Acceptance: Finding Joy in a Universe That Says “You Just Are”

When the hunger for a "Why" meets a silent universe, the answer isn't more searching—it's the courage to embrace life as it actually is.

It is startling to realize that I am essentially searching for a signal in a world that is an end product of noise.

Arun Kumar

 

The Beginning

A part of me is defined by a singular, persistent ache: the hunger for understanding the “Why” of my existence while living in a universe that only offers “You Just Are.” My efforts to reconcile these two opposites—the seeking of a reason and the indifference of reality—act as a perpetual fuel for introspection. Their tension is an invitation to the sense of the Absurd. It is startling to realize that I am essentially searching for a signal in a world that is an end product of noise.

The Quiet Air

The feeling of absurdity is not a constant weight on my shoulder, however; rather, it is as variable and unpredictable as the weather. There are days when the air is quiet, and so is the feeling of the Absurd. On days like those, I move through my routines with a sense of ease. The “Why” of existence stays at bay. The joy of doing has an unquestioned and unexamined presence; it requires no justification. While watching a movie, I do not question whether I should be doing something “more meaningful” instead. I do not risk losing the pleasure of the moment to the shadows of doubt.

The Storm

But then, without warning, the wind shifts. The winds of the Absurd begin to howl. They are not unlike the Santa Ana of California, dry and searing, or the Viento del Sur as it crests the Cantabrian Mountains of Spain, tumbling down the slopes with a pressure that agitates the soul. When these winds blow full force, they strip away the veneer of my unquestioned engagement with daily routine. Quite suddenly, everything becomes a question; everything needs to be turned over and examined. And with that, the sense of coherence bids adieu.

The Danger of Exposure

If I leave myself exposed to these winds for too long, the consequences are more than just philosophical dabbling into existence and its meaning; they become visceral. Prolonged exposure to the Absurd manifests as disengagement and a sense of lethargy. If nothing matters on a cosmic scale, the simple act of cleaning the kitchen sink or bringing oneself to answer an email begins to feel like moving through molasses. Without a protective framework against the Absurd, the sense of motivation withers.

I Am Not Alone

Cinema has long attempted to capture this internal landscape. A striking cinematic portrait of this struggle is found in The Bridge on the River Kwai. The protagonist, Colonel Nicholson, is a man who refuses to inhabit a world that “Just Is.” Held in the senseless vacuum of a prisoner-of-war camp, he seeks shelter from the winds of absurdity by anchoring himself to a singular purpose: the construction of a magnificent bridge.

To Nicholson, the bridge is more than wood and stone; it is his “Why.” It represents discipline, craftsmanship, and a defiant order against the chaos of the jungle. He becomes so insulated within this constructed meaning that he loses sight of the broader reality—that he is building a vital instrument for his enemy. The climax arrives when the “glass house” of his obsession finally shatters. In a moment of jarring clarity, he surveys the destruction and realizes the utter senselessness of his labor. His final words—“Madness... madness!”—serve as a haunting realization of the Absurd. He recognizes, too late, that his signal of “meaning” was merely another piece in the noise of war.

Seeking Shelter

For millennia, religion has served as our primary storm cellar. It offers a sturdy roof of continuity, promising that our narrative does not end at the grave and imbuing our moral choices with eternal weight. That shelter, however, does not work for everyone or for me.

Are there other ways? Perhaps. One of them is the path of radical acceptance: the suggestion that if my life does not have a pre-ordained meaning or purpose, that is okay.

The Acceptance

If I stop the quest for answers to my “Why,” the struggle ends. The winds subside. To conceptualize this, consider the game of table tennis that I play. There is no cosmic significance to a plastic ball moving across a net. Yet, in the rhythmic click-clack, the focus of the eye, and the kinetic joy of the movement, the search for the “Why” of me becomes irrelevant for a few hours.

If I can internalize this on a larger scale, the harsh winds of the Absurd will lose their bite. In that acceptance, I can find a quiet, resilient serenity. The goal is to move toward an acceptance that becomes part of my marrow. From that vantage point, the existential gusts are no longer a threat; I may occasionally sway, but I will remain anchored. And so, I can pray:

Universe, grant me the serenity to accept the state of my absurdity that I cannot change, courage to find joy in the mundane, and wisdom to know the difference.

I live in the hope that the acceptance of “You Just Are” will keep the harsh winds of absurdity at bay.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

The Old Age

A time for fewer
and softer
footsteps.

 

The Microclimates of the Concourse

A flight delay is more than an inconvenience; it’s a rare intersection of worldlines and a window into the raw, unpolished human condition.

 

We are ghosts to one another, just passing through without leaving shadows behind.

