Lessons From the Retirement Community (9): Practice, Aging, and the Mathematics of Proficiency in Pickleball

A reflective look at how practice and aging shape pickleball journey and how proficiency evolves with time.

We rise on the strength of practice and descend on the rhythm of aging.

Arun Kumar

Summary: A reflection on the evolutionary instincts that drive self‑improvement and how they play out on the pickleball courts of a retirement community. It explores the rise and fall of playing skills shaped by improvements from practice and decline imposed by aging.

Long before pickleball courts and retirement communities, before scoreboards and ladders, there was only the simple logic of improving the chances of survival that drove evolution. The creature that ran a little faster, sensed danger a little sooner, solved a problem a little more cleverly, or carried some advantageous physical trait — the one that helped stand out — was the creature most likely to pass on its genes. Being the leader of the pack was not a matter of pride; it was a matter of continuity. An instinct shaped quietly and relentlessly by natural selection.

Layered on top of that primal instinct is something subtler: the desire not just to survive, but to seek improvement. To do a job well. To feel the small internal lift and the sense of pride that comes from being competent. Perhaps this too has evolutionary roots. A creature who felt internally rewarded for mastering a task would repeat it, refine it, and become more reliable contributor to the greater good of the tribe, and be rewarded. Over time, that inner glow of self-confidence became a quiet engine within us. Even now, the same machinery hums. We still want to get better, even when “better” is measured in the arc of a paddle and the bounce of a plastic ball just clearing the net.

Under the soft morning light, I can see those old instincts playing out on the pickleball court. Some players arrive before the sun is fully up, paddles in hand, ready to squeeze in a few warm-up games. They join ladder play, form small conclaves that practice together, and analyze their shots with the seriousness of field scientists. All of it is an attempt to push their skill rating upward — from 2.0, where beginners learn to keep the ball in play, toward 5.0, where mastery shows itself in precision, strategy, and near-effortless control.

But while practice pushes curve of proficiency steadily upward, another curve — driven by the very different force of aging — moves proficiency quietly in the opposite direction. Aging is the invisible opponent on every court. Reflexes soften. Agility becomes a little less obedient. The aches that follow an intense game linger longer than they once did. Playing pickleball slows rate of the decline, but it cannot overcome it entirely. The drumbeat of aging continues, steady and impartial.

If one were to plot the influence of practice and aging on an x–y (time-proficiency) plane, it would reveal the time-evolution of two curves of proficiency. One curve driven by practice, discipline, and repetition rises with time. The other curve influenced by aging and limitations of biology declines with time. The shape of our pickleball life is the net sum of these two arcs. At first, the practice curve dominates. Skills improve. Footwork sharpens. Strategy deepens. But eventually, the aging curve begins to exert more influence. Gains become smaller and harder to come by. And at some point in time the sum of two curves reaches its peak. After that, the descent begins.

This behavior is something not to lament about. It is simply the geometry and algebra of the human condition.

Beyond the coldness of mathematics, engaging in pickleball, however, has more to offer. Just showing up on the court is its own set of benefit stacking. The habit of being on the court pushes the decline due to aging further into the future. And then there is the laughter, the camaraderie, the belonging to a tribe of people navigating the same terrain — these are not measured in skill ratings. They contribute to the measures of a well‑lived life.

So, the message is not one of resignation or despair that one day our pickleball proficiency will reach a peak. It is simply an acknowledgment of how life, and the game of pickleball, will inevitably unfold. There will be a peak, and it will be followed by a decline. We should be prepared to accept that eventuality.

And with that understanding under the belt, there is the simple joy of stepping onto the court. With a paddle in hand, I head out, ready to play.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

The Contract Between Birth and Death

A quiet meditation on witnessing a friend’s decline and the unspoken contract each of us carries from the moment we are born.

The contract between birth and death exists, but so does the space in between in which we live.

Arun Kumar

Summary: A reflection on witnessing a friend’s quiet surrender to illness, this essay explores the unspoken “contract” between birth and death. It meditates on how we meet life’s final chapter — suddenly, unknowingly, reluctantly, or with grace.

There are moments when life pauses with an exhausted exhale. Those are the moments when we often wonder — why us?

Yesterday afternoon held one of those moments. Our friend, diagnosed with stage‑three lung cancer and worn down by six months of a relentless cycle of hope and despair, stopped by our house on his way to yet another hospital admission. His body has been faltering — persistent coughing, low‑grade fevers, breath arriving in shallow fragments — and the doctors have not been able to explain why.

When he sat in the car in our doorway, there was a distinctive look in his eyes — a sadness edged with quiet surrender, the kind that comes when we sense it may be time to let go of something we cherish. From the passenger seat, his lips trembled as he said he was tired, and in that tremor, perhaps, lay a sentiment he did not name: that if his journey were to end, he might no longer resist it. It is a hard thing to witness — the softening of someone’s will to live.

From the day we are born, there is a contract written into our existence — a contract between birth and death. It is not negotiated, and often not even acknowledged through most of our living days. The contract simply states: if we are born, then we shall also die.

And the ways this contract is fulfilled is as varied as ways we live.

For some, death arrives without warning — a heart attack in the middle of the night, a car accident on an ordinary afternoon.

For others, the contract is fulfilled at a time when we no longer possess cognitive clarity to understand what is happening. Our minds are dimmed, and death becomes an event we do not witness as it happens.

There are those who, worn down by the sheer effort of living, begin to long for the contract to be completed. Illness, chronic pain, or emotional exhaustion can make the confirmation of life feel heavier than its end.

