.

In a dreamlike conversation, Mort sits across from Death — not trembling, not pleading, but simply listening. And Death, in his cold candor, offers something neither threatening nor profound. Just true. “If we do not come to terms with mortality,” Death says, “then you’ll never be able to relax and enjoy your life.” And then, with a gentler breath: “Even though meaningless, life does not have to be empty. You are a human being. You can make it full.”

Those words had struck a chord — not as a blinding epiphany, but as a truth I had long sensed without ever fully letting in. Over time, that quiet insight has taken root: There is no inherent meaning. Not in the stars that circle above us. Not in the birth and death of galaxies. Not even in the first breath of a newborn.

Meaning does not reside out there, scattered across the cosmos. The universe does not whisper secrets or speak in stories. The universe merely spins — cold, indifferent, radiant. And life, too, follows a similar lead.

At its foundation, life is chemistry: a long unfolding chain of molecular accidents, sparked by the collision of atoms, all governed by blind and impartial laws. Self-replicating molecules emerged not by intention, but through the probabilistic stirrings of energy and matter on a volatile, infant Earth. Life was not a miracle. It was an inevitable corollary of the way nature behaves.

Wherever biology takes root, natural selection follows. Resources are finite. Randomness is ubiquitous. In this crucible, traits that enhance replication survive. And slowly over time, with survival comes complexity.

And so, here we are — descendants of molecular ambition, playing in the sandbox of increasing entropy and an energy constraint environment.

Somewhere along this evolutionary journey, consciousness emerged. Perhaps not as we now know it — with our art, our abstractions, our ache for the eternal — but in its earliest glimmer: the faintest awareness of what happened before and the notion of after, and a whisper of the awareness of self.

We are, in the end, the outcome of a process that had no teleological goal in mind, meaning it was not directed towards any specific purpose or end. But through chance occurrences within the guardrails of physical laws, we inherited a mind that now looks around and asks, “Why?”

But there is no why.

This truth demands courage to come to terms with it. Because if the universe has no grand tale to tell, then we are not actors in a cosmic drama. We are momentary configurations of matter — assembled briefly into the shape of a life. We are born. We blink. We question. We love. We despair. We laugh. We vanish.

What meaning could endure in such a system? Any meaning we create dissolves with us.

And still, we must walk on. That is the paradox and absurdity of our finite existence.

But absurdity is not a curse. It is a gift — an invitation to create. If the universe offers no meaning, we are free to make one. Meaninglessness is not only a void, but also a blank canvas. We can choose cynicism, the cool indifference of being a nihilist. If that gives shape to your days, if it helps you rise in the morning, so be it.

But if it does not — there are other ways. We can choose the option of creating a meaning.

To choose meaning is to act. Meaning is not merely an idea to contemplate. It is something for us to construct. It is not born of thought alone, but of action. It takes shape in our habits, our gestures, our commitments. To live with meaning and purpose is to breathe life into abstraction, and make an idea come to life and tangible.

Without action, meaning remains hypothetical, unmoored from the very life it aims to illuminate.

Yet even as we build, we must remember that the meaning we create is not permanent. It must evolve, and at times, be rebuilt. Our values shift, our understanding deepens, and life unfolds along unpredictable arcs. What once moved us may no longer sustain us. Meaning must remain flexible and open to change, ready to deal with uncertainty, and responsive to our own doubts.

So yes, the universe is, on the whole, meaningless. But within the brevity of our lives, we can still create songs with lasting value.

And that’s where Mort’s exchange with Death endures: “Don’t confuse meaningless (of the universe) with (life being) empty.” They are not the same.

Cosmic meaninglessness is a description of the universe. It is a statement of fact. Emptiness within our finite existence, however, is a condition (and a choice) of how we live. We err when we assume that because the first is true, the second must follow. But it does not have to. A full life can unfold in small, incandescent sparks: the aroma of coffee; sip of a good wine; the warmth of a well-cooked meal; the promise of a journey yet to happen.

A life of presence, connectedness, curiosity, which is a life made full. Its reverberations may not echo across centuries, but it will matter very much to the ones who lived it. And that is enough.

We are here to make the most of the cards we have been dealt. We are free to play them however we choose. There is no need to confuse meaningless (of the universe) with (life being) empty.

And so, there may be no universal meaning to our existence. But that does not mean life must be burdened by its weight. It does not mean smile to be absent from our days. It does not mean some floating Dementor waits to devour the joy.