Arun Kumar

A delayed flight is usually dismissed as a modern inconvenience; it is a rift in the schedule that most attempt to bridge with a mixture of frustration and mindless activities. Yet, it also offers a unique vantage point from which to peer into the human condition.

I find myself currently anchored in an airport concourse, engaged in the art of people-watching. It is a perhaps more rewarding pursuit than bird-watching; humans are far more unpredictable, layered, and endlessly complex.

The Digital Posture

The defining characteristic of the airport crowd is a specific physical posture: nearly 90% of heads are bent in a singular, uniform arc, eyes fixed upon the glow of an electronic device. Of these, at least 80% are tethered to smartphones—those pocket-sized portals that simultaneously connect us to the world while isolating us from our immediate surroundings.

A few outliers still cling to the tactile sensation of a physical book. Others are hunched over laptops, extending their working hours into the liminal space of the terminal, perhaps striving to gain an edge in the rat race. For them, the airport is no longer a place of transition, but an auxiliary office where the pressure to produce never wanes.

The Physics of Chance

There is an unappreciated physics to this gathering. The "worldline" of every individual in this concourse has intersected at this precise coordinate of time and space through sheer, staggering chance. Mathematically, the probability of our collective presence is incomprehensibly low.

Each person here carries a lineage of decisions and accidents that led them to this specific gate at this specific hour. Yet, despite this mathematical rarity, these intersections are mostly inconsequential. Our being here together will not alter the trajectory of our lives. We are ghosts to one another, passing through without leaving shadows behind.

The Human Element

But once in a while, something more than ordinary catches the eye. Days from now, when the annoyance of the delay has faded, I suspect two specific images will remain with me.

The first is the sound of raw human grief. A woman is crying nearby. Hers is not the quiet, polite sobbing of a private sorrow, but a visceral wailing. She repeats, over and over, that her mother has passed away. Perhaps she was racing to say goodbye, but the universe had other plans. Her piercing cries serve as a jarring reminder of the fragility of our plans and the impermanence of life.

The second image is more observational than emotional: the rise of the modern uniform. Women of all ages, shapes, and sizes move through the concourse in stretchy, high-waisted, and seemingly comfortable leggings. If there were a designated "uniform" for the 2020s, this would surely be it. Just as the bent head over a smartphone defines the posture of the era, these leggings define the visual landscape; a shift in the aesthetic that many, I suspect, find quite pleasing.

The Microcosm

As I wait for my flight to finally be called, I realize the airport is a microcosm of the broader human experience. It is a place of technological obsession, a professional workspace, a shifting fashion gallery, a theater for tragedy and boredom, and a place for dining and shopping.

These are the memories and impressions I will take with me when I finally leave the concourse and continue along my own worldline.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

A Product of Noise

It is startling to realize
that we are searching for a signal,
living in a universe
—a product of noise.

 

136

One hundred thirty-six.
The fasting level
of morning sugar.

What would it have been,
I wonder,
if that cookie
hadn't magically floated
from the jar
and landed in my mouth—
savored,
just as I was
on my way to bed.

 

An Empty Calendar

When the "flow" remains elusive, perhaps the most productive act is to stop striving and embrace the luxury of a day without a plan.

 

Leisure and joy are not the absence of productivity, but the essential inputs for it.

 Arun Kumar

The blank spaces on a calendar are often misread as invitations for labor. We see an uninterrupted stretch of white digital space and instinctively move to colonize it with productivity, as if time not "spent" is somehow time wasted. My morning began with a similar sentiment.

Usually, my Google calendar is a cacophony of appointments—a complex problem in geometric topology where overlapping colors seem to demand a sort of digital teleportation, asking me to be in two places at once. Seeing the usual chaos replaced by an open horizon felt like a luxury. I promised myself a day of deep work, envisioning hours of focused energy channeled into potential LinkedIn or Medium posts.

But within the first hour, the promise began to dissolve. The "groove" I sought remained elusive. Instead of the spark of creativity, a heavy, quiet fatigue descended like a dark blanket. It was the kind of tiredness that does not just affect the body, but the psyche—the weariness that comes from the continuous striving that can end up defining, and eventually consuming, our lives.

In these moments, the "what for" starts to echo.

At this stage of my life, the grip of doing and achieving should be loosening. I should be inhabiting a version of existence where the self finally feels free from striving—where the days are not milestones to be cleared, but spaces simply to be inhabited.

Such moments of fatigue that force us to step back are also the moments when joy finds an opening; it stands up and demands to be heard. Joy’s voice is persistent and persuasive. It asks: Why not take a day off? It suggests wandering through the city, exploring the architecture of the streets, and ending the afternoon at that wood-fired pizza place that has been lingering in the back of my mind. It suggests reading a travelogue and visiting tropical beaches through the eyes of the author, letting the spirit wander where the body cannot be present.