And then there are those who meet death with a kind of grace. They look back on a life that feels complete, a story that has reached its natural concluding chapter. For them, honoring the contract is not a tragedy but an acceptance to the rhythm of existence.

But there are also the ones for whom the moment comes too soon. People who had plans — travel, retirement, long‑imagined, often postponed joys — only to find that life had other intentions. They are the ones who feel ambushed by the contract.

Perhaps the tears in our friend’s eyes were not only from pain, but from the dawning awareness that he may be asked to honor the contract sooner than he ever expected.

And that raises a question I cannot quite shake: if we are fully aware — except for those rare souls who reach a state of graceful acceptance, are we ever truly ready to let go?

As I write this, I find myself wondering about my own eventual fulfillment of the contract. Will it be a quiet passage in the middle of the night? Will it come at a time when my mind no longer knows itself? Will it be a slow decline accompanied by gentle acceptance?

These thoughts remind me of the fragile, luminous interval between birth and death. The contract exists, yes, but so does the space in between in which we live and have the agency to shape living in one way or other. And perhaps that is a message also written in the contact.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

Lessons From the Retirement Community (8): The Quiet Power of Frameworks

Pickleball is more than just a game — it teaches how frameworks can help shape different parts of life.

The paradox is that freedom of choices often flourishes best within constraint (of frameworks)

Arun Kumar

Summary: After a year of pickleball, as improvement slows, I find myself searching for a framework to guide progress. A structure that can simplify complexity, provide direction, and transform frustration into steady gains. I am learning that having frameworks — on the court and in life — offer clarity, stability, and workable solutions.

It has now been a year since I first picked up a pickleball paddle. What began as a casual pastime has grown into a ritual. The court is more than a rectangle of painted lines, more than the shouts and playful cries that rise in the heat of a match; it is a Piazza in some small town in Tuscany, alive with rituals, where a tribe convenes. Pickleball has proven enjoyable not only for the game itself but for the stacking of benefits — movement for the body, connection to feed the spirit, and the quiet reassurance that comes from belonging.

Yet, after a year, I find myself on a plateau, carrying the quiet weight of frustration. The early days of swift, almost effortless improvement have faded, and now each gain arrives more slowly, demanding intention and direction.

The game offers countless angles for refinement: the proper athletic stance, the soft touch of a dink, the elusive third-shot drop, the deep serve and its equally deep return, the art of slowing the game down, the tactical placement of the return on the weaker side, the backhand return, shot aimed at the feet or the body. The list goes on, and with each addition the mind grows overloaded as to which ones to pursue.

The sheer abundance of possible avenues for improvements becomes paralyzing. What I long for is not another tip but an organizing framework.

This longing for a framework is not unique to pickleball. It is a longing that echoes across life. Frameworks, in general, are good to have. They provide guardrails and limit the range of possibilities. They prevent us from being paralyzed by the wide array of choices we face. Without frameworks, life can feel like a game of whack-a-mole: solve one problem and another pops up.

With frameworks, the path becomes more linear, more predictable. Perhaps less exciting, but also less burdensome. And as aging arteries remind me, excitement is not always the best virtue to pursue. Predictability, stability, and assurance carry their own quiet dignity.

Building a Home: The Metaphor of Structure

Consider the metaphor of building a home. One does not begin with the intricate details. One builds from outside in and not inside out. One begins with the structure: the foundation, the frame, the roof. Only once the outside structure — the frame — is secure does one move inward to make the place habitable. Frameworks in life serve the same purpose. They provide the skeleton upon which the flesh of daily choices, and our agency, can rest.

In pickleball, my framework to make progress might be as simple as focusing on three elements: deep serves, deep returns, and proper stance. These three can become the foundation for seeking further improvement. Once they are secure, the more intricate strategies — the dinks, the drops, the placements — can be layered in.

The Comfort of Linear Progression

Frameworks reduce often difficult nonlinear problems of life into quasi-linear ones. They do not solve everything, but they make what seems unsolvable manageable. The solution may not be perfect one, but it is workable. And workable solutions are often enough. Of course, from time to time, doubts will creep in — am I missing out on something by narrowing my focus? In those moments, I need to remind myself that the alternative is not necessarily any better. To chase every possibility is to drown in them. To narrow the field of choices is to breathe.

As I age, I find myself valuing frameworks more. Youth thrive son improvisation, on the thrill of spontaneity. Aging, however, brings a different cadence. To help navigate, frameworks become companions.

Of course, frameworks are not without their limitations. Too rigid a framework can limit exploration. Too narrow a path can blind us to alternative possibilities. The paradox is that freedom of choices often flourishes best within constraint

Returning to the Court

So, for now, I will return to the pickleball court with a simplified framework for improvements I seek. Deep serves. Deep returns. Proper stance.

And beyond the court, I can also carry the lesson into life. The concept of frameworks is not just for pickleball. They are also good for different aspects of living, e.g., investing, pivoting.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

Curating Local Meaning: The OASIS Approach to Living

Life may lack inherent meaning, but by curating an appropriate portfolio of engagements, I can look forward to rising each day with anticipation.

Looking forward to getting up in the morning with anticipation, enthusiasm, and vigor is a litmus test for living well

Arun Kumar

Summary: Even if my life may not have an inherent meaning, I can still create local meaning through deliberate engagement and make my ephemeral journey a string of days that I look forward to living.