No. It means that life is ours to shape. To fill. To live.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

Primordial Questions

Purpose and meaning—
meaning and purpose—
which came first,
which after?

Birth and death—
death and birth—
which came first,
which after?

Consciousness and Reality—
Reality and Consciousness—
which came first,
which after?

Would the universe—
ever tell?
Or is silence
its only answer?

Number of Breaths

Is it a folly
to chase,
to wish,
or even try to understand
the infinite—

while holding in our lungs
a finite
number of breaths?

 After All the Searching

Tired of meandering
through the labyrinths of Mahayana,
and then trying the byways
of its sister city Hinayana—
all while stubbing toes
treading through the pages
of The Myth of Sisyphus

and the dense prose—

one day he arrived
at a road sign
that simply said:

“The purpose of life
is to live.”

 

Letters From the Retirement Community (5): The Third Shot Drop and Lessons in Living Life’s Third Act

A pickleball strategy becomes a life lesson — why the subtle third shot drop mirrors the mindset and rhythm of a purposeful third act of life.

Do not grow old, no matter how long you live. Never cease to stand like curious children before the Great Mystery into which we were born — Albert Einstein

Arun Kumar

Summary: On a pickleball court in a retirement community, here is the nuance third shot drop to slow down the tempo of the game. It is more than a strategy just for the pickleball game, it is also a metaphor for life’s third act of life — retirement. This contemplative essay explores how mastering restraint, softness, and rhythm on the court reflects the wisdom, pivots, and quiet power needed in life of retirement.

There is a rhythm to happenings on the pickleball court. The pop-pop cadence of quick volleys, the squeak of sneakers pivoting close to the kitchen line, the satisfied grin of a well-placed shot. And then there is the enigmatic third drop shot.

I was engaged in a game on the retirement community court one afternoon, paddle in hand, waiting to receive the serve. I had joined the pickleball club just a few months earlier. Quickly to learn the basics, I was attempting to improve my game and learn new skills. In that effort, I found myself drawn to a shot that, on the surface, seemed contrary to the usual fast tempo of the play. The third drop shot, and I kept botching it over and over. I could not get the arc of the ball correct for it to land in the kitchen. It sailed too high (and got smashed back) or stayed too low (and went into the net). I had seen advance players use effortless motion, a floating ball that neutralized the opponent’s power and gave the serving term time to move up and reset the pace of the rally.

After I netted another third drop shot attempt, “Let the ball curve up and descend,” my partner said helpfully: “Soft hands. You are not attacking. You are giving a gentle embrace.”

It was in that strange, delicate moment — where strategy was ‘restraint’ — that I sensed that this shot was teaching me something beyond the game.

The Third Shot Drop

In pickleball, the third shot drop is a pivotal strategy. After the serve and the first return, the serving team faces an opponent already at the net ready to control the game. Their next move, the third shot, holds the key to shifting momentum and get back in the game on equal footing. Instead of driving the ball back with force, the third shot drop sends the ball to arc softly over the net and land in the opponent’s non-volley zone — the “kitchen.” It slows the game. It resets the tempo. It buys time for the serving team to move forward towards the kitchen.

In the often-frenzied pace of pickleball, the third shot drop is a whisper in a noisy room. A pause. A recalibration. An invitation for reflection.

The Third Act of Life

We often speak of life as a three-act play (although Hinduism talks about four phases of life). The first act is youth and early adulthood: the time of learning, exploring, striving, and accumulating. The second act is coming to full bloom — career, family, building, competing, and navigating complexity. Then comes the third act.

The third act is often framed in terms of ending one’s career and subsequent transition into retirement. It used to be regarded as a quick decline into the ultimate moments of life. But now, as we are living 30+ years after retirement, the third act is viewed differently. Much like the third shot drop, the third act is not an end; it is a strategic shift to a different game. It is about altering the rhythm, making space, and repositioning oneself on the court of life to play better, to play differently.

Where the first two acts are marked by pace, ambition, acceleration, the third is about intention and slowing down. It is a time not for brute power but for elegance, restraint, and perspective.

The Third Shot Drop and the Third Act of Life

Learning the third shot drop is about embracing subtlety. It is less about trying to overpower the opponent, more about making them engage in a dance of wits. The strategy feels remarkably similar to what it means to embrace the third act of life.

In retirement the metrics of change. Success is no longer about how fast you can hit or how far you can run. It becomes about choices where you would like to focus your energy. When to engage vigorously or when to let the ball drop, softly and intentionally, just over the net.