I am reminded of the concept of "proactive rest." It is the realization that leisure and joy are not the absence of productivity, but the essential inputs for it. We cannot channel creativity into writing if the reservoir is dry. A blog post only gains depth when it is fueled by the life lived away from the keyboard.

Perhaps the most productive thing I can do today is to internalize the value of leisurely nothingness. I will move my "workspace" to the porch, not to write, but to simply exist. I will let the stream of consciousness flow through me without the need to capture it, allowing the silence of the calendar to finally match the silence of the mind.

And perhaps, as the night descends, I will feel a quiet contentment with the day’s true rhythm, replacing the sting of resentment with the realization that I achieved exactly what I needed—even if it wasn't what I planned.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

The Weight of Nothingness

We yearn for the moments
still as a pond,
no ripple of need,
no errand calling from the shore.

Yet when they arrive,
the mind becomes a bird
beating inside a cage.

Trapped by nothing to do,
it searches for a stone
to break the surface.

 

To Be Still

A walk under the tall canopy
light shivering through the leaves,
in quiet, illuminated shafts,
shadows playing over the ground,
the soft crunch of leaves underneath.

In here,
the air is untroubled by ambition,
by striving for what comes next.

Maybe today,
the unease will loosen,
and the mind, no longer
a bundle of quantum jitters,
will learn
to be still.

 

Towards Wholeness

Mind, you are always reaching,
searching for another shape
to become.

Where would your striving end,
and where would living begin
as something that is whole?

 

From Noise to Stillness: A Lesson in the Grace of Surrender

Moving beyond the noise of medical intervention to find the peace and grace of the present moment.

The transition to hospice is often framed as ‘giving up,’ but it could also be a courageous ascent into acceptance.

Arun Kumar

The text arrived with the jarring weight of a physical blow: a friend, after a grueling odyssey with cancer, had chosen to enter hospice care.

Hospice is a specialized form of medical care providing comfort and support at the end of life. It prioritizes managing pain and symptoms to ensure the highest possible quality of life remaining. I knew this was a possibility, yet seeing that possibility actualize brought a reality I was not prepared for. While the potential for different outcomes leaves space for hope, the finality of the text stopped the clock, making the air in the room feel suddenly thin.

Now, in the soft light of the following morning, I find myself sitting with the gravity of that choice, trying to peer through the veil to internalize what such a transition truly means for the human psyche.

From Noise to Stillness

For months, my friend’s life was defined by noise — the clinical clamor of oncology wards, the sterile beep of monitors, and the frantic internal dialogue of “what now?” and “what next?” When fighting for survival, existence becomes a relentless vacillation between hope, despair, and uncertainty.

Sitting here, I wonder: Does the noise suddenly go quiet the moment the decision is made? Perhaps by accepting the certainty of mortality, the discordant notes of the struggle stop seeking attention. There must be a profound, tectonic shift when one stops asking the body to endure more than it can bear and instead asks it to simply be. In the absence of the next scan or the next appointment, the soul finally finds room to breathe.

The transition to hospice is often framed as “giving up,” but it feels more like a courageous ascent into acceptance. It is the moment the armor is laid down — not out of defeat, but because the war is over. The time for peace, rest, and breathing space has finally come.

The Message for Us

There is a striking lesson buried in that message, meant for those of us who remain in the “noise” of daily life. We often live as though time is an infinite resource, cluttering our days with trivial anxieties while ignoring the quiet hum of our own mortality. My friend’s decision is a cue for a different path — a somber reminder to listen to the silence and acknowledge our own passing before we are forced to, so we are not strangers to it when it arrives.

Facing one’s mortality is not an invitation to dwell in darkness, but a way to sharpen the focus on the light that remains. Perhaps the awareness of darkness is precisely what clarifies the awareness of light.

If someone can find the grace to surrender to the quiet, we can find the discipline to let the noise of our own lives fade. We can learn to:

• Savor the mundane, for it is the very fabric of a lived life.
• Release our grip on outcomes we cannot control.
• Listen to the silence, acknowledging that our time, too, is a finite gift.

Living with Joy

A corollary of my friend’s choice is that it clears a path for quiet joy. When the burden of medical intervention is set aside, all that remains is the present moment and the simple acts that grace it. For him, that joy may now be found in the taste of tropical mango ice cream, the warmth of a held hand, or the steady drift of sunlight across the pond behind his home.

His surrender to peace is an invitation for me to live with more intention — to honor his journey by ensuring my own life is not just a series of noises, but a meaningful existence lived against the backdrop of silence.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.