It is not difficult to argue that the universe — and my life within it — lacks a predetermined meaning. All I need to do is look around and observe the role of randomness: how quickly the trajectory of life can shift or collapse, how forecasts in weather or finance broaden with time, how the course of evolution might easily have taken a different turn in which I would not exist.

If such small perturbations can yield radically different outcomes, it is hard to claim that I possess any inherent meaning and purpose. And yet here I am, a conscious being, compelled to ask questions — not only about the meaning of the universe, but about the meaning of my own place within it.

I ask the question because without an overarching meaning and purpose, living through the days of personal existence can easily become burdensome chore. Routines and activities begin to feel stripped of narrative, hollow in their repetition. To counter this, a local meaning can ease the weight of living. It can provide a thread of coherence, a reason to rise in the morning, and a story to live rather than endure.

How might I construct a local meaning and purpose for my life? The answer I seek must be pragmatic — something that can weave itself into the necessities and pressures of modern living yet remain simple enough to be understood and practiced by many. Perhaps it could resemble religion in its accessibility but be grounded in reason rather than just faith.

An answer is that the purpose of my life is simply to live the life that the unfolding of the universe has made possible for no apparent meaning and purpose. And if living itself is the purpose, then why not fill my days with activities that make me look forward to getting up in the morning with anticipation, enthusiasm, and vigor? Could there be any reason not to strive for this goal?

Local Meaning and the Litmus Test

“Looking forward to getting up in the morning with anticipation, enthusiasm, and vigor” becomes a litmus test for whether the activities I engage in are the right ones for making my life meaningful. To know that the trajectory of life is sound, building and curating a portfolio of engagements that makes life meaningful is, therefore, what I seek. Such a portfolio is far more promising than filling my days with activities that render the act of rising from bed a burden.

Imagine waking each morning only to drag myself to go to a job I dislike, or confronting the distasteful prospect of sixteen waking hours stretched before me with no clear sense of how to inhabit them. And then imagine repeating such morning day after day, ad nauseam. That alternative does not resemble a life worth looking forward to; it is precisely what the portfolio of meaningful engagements is meant to guard against.

The Framework

So now I have the litmus test to assess the orbit of my life. One additional tool I need to make my life meaningful is a framework that can help me fill my portfolio of engagements with appropriate activities.

The guiding principle for doing so is simple: find activities that fit the contours of what I value. How do I know what I value? By noticing what keeps me engaged. Doing them makes me stay with them. They bring me into a state of flow. They feel natural and effortless. I do not hesitate to return to them. Having them on the next day’s agenda makes me look forward to getting out of bed with anticipation.

The portfolio of engagements can be built through a few guiding steps:

• Observe: Notice what activities absorb me, where time dissolves, effort feels light, and an urge for returning to them feels natural.
• Align: Ensure the activities resonate with what I value — creativity, learning, or maintaining physical wellbeing.
• Sustain: Choose activities that can be woven into daily life and can be sustained.
• Iterate: Revisit and refine activities as circumstances shift.
• Savor: The activities that make me anticipate tomorrow’s agenda with delight; if an activity makes me savor the idea of waking up, it belongs.

This is the principle of OASIS — Observe, Align, Sustain, Iterate, Savor. The philosophy here is pragmatic existentialism. Life has no inherent meaning, but using my agency, I can create a local meaning through deliberate engagement. By curating a portfolio of engagements, I can thread coherence into the chaos, narrative into the randomness, joy into what could be burden.

Living the Gift of Another Day

The universe did not intend for me to be here. But here I am. And if I am here, why not live with meaning and purpose? Why not fill my days with activities that make me look forward to waking up?

To know if I am doing that, the litmus test is simple: each morning, do I rise with anticipation, enthusiasm, and vigor? If yes, my life is good. If not, it is time to revisit my portfolio of engagements.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

Origami of the Mind: Folding Free Time into Meaning

Having the luxury of discretionary time, absurdity of our predicament when confronting a silent universe becomes an opportunity, for therein lies our agency to construct a local meaning and purpose of our life.

Only when the belly is full, one is afforded the luxury to ask: What is the meaning and purpose of my life?

Arun Kumar

This morning, I sit in a comfortable chair, sipping my first cup of Earl Grey as the chill lingers outside. There are no sounds of shelling, no bullets slicing the air, no queues to fight for rations to appease the fire in my belly. In this quiet, I am free to ask questions that so many others cannot afford: What is the meaning of my life? What is its purpose?

I have the luxury of discretionary moments — after breakfast, lunch, and dinner — when I can sink into a sofa lounger and ponder not only about life in the cosmos in general, but my own in particular.

For many, life unfolds as an unbroken chain of nondiscretionary moments. And here lies a curious paradox: those without the luxury of free time cannot pause to reflect on meaning and purpose, while those who have it squander the gift on distractions that now are instantly accessible (requiring nothing more than a connection to the web), and therefore, also do not reflect on the meaning and purpose of life.

A few, however, do choose differently. They seek philosophical underpinnings for their existence. Along that introspective journey, some get lost in the labyrinth of abstract philosophical structures and fall into an abyss. Few others, on the other hand, discover simple wisdom: that meaning arises not from cosmic design but from having a portfolio of engagements that that makes us look forward to waking tomorrow.

If you find yourself with the luxury of time and a lounge sofa, recognize this: life and cosmos may not carry no inherent meaning (and you can leave that question for philosophers to figure out). However, you hold agency, the power to curate a portfolio of engagements that make your mornings an act of anticipation rather than dread.