The third shot drop is not a retreat. It is a way to stay in the game longer and not let opponents overwhelm and force you to stay away from the kitchen, so they control the game. Likewise, retirement is not a surrender, but a recalibration of the values and goals we lived with. It asks us to trust that we no longer have to meet every challenge with full force. We have options now. The pace is ours to choose.

Practicing the Third Act

Just like the third shot drop, the third act does not come naturally. One has to work at it. It is surprisingly hard to let go of speed, of proving yourself, of believing that your worth is tied to litany of achievements, to work. It takes practice to unlearn old rhythms and adopt a gentler, more refined tempo.

Financially, the third act means shifting your view on money — from saving money for later to using what you have saved so diligently. Money becomes less about accumulation and more about using it for activities that give meaning and nourishment.

Emotionally, it means building a new sense of identity. Without the scaffolding of a job title or a packed schedule, it is time to redefine who you are.

Strategically, it is about learning to pivot. You try new things, take up pickleball, read and write, and if something does not work out, try something else. There is no judgement or shame in failing. It is an opportunity to align with your inner self.

And spiritually, the third act asks us to live with awareness of our finitude and learn to live with it in peace. It is a time when time becomes more precious. You begin to say ‘no’ more frequently and ‘yes’ more intentionally.

It is also a phase of life where transitions happen at a faster pace. A fall, and you have to temporarily withdraw from the game of pickleball and fill those moments with something else. Slowly, as decline in physique set in — joints become to ache, bending down to pick up the ball becomes an arduous task, it is time to pivot to other activities; perhaps learn Bocce Ball, or Tai Chi, or yoga. The key is to be agile and be prepared — have a portfolio of activities — so you can pivot.

The Wisdom of Softness

There is also an ancient resonance to all this. The Stoics spoke of living in harmony with nature’s course — not resisting what is but shaping your inner life in response. Epictetus reminded us: “It’s not what happens to you, but how you react to it that matters.” In the third act, this wisdom becomes a daily discipline.

The Taoists went further: in Wu Wei, non-doing or effortless action, they praised the power of non-striving. Like water flowing around rocks, the wise do not contest every obstacle but find the elegant path through. The third shot drop echoes this — to consciously bring in softness when faced with the prospect of fast volleys.

There’s wisdom in choosing not to return volley with equal force, but to change the pace and engagement.

Returning to the Court

I am back on the court, feet shifting lightly on the baseline. The serve comes in. I return it. Now it is my third shot. It is time take a breath, to soften my grip, to let the ball descend just enough. And then, gently, I lift it over the net, watching it land perfectly in the kitchen. At least, that is something for which I am hoping.

This is also how we should live the third act. Not perceiving it as a dwindling finale, but as a strategic, meaningful continuation and change. Not driven by brute force or endless hustle, but by presence, purpose, and deliberation. It is time to slow the tempo, reclaim the rhythm, and play with the kind of grace that says: You have been here long enough to know what matters.

In the third drop shot, mastery measured differently. Not in the power of the shot, but in the wisdom of the drop. And then I executed a perfect third drop shot.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

Consciousness Dares to Ask

Being in a universe,
a speck of dust,
a fleeting spark
against the endless dark—

yet consciousness
dares to demand:
Why?
Why is it here?

The Curves They Remember

I trace the soft contours of your memory—
with my trembling fingers—
knowing they will catch on edges,
be cut,
and bleed—again—

and yet—
they yearn to feel the curves
they once traced before.

Do Not Ask for Meaning

Do not ask the stars for meaning—
nor barter with gods to know
what purpose they had in mind
when they created, and then—
let us go.

Now—standing in this emptiness—
shape your meaning with your hands.
And when it all comes to an end—
let the wind carry what remains;
for there will be none left of this body
but a few sandy grains.

The Emptiness That Surrounds Us

In the end,
we do not solve the riddle
why an emptiness surrounds us—
we become it.

 

The Invitation We Almost Declined

A gentle meditation on our hesitation to say yes, and how vulnerability, when embraced, can usher in warmth, friendship, and human connection.

Vulnerability is the birthplace of connection and the path to the feeling of worthiness — Brené Brown

Arun Kumar

Summary: This essay reflects on the courage needed for accepting an invitation from someone to visit, exploring how making ourselves vulnerable opens pathways to connection. It explores our hesitations and highlights how accepting uncertainty can lead to warmth, companionship, and a richer experience of life; especially as time for us aging adults is becoming precious commodity.

Now and then, an invitation arrives like a soft breeze brushing past the curtains of our uneventful lives — a friend’s offer, simple in form yet rich in generosity. “Come visit,” it says, offering more than just a place to stay; it promises shared days, laughter-laced conversations, the clink of wine glasses, and the warmth of companionship.

And yet, we hesitate. We construct doubts, erect careful barricades. Perhaps, we tell ourselves, the invitation was merely a lip service — a polite gesture without expectation. Or, if we accept, we risk treading too heavily, overstaying our welcome, becoming an unspoken burden.

It is astonishing, really, the stories we spin to guard the fragile sanctum of solitude we built. Rarely do we consider that our presence might bring joy to the friend who sent the invitation. We forget the possibility that someone might want our voice echoing in their living room; that a glass of wine shared on a screened porch could become a memory we all will cherish; that visit might kindle a lasting friendship.

This hesitation is not new. It lives quietly in our minds, whispering caution. It has worn many names: pride, independence, self-sufficiency. But perhaps, at its core, it is fear; fear of rejection; of discovering that the connection we expected might not materialize. So, we retreat into the safety of our shell. We thank them kindly. We promise to think about it. And in that deflection, we safeguard our vulnerability.

But at that moment of deflection, might we have turned away from the possibility of a connection?

By not accepting, we trade potential companionship for the security of isolation. Safety has its place, but it rarely nurtures growth. Life is not built solely on order; it blossoms in the unpredictable, in the daring act of reaching out. Without vulnerability, gains are harder to come by.

To be vulnerable is to risk being refused. But what if, instead, we accept the invitation? What if our days together were to hold not awkward silence, but warmth? And even if the visit falters, we do not emerge diminished; we emerge clarified. If the experience disappoints, we need not repeat it. But we will have tried. We will have explored a possibility.

There is a kind of happiness that springs not from outcomes, but from the act of reaching beyond ourselves. Vulnerability is not a weakness; it is courage to risk, to hope, to extend. And as time marches on, and as we age, the window of opportunities keeps getting narrower.

It is haunting to imagine spending our remaining years inside walls of restraint. To let that missed friendship may linger as a quiet what-if. That laughter might never echo because fear won out. The sandbox we built to protect ourselves becomes a pen that limits us.

What if, just once, we accepted the invitation for what it was — an opening? What if we called and said, Yes, we will be there? We might find ourselves on a porch bathed in late-afternoon light, our words threading into theirs, laughter effortless and real. We might sit not as guests, but as friends. And in that conversation, feel for a fleeting beautiful moment that life is expansive, warm, and deeply connective.

By refusing the invitation, we deny not only the host, but ourselves.

No one builds meaningful bonds with absolute certainty. Every attempt carries vulnerability. Connections do not bloom in abstraction; they are cultivated by showing up. And when we decline to spare others our presence, we may also be denying them the joy they hoped for.

So let us imagine the invitation was sincere. That the wine is waiting. That the stories will flow at dinner. While doing that, let us also remember: to risk uncertainty is also to court possibility.

In the end, what awaits may be more than a weekend visit. It may be a new chapter of memory, evidence that we lived and dared. That we reached out. That we tried. And whether the outcome would be sweet or sour, it becomes part of our unfolding story.

So perhaps tonight, we will pick up the phone. We will say yes, we are coming. And in what follows, we may find what we long for: laughter’s echo, a shared glass of wine, the simple comfort of presence.

And perhaps, at last, the sandbox will crumble, and in its place, an open field of possibility will stretch wide, just when life is beginning to dim.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

Distant, Yet Close

The stars are far;
their ashes,
they sing in my bones.

 

Meditation on Mortality

A quiet meditation on mortality, presence, and the pursuit of a life lived fully — without denial, dread, or distraction.

Between denial and dread of mortality lies a quieter path where mortality is neither ignored nor feared but held gently.

Arun Kumar

Summary: This reflective essay explores the quiet tension between mortality and mindful living. We contemplate the inevitability of death, the pursuit of presence, and the challenge of holding mortality as a companion — not a burden — while seeking grace, purpose, and equanimity in everyday life.