Having the luxury of discretionary time, absurdity of our predicament when confronting a silent universe becomes an opportunity, for therein lies our agency: the chance to build a portfolio engagements that transform mornings from dread into anticipation.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

Local Meaning in a Silent Universe

An exploration into how a small linguistic distinction between “the meaning of life” and “the meaning of our life” mirrors philosophical pivot: from cosmic inquiry to personal agency.

The purpose of life may be as simple as this: to live.

Arun Kumar

Subtle differences in wording or punctuation can dramatically alter the perceived meaning of a sentence. A classic example illustrates this well: “Let’s eat Grandma!” versus “Let’s eat, Grandma!” The first suggests cannibalism; the second is a warm invitation to share a meal.

A similar nuance arises in the realm of existential inquiry. Consider the difference between “the meaning and purpose of life” and “the meaning and purpose of my life.” The former is expansive, probing the cosmos itself asking whether existence has a built-in rationale. The latter is intimate and personal, a local inquiry into the significance of my own ephemeral experience. The distinction resembles the mathematical contrast between global and local optimization: one seeks the best solution across the entire landscape; the other searches within a bounded, personal terrain.

To ask about the meaning and purpose of life is, implicitly, to ask whether the universe itself possesses meaning and purpose. If it does, then perhaps my life, and everyone else’s, are tethered to that larger design. But what if it does not? It’s not difficult to argue that the cosmos is, in fact, devoid of inherent meaning. It does not respond to our questions about purpose because it has none to offer.

And yet, through a long and improbable chain of coincidences, the cosmos has made my existence possible. So perhaps, rather than dwelling on the universal question, I can turn toward the personal one: to give my life a local meaning and purpose. In doing so, the focus shifts from the vast indifference of the cosmos to the terrain of my own experience.

Within this framework, meaning becomes more graspable. The purpose of life may be as simple as this: to live. And while I am engaged in the act of living, why not shape my life to feel meaningful as well? That meaning arises from the agency I possess, from the choices I make to inhabit my waking moments with intention, so that each morning I rise with a quiet sense of anticipation.

That may be all there is to it. Why would the universe have wished to be any more complicated than this?

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

To Live is the Purpose of My Existence: A Simple Response to Sooth Existential Angst

When the cosmos offers no answers about the meaning and purpose for my existence, perhaps the purpose is simply to live, and meaning comes from choosing things to do that make me look forward to getting out of bed tomorrow morning.

The purpose of my life is to live; the meaning arises from living in a way that makes me want to get up each morning.

 Arun Kumar

Summary: This essay explores how existential angst and the sense of absurdity challenge me to search for meaning. Rather than seeking grand metaphysical answers, it proposes a simpler, personal framework: the purpose of my life is to live, and meaning arises from intentional choices that make each day feel worth waking up for.

 

I am born into a cosmos that, despite all my entreaties for meaning, refuses to offer any. The sky stretches above me with no inscription, the stars blink indifferently, and the days unfold with a rhythm that feels familiar but, when examined closely, also feels alien. Beneath the surface of my routines—my striving, my planning, my pursuit for productivity—lurks a quiet dissonance. Even when everything appears normal, something ominous seems to loom just beyond perception. This is the existential angst: a persistent unease that, at any moment, a hidden veil might fall and expose the futility of who I am and what I do.

I seek an antidote to the disquiet of absurdity and angst. In that search having a meaning and purpose, even if local, will help validate my choices and make sense of my existence. Yet the search itself often feels like a labyrinth. Philosophical traditions—from Sartre’s radical freedom to Camus’s defiant revolt, to Buddhism’s layered renunciations—offer intricate architectures of thought. These superstructures, however, remain inaccessible, like cathedrals built in languages I do not speak. And so, I am left wondering: might there be a simpler answer—one that could guide me through moments of existential angst?

Perhaps there is. Not perfect, not all-encompassing, but something within reach—something that fits the resources and capacities I possess. Something that does not demand mastery of metaphysics, spiritual transcendence, or five hours of daily meditation. Just a simple framework—call it “Meaning and Purpose for Dummies”—that speaks plainly to my need for direction when the cosmos refuses to cooperate.

The answer may be this: the purpose of my life is to live.

This statement, deceptively simple, gains depth when placed in cosmic context. My existence is the result of an unfathomably improbable confluence of events. Since the Big Bang, particles collided, stars formed, planets cooled, life emerged, and evolution unfolded—until, somehow, against all odds, I arrived. A slight deviation in any of these processes, and I would not be here. Biology might have existed, but not in the form that is me. I am not inevitable; I am extremely improbable. And yet, here I am.

Given this improbable gift of existence, perhaps my purpose is not to solve the universe’s riddles, but to fully live what is, in truth, an astonishing stroke of chance. And if my purpose is to live, then why not make choices that ease the weight of living rather than turn it into a burden? If life is a walk, why make it trudge under a burning sun with a sack of stones? Let it be a walk marked by curiosity, by engagement, by moments of connection that make the journey feel alive.

Of course, choice is not always a luxury everyone possesses. Many find themselves ensnared in circumstances that feel like a noose—jobs that sap the spirit, obligations that stifle the soul. Survival often demands compromise. Yet even within constraint, there may be pockets of freedom. And whenever freedom does appear, however briefly, I retain the agency to choose with intention.

This is where the meaning of my life enters. If the purpose of life is simply to live, then meaning is what makes living feel like the quiet pleasure of a well-balanced glass of wine. It resides in the actions, vocations, and engagements that give my days texture—those things that make me look forward to getting out of bed in the morning.

Consider the eighty-nine-year-old I met during a recent visit to Tuscany, who moved with a spring in her step. She was not weighed down by thoughts of death—not because she denied its approach, but because she understood, perhaps subconsciously, that the purpose of her remaining days was simply to live them. She made choices that turned waking into anticipation.

This approach of thinking about purpose and meaning of my life does not dismiss the philosophical depth of thinkers like Sartre, Camus, or Kierkegaard. Nor does it reject the spiritual insights of Buddhism. Rather, it distills their essence into something usable. Sartre’s freedom becomes the freedom to choose engagement. Camus’s revolt becomes the decision to live despite absurdity. Buddhism’s impermanence becomes a call to savor the moment.

And so, the purpose and meaning of my life may be as simple and approachable as this: the purpose is to live; the meaning arises from living in a way that makes me want to rise each morning with anticipation.

These are simple answers I can carry. They fit in my pocket—ready to be reached when the veil begins to fall and existential angst starts to descend. They remind me of that purpose and meaning can be local to my live, even if no grand, overarching meaning governs life or the cosmos.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

Outsourcing Meaning: A Remedy for Absurdity and Existential Angst

When the universe offers no answers, religion steps in with meaning, comfort, and ritual — but not without questions and contradictions.

To outsource meaning is to relinquish the burden of self-authorship.

Arun Kumar

Summary: Here we explore the task of meaning-making and religious outsourcing as a solution. It examines how faith offers psychological relief and rituals to reinforce belief. In this paradigm, suffering and other awkward questions are rationalized by some means. We also acknowledge the limitations of such frameworks.

If your life affords the luxury of mental space to contemplate the relationship between your ephemeral existence and the universe, you are likely to encounter the unsettling realization of the absurdity of your situation.

This absurdity arises not only from the sheer disparity of scales — your fleeting presence in time and space set against the vastness of the cosmos — but from something more disquieting: the universe, which made your existence possible, offers no guidance on why you are here or whether there was any purpose behind your creation. It remains silent, indifferent, and unyielding to questions or inquiry for a meaning.

You come to realize that you have been thrust into an arena without being told the nature of the game, the rules of engagement, or the meaning behind the battles you are destined to fight. In those moments, you cannot help but mutter, “This is just absurd.”

From this realization of absurdity emerges existential angst — a diffuse yet persistent unease, a gnawing dread that the veil of meaning draped over your daily actions may fall at any moment to reveal that there is nothing behind. The routines you follow, the goals you pursue, the values you uphold, suddenly all begin to shimmer with uncertainty. You start to suspect that your choices, your rituals, your ambitions might be nothing more than an elaborate charade, performed on a stage whose audience is either absent, indifferent, or worse — distracted, scrolling through their smartphones. It is existential angst born of a missing narrative, a lack of direction in the unfolding progression of your life.

This confrontation with absurdity is not new. It reverberated through the works of Camus, Kierkegaard, and Sartre — each wrestling with the tension between human existence, our longing for meaning, and the universe’s persistent refusal to provide it. Across cultures and centuries, we have devised other responses to make getting out of bed manageable. Some responses are deeply personal, others collective and all center around easing the burden of our existential predicament by imbuing our life with meaning and purpose. One such creative response is to outsource the task of meaning-making to a designer: a being beyond us, imagined as capable of assigning purpose to the universe and to our place within it.

Outsourcing the Meaning of Our Existence

To outsource meaning is to relinquish the existential burden of self-authorship for crafting a personal narrative that imbues life with purpose; a task that is not trivial. Instead, one entrusts that responsibility to a higher intelligence. In this framework, the universe, and its evolution, is not a chaotic accident but a deliberate creation. Our existence is not incidental, but intentional. The designer — often referred to as God — is imagined as possessing capabilities far beyond human comprehension. This being not only created the universe but continues to guide its unfolding, keeping tabs on the bazillion intricacies that ripple across time and space and keeping it all moving along an envisioned trajectory.

This solution offers psychological relief. It transforms existential angst into belief. If our lives are part of a divine plan, then suffering carries purpose, injustice awaits resolution, and death is merely a transition rather than an end. The absurdity loses its sting, and the angst is soothed by the assurance of a meaning.

Organized Religion as a Manifestation of Outsourcing

This outsourcing of meaning forms the backbone of organized religion. Most religious traditions posit a creator who imbues the universe with purpose and provides moral guidance. Whether it is the Abrahamic God, the Brahman of Hinduism, or the Tao of Taoism, the designer — however conceived — is central to the religious worldview.

Religion institutionalizes the outsourcing of meaning. It offers rituals to reinforce belief, scriptures to codify purpose, and communities to sustain faith. The act of prayer, the rhythm of liturgy, the architecture of sacred spaces — often infused with the scent of incense to bring in a visceral feeling of some transcendental presence — serve to anchor the outsourced meaning in the fabric of daily life. Through faith, religion addresses questions that reason struggles to resolve, offering coherence where logic falters and comfort where uncertainty reigns.

But There Are Cracks

Yet the outsourcing solution is not without its awkward questions, and at times it stands on shaky ground requiring continuous reinforcement to sustain its foundation. If a designer created the universe, why is suffering so widespread? Why do inequality, injustice, and cruelty persist? Why is the world not a utopia? And more provocatively, why would such a being choose to create a universe at all? Was it a grand experiment, or a cosmic Colosseum for its entertainment?