(1) I knew I was going to die tomorrow, or if not tomorrow, then some other day not far behind. Still, I went to the Pickleball court. I played a game, played it well. I dinked with precision, moved with purpose, and even won a few games. In those moments, that was what mattered: the rhythm of the rally, the arc of the ball, the quiet triumph of presence. And for a while, mortality stepped back; its shadow drawn behind the curtain, where it waits with infinite patience for its turn.

But I know it will return. It always does.

(2) It is a quiet dilemma to honor the truth of my mortality while still embracing all that the present offers: the engagements life extends, and the fleeting eternity each moment can become.

(3) And yet, I do not wish to lose sight of mortality. I do not want to drown its quiet presence beneath a relentless tide of tasks — a mile-long to-do list waiting through every hour. I do not want an endless sequence of activities to become a forcefield against the truth of impermanence. Nor do I seek a drug that numbs the brain and, with it, the mind. I do not want to be lulled into believing I am immortal, that my fleeting presence here somehow stretches into permanence. There is something in that approach — something in that denial — that feels deeply untrue.

(4) Mortality is not an intruder but an integral part of my being — an irrevocable truth woven into the fabric of my life. To suffocate it by conscious effort would be to sever something essential, as if amputating a limb with my own hands. I want its presence near me — in my thoughts, in my breath, in the quiet rooms of my consciousness.

(5) A life lived without the awareness of mortality feels, in some ineffable way, incomplete. Whether that sense of incompleteness is rooted in some absolute truth or it is just me, I cannot say. I don’t even know if there is an answer. Something that feels like an answer flashes across my mind like a meteor streaking through the night sky — fleeting, and gone before I can find the words to inscribe it and return to them the future.

(6) As I ponder why a life lived without the awareness of mortality might feel less fully lived, I find myself entangled in a deeper question: how do we measure the relative worth of two lives — one lived with the active cognizance of mortality, and one without it? For that matter, how do we weigh the life of someone who spends their days contentedly watching television against that of Einstein, if both feel fulfilled in their own way? Is happiness or contentment the yardstick? Is it the capacity to touch another’s life, to leave behind a legacy, to wrestle with meaning of the universe, to feel the existential angst? What, if anything, makes one life more “well lived” than another, especially when each is lived within the bounds of its own truth?

(7) Whatever the answer may be, we should not let mortality cast a shadow over the simple pleasures of life — a glass of wine savored slowly, a good movie that stirs the heart, a game of Pickleball laced with laughter and conversation, or a song that lifts the soul. At the same time, we must be wary of the other extreme: allowing the constant awareness of mortality to paralyze us, to drain life of its spontaneity and joy. Between denial and dread mortality lies a quieter path where mortality is neither ignored nor feared, but held gently, like a companion who reminds us to live more fully.

(8) I am certain there is a middle path — one that honors mortality without being consumed by it. A balance is possible, I believe, between the awareness of life’s impermanence and the rhythms of a life fully lived. Finding that balance is a quest for many to embark.

(9) I am certain there is a middle path that works — a way to hold mortality in view without letting it eclipse the living. I know the balance is possible: between the quiet cognition of death and the steady unfolding of a functional life. Sometimes, the words — how could it be done — hover at the tip of my tongue, and for a fleeting moment, I feel as though I know the answer, as if I’ve glimpsed the elusive magic. But the expression slips away, just beyond reach, like a dream dissolving in the light.

(10) Perhaps the answer lies in befriending mortality — not seeing it as an adversary lurking in wait, but as a quiet companion walking beside me. Not a threat, but a presence. Maybe it’s found in cultivating equanimity, in living with a gentler rhythm — a slower sense of time that allows for wonder. In feeling a quiet kinship with the universe, and recognizing, however faintly, that the atoms composing this body will carry on, scattered but not lost.

(11) Is the answer simply this: to know that its arrival is inevitable — that there is nothing we can do to stop it — and yet to live with a sense of grace, with equanimity, with a quiet dignity in the face of the unchangeable? Or are such notions merely a kind of romanticism — stories I tell myself to feel calmer, or to feel profound? Are they truths, or just beautifully worded comforts dressed in the language of wisdom? And if they are only comforts — does that make them any less worth holding?

(12) Is the answer, then, to live in the lowest vibrational state of being — calm, unperturbed, detached?

(13) When the answer comes, and when it is no longer just known, but fully internalized, I will have arrived. A state of quiet liberation, free from inner conflict. To reach such a state while still alive is to taste a rare peace: freedom from attachment, craving, and the restless machinery of desire. It is the soft cessation of psychological dissonance, a stillness not of resignation, but of understanding.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.