Religious traditions offer a range of responses. Some frame suffering as a test of faith, a crucible for spiritual growth. Others interpret it as the consequence of free will (and making choices against the guidance from the deity) or karmic debt. Still others promise future rewards, enlightenment, and liberation for those who endure. The answers begin to resemble a progression through levels and challenges like in a video game, where each trial must be overcome to unlock the promised reward at the end.

These answers may offer comfort, but they also strain credulity. The scale and randomness of suffering defy tidy explanations. They raise the possibility that outsourcing meaning may be less a metaphysical truth than a psychological necessity, a construct designed to soothe, rather than to explain.

The Universal Accessibility

Despite its limitations, the outsourcing solution has been remarkably successful. If I were to wager, I would say that most people gravitate toward it for reasons of birth or social conditioning. After all, how else can we explain the geographic clustering of religious affiliation, where vast populations converge around the same spiritual framework? Many adopt this path without ever undergoing the existential journey, without muttering “this is absurd,” or feeling the angst that often follows such a realization. Only a fraction of the population is born again, finding faith as a solution after searching (and failing) elsewhere.

Its universality suggests that it may be the easier option — more accessible, more socially reinforced, and less cognitively challenging. Unlike the do-it-yourself model, which requires philosophical introspection and existential courage, outsourcing can be adopted passively. One can be born into a religious tradition, inducted through family and culture, and never confront the abyss of absurdity directly.

This accessibility has advantages. It allows meaning to be inherited rather than invented. It offers a ready-made narrative that can be personalized without being constructed from scratch. It provides a sense of belonging, a moral compass, and a cosmic context, all without demanding existential struggle and heroism.

Recap

Outsourcing meaning to a designer is a clever, and a widely successful human response to the realization of absurdity and the existential angst that follows. It offers comfort, coherence, and community. It transforms the silence of the universe into the voice of a god.

To outsource is to choose faith over doubt, mystery over clarity, and belonging over solitude. It is a valid choice, and for many, a deeply comforting one. Who are we to judge the soundness of this path, when the universe offers no absolute yardsticks for judgment and leaves the task to us? Just as it is reasonable to embrace faith, it is equally valid to pursue other paths to rein in absurdity and soothe existential angst.

The choice is yours to make.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

Absurdity and Angst: Exploring Two Moods of Being

A meditation on absurdity and angst — two moods that shape our search for meaning in a silent, indifferent universe.

If absurdity is the slapstick humor existence offers, angst is its silent fog — something existence must occasionally walk through.

Arun Kumar

Summary: We explore the quiet tension between absurdity and existential angst — two moods that arise from our search for meaning in an indifferent universe. Through personal reflection about happenings in life, we examine how absurdity may provoke laughter or resignation, angst lingers as a fog of unease, demanding deeper contemplation.

Perhaps it is just me, but I know and feel absurdity far more viscerally than angst. Absurdity leaps out from the folds of daily life, often with a kind of comical clarity, while angst lurks in the shadows — diffuse, elusive, harder to name. Absurdity is the punchline of reality’s joke played on us; angst is the quiet dread that there may be no joke at all to enliven the circumstance.

Let us begin with definitions. Absurdity, as the dictionary puts it, is “the quality or state of being ridiculous or wildly unreasonable.” It arises from the mismatch between our expectations and what reality delivers — a jarring incongruity that prompts us to mutter, “This is absurd.” And indeed, examples abound.

You go to the beach on a sunny day, no forecast of rain, and yet a rogue cloud builds directly overhead. Within minutes, you are drenched, scrambling to save your belongings from a ten-minute deluge. Absurd.

You drive forty minutes to a warehouse store for a couple of bottles of Chianti Classico you have recently come to enjoy. But the shelf is empty for the first time, and just when you were looking forward to savoring its aroma that evening. The long drive, the time spent, and the thwarted anticipation all seem absurd.

You leave early for a doctor’s appointment, carefully navigating unexpectedly heavy traffic, and arrive just in time only to wait another hour because they are running late. The whole sequence of events feels absurd.

These moments are neither tragic nor deeply consequential, nor are they particularly unsettling. They simply remind us of the universe’s indifference to our intentions. Absurdity arises from the collision between our desire for order and the world’s refusal to cooperate. It is a microcosm of what Albert Camus described as “the confrontation between the human need for meaning and the unreasonable silence of the world towards that need.” The absurd lies in the persistent, unanswered need for meaning from the very universe that made our existence possible.

Angst, by contrast, is harder to pin down — at least for me. The dictionary defines it as “a feeling of deep anxiety or dread, typically an unfocused one about the human condition or the state of the world in general.” It is a vague sensation that, even when everything appears normal, something ominous looms just beyond perception. It is not fear of anything specific, but a diffuse uneasy sense that something is missing, though you cannot quite say what.

Real-life examples of angst are harder to enumerate, less accessible than those of absurdity. You wake up on a Sunday morning with no obligations; you look forward to enjoying a day without commitment. An hour later, however, you start to feel a strange restlessness. You aimlessly wander through the house, pick up a book, put it down. You do not quite know what to do with the time affluence the day has offered, and its weight feels heavy. That is the feeling of angst.

You have reached retirement after decades of work, financial planning, and anticipation of life ahead. The calendar is open, the pressure is gone, and yet… a strange unease sets in. You wonder: What now? What will give my days a meaning without deadlines or deliverables? The feeling is more than boredom; it is a deeper disquiet, a sense that although some essential ingredient is missing, you cannot quite name it. That is angst.

You are awake at 2 a.m. — not jolted by a nightmare but stirred by a vague sense that something is not right. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, turning over your relationships, your choices, your future. There is no crisis, no clear problem, just a quiet, persistent unease. You feel untethered, as if the ground beneath your life is shifting, or might shift without warning. That is angst.

If absurdity is the slapstick humor existence offers, angst is its silent fog — something existence must occasionally walk through. Angst does not announce itself with thunder or empty shelves; it drifts in during moments of stillness, when the scaffolding of what once seemed certain, or desirable begins to tremble.

Now, what of existential angst?

The term “existential” refers to our existence — the finite slice of time between birth and death. It is a span so brief it barely registers against the vast backdrop of cosmic time. The absurdity of existence is, in some ways, is easy to grasp: all that we do in that fleeting interval — our struggles, ambitions, joys, and suffering — seems to amount to nothing in the end. We build, we strive, we love, we win, we lose, and then we vanish. The universe that made our existence possible does not blink, and that indifference feels absurd.

Existential angst is the emotional response to recognizing the absurdity of our condition. It is the unease that arises from realizing that life holds no inherent meaning. It is not merely the fear of death, but the disquiet of living without a guaranteed purpose. It is the sense that something essential is missing, perhaps justification for existence itself.

Unlike absurdity, which often provokes laughter or resignation, existential angst invites reflection and can lead to a quiet despair born of not knowing what to do, or how to make sense of our existence.

Perhaps, in the future when instances of angst occur, when the fog rolls in, it will be worth pausing and internalizing such events. Over time, this practice may deepen our visceral understanding of angst and help us grasp its contours more clearly.

And, by understanding it better, we may find a way to live in peace with it.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

A Bus Ride in Tuscany

On a Tuscan bus ride, a retired traveler reflects on aging, mortality, and the quiet wisdom of an eighty-nine-year-old companion.

Wisdom cannot be captured in words. It lives in the way we choose to find joy and meaning.

Arun Kumar

Summary: A reflective essay set on a bus ride in Tuscany, where we contemplate aging, mortality, and joy through the quiet presence of an eighty-nine-year-old fellow traveler. Retirement, time affluence, and the joy of lived experience converge in a meditation on how to shape meaning in the later chapters of life.

I am sitting in a bus travelling down some highway in Tuscany. It feels oddly formal to call this a vacation. Since retiring in early 2025, my days — unlike the tightly scheduled ones of working life — have taken on a loose, fluid rhythm. In theory, I am perpetually free. The calendar is mine to shape. I am, as they say, the master of my own domain.

Yet the word “vacation” [vacacioun, “freedom from obligations, leisure, release” (from some activity or occupation)] carries the scent of escape — a vacating from something, a sanctioned pause from toil, a brief reprieve from the relentless pursuit of productivity. But in retirement, when the calendar is no longer crowded and the demands have softened, what exactly am I escaping from?

Perhaps some words just become a matter of habit. Perhaps their continued use is an inertia that becomes a part of our psyche. And so, the term “vacation” persists — not because it fits, but because it gestures toward a shift, a departure, a moment of intentional difference. Maybe trips like this will always wear that label.

This trip to Italy is our first formal journey since my retirement. We chose an arranged tour which is an act of deliberate surrender. After years of self-planned travel, this was a planned outsourcing of effort. Let someone else manage the trains, the hotels, the museum tickets. Let us simply be passengers, not planners. And so, we find ourselves on a bus with forty-eight other souls.

Among our fellow travelers is Margaret. She will turn eighty-nine in a few days, and when she does, we will all gather to sing “Happy Birthday” to her. But even before the celebration, Margaret has already become a quiet beacon. She is not merely present — she is luminous. There is something in her bearing that draws my attention, something both inspiring and elusive.

Watching her, I begin to wonder: What is her perspective on life? What does the day ahead mean to someone who has lived nine decades? Does she wake with plans, or with a quiet openness to whatever the day may bring? Does her mind drift far into the future, or does it mostly rest in the now — because at her age, “far into the future” is no longer be a meaningful concept.

And what of joy — does hers carry the weight of mortality, or has that awareness becomes a kind of liberation? A quiet acknowledgment: I do not have many days left, so why not savor what remains?

I am sixty-seven. Twenty-two years younger than Margaret, and I feel the gravitational pull of her presence — an invitation to imagine my own future self. If I am fortunate enough to reach her age, how will I view the days that remain? Will I sip wine with the same anticipation I do now? Will I still seek novelty, or will I find comfort in repetition? Will I fear the end, or will I have made peace with it?

These questions accompany me as we drive from Montecatini to Cinque Terre, the Tuscan hills rolling past the window like a slow procession of time. I find myself half-listening to the guide’s commentary, half-drifting into reverie. I imagine sitting with Margaret at a seaside café — coffee and croissant between us, the Mediterranean breeze tousling our hair. I would ask her about her inner landscape. What has changed in her thinking over the years? What has softened, what has sharpened? What does she know now that she did not at 67?

Perhaps she would tell me that joy becomes simpler with age. That the grandeur of ambition fades, and the small pleasures — sunlight on stone, the taste of a ripe peach — are the pleasures one seeks. Perhaps she would say that mortality, once feared, has become a quiet presence. Not ominous but liberating.

Or perhaps she would say nothing at all. Perhaps her wisdom cannot be captured in words. It lives in the way she looks at the world, in the way she smiles at her fellow passengers, in the way she chooses to be delighted.

In contemplating Margaret, I am really contemplating myself and my future self. Retirement has given me time affluence, but affluence did not come with wisdom on utilizing it. For not to be wasted, it must be shaped and questioned. And so, I ask: How do I want to age? Not just physically, but philosophically and spiritually. What kind of an older person do I hope to become? In doing that, I want to learn her secret.

As the bus winds its way toward the coast of Cinque Terre, I feel a quite gratitude. For accidentally knowing Margaret. For Tuscany. For the awareness of questions that have no easy answers. For the serendipitous chance to imagine a future self who is not afraid of endings, but who finds a beginning in each day.

In a few days, we will all disperse to go our own ways and will say farewells. The vision of Margret will be my memory from this vacation.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

When Boundaries Fade

Cultivate a quiet union
where the boundary
between self and world
dissolves.

In that stillness,
life and death
unfold as one continuum—
our passing
no more than the act
of stepping through
a door.

 

Letters from a Retirement Community (7): The Pivot-Ready Life and Building an Adaptive Retirement

When plans dissolve, a pivot-ready life turns disappointment into opportunity, especially in retirement.

To pivot well is to anticipate the need for alternatives before the moment demands them.

Arun Kumar

Summary: This essay explores the importance of living a pivot-ready life in retirement — one prepared to embrace change, adapt to physical and cognitive shifts, and find meaningful alternatives when plans fall through.

I went to bed last night with the quiet thrill of anticipation. Morning would bring pickleball, a cherished ritual, a rhythm, a gathering that is part of my days.

In the 55+ community where I now live, the pickleball court is more than a place to play. It is a social commons, a budding café, not unlike an Italian bistro where locals sip espresso at the counter, exchanging stories and laughter before the day unfolds. Here, we seasoned souls gather, each with a paddle in hand and a tale to share — the latest Viking cruise; a new grandchild; a trip to the ER.

But this morning, nature had other plans. A soft drizzle was falling, not dramatic, just enough to dampen the court and cancel the game. I lingered over my Earl Grey and scrambled eggs, hoping the clouds might relent. They did not. And so, with three hours of open time and no paddle in hand, I found myself in a familiar but often underappreciated situation: the need to pivot.

To pivot is to adapt. It is not just to react but reorient. It is the art of finding alternatives when well thought out plans and routines dissolve. It is having a mental muscle that turns disappointment into opportunity. In the forward march of time, especially in retirement, pivoting is an essential skill to have.

Consider the vacation meticulously planned, only to be rained out. Pivot: visit museums, explore bookstores, linger in cafés. Or the restaurant you arrive at without a reservation, only to be told the wait is an hour. Pivot: have a list of nearby alternatives, perhaps even a hidden place you have been meaning to try.

Retirement, more so than others, demands a pivot-ready life. The pace of change accelerates — not because the world spins faster, but because our bodies and minds begin cascading through transitions with unnerving speed. What once felt stable now seems provisional. A minor ache becomes chronic condition. A twisted ankle on the pickleball court can derail a budding athletic renaissance. A vibrant friend last month now walks with a cane. These shifts unfold not over decades, but within seasons.

And so, we must prepare to pivot. A pivot-ready life is not a life of compromise; it is a life of necessary adaptation. If overseas travel becomes too taxing, explore the treasures of your own region. Visit the botanical gardens or historical plantations you have driven past a hundred times. Attend a local play. Take a day trip to a nearby town and walk its streets with fresh eyes.

The danger of not pivoting is more than just facing boredom, it is the risk of existential drift. When plans collapse and no alternatives are there, the void through time feels heavy, suffocating. Time turns oppressive. The mind folds inward, not in reflection but in rumination. In retirement, depression often begins not with trauma, but with the quiet inertia of not knowing what to do that makes living interesting.

To live pivot-ready calls for planning, not in the sense of rigid schedules, but a flexible mindset attuned to change when circumstances shift. If pickleball slips beyond the reach of physical capability, perhaps bocce ball offers a gentler alternative. If the gym feels solitary or uninspiring, a walking group might bring both movement and companionship. And if physical activity begins to wane, it may be time to pivot toward cognitive engagement: reading, writing, joining a book club or a writer’s circle. The key is to remain open and be prepared.

This principle applies not just to daily activities but to the grand transition into retirement itself. Leaving a career is one of life’s most profound pivots. The structure, purpose, and social interaction that work provides must be replaced. A new routine must be built. A new meaning must be cultivated. New relationships must be nurtured if retirement comes with moving to a new location.

To pivot well is to anticipate the need for alternatives before the need arises. It is the wisdom of parking downhill when you know the road ahead may require a push. It is the foresight to stock mind’s pantry with ideas and interests one can follow.

This morning, after the drizzle had made its quiet claim on the court, I sat for a moment in disappointment. But then I remembered the gym. I changed clothes, walked over, and spent the next few hours moving, breathing, recalibrating. The disappointment dissolved. The day was not lost; it was reimagined.

To cultivate a pivot-ready life begins with reflection. What activities bring you joy? Which activities will become physically too demanding, and which will be cognitively nourishing? What social connections can be deepened, and what solitary practices can be embraced? Make a list, try things out. Rotate. Revisit. Keep the list handy and revise it often.

In the end, retirement is not a static phase. It is much more dynamic than we might have anticipated. It is a time of great freedom, yet, like all freedom, it comes with responsibility. The responsibility is to plan to stay active, pivot as necessary, and have fun.

And so, as I sip my tea tomorrow morning, I will look out at the sky not with expectation, but with alternatives in hand. If the court is dry, I will play. If it gets wet, I will pivot. Either way, the day will be mine.

And that, I have come to believe, is the essence of a well lived retirement life.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.