When Engagement Must Be Its Own Reward

A meditation on retirement and the quiet challenge of giving oneself fully to what serves no long-term purpose.

In retirement, making peace with the thought that engagement may be its own reward is no simple task; it is a quiet discipline, and perhaps even a form of grace

Arun Kumar

Not long ago, I opened a book on brain maps with the quiet expectation of delight. Its subject seemed full of promise: the body traced within the brain, smell and sight, touch and motion each taking up their residence in the folded landscape of the brain. It seemed reasonable to imagine that whatever mattered most for survival would be granted the broadest territory there. The book held out the hope of one of those rare journeys in which knowledge does not merely inform but gently enlarges the world.

And yet what began as an interesting journey soon acquired a certain weight. Weeks would pass before I reached for the book again, and when I did, I often found myself skimming rather than reading, gliding over the pages as though some inward eagerness had quietly loosened its grip.

Part of the reason was plain enough. Once I had understood the central idea — that different bodily functions belong to different regions of the brain, and that the share of neural territory given to an activity reflects, in some deep evolutionary sense, its importance — I felt little need to linger over the finer grain of detail.

By the time I was halfway through, I had begun to suspect that a briefer telling — thirty lucid pages, perhaps — might have yielded all that I had truly come seeking.

Lately I have noticed the same rhythm with other books as well: an opening spark, then the slow dimming of the will to continue. A book I that eagerly reached for initially, begins, almost imperceptibly, to feel less like a companion than a duty I am carrying.

Because this pattern has returned with other books, I have begun to wonder whether the difficulty lies less in the books themselves than in some alteration in the conditions of my reading. More and more, I suspect the change may have something to do with time itself — or rather, with the altered concept of time in retirement.

Retirement offers a paradox of time: the long-imagined freedom of unclaimed hours, joined to a sharpened awareness of life’s finitude. I am freer than before to choose what to do, and yet that very freedom is shadowed by the question of what, in the end, such choosing comes to mean.

How does one surrender oneself wholly to play, to the simple act of being, when nothing beyond the moment is asked or promised? How does one enter deeply into an effort that raises no monument? And how are we to make peace with the spending of our energies when they do not gather into achievement, legacy, or future necessity, but seem to vanish almost as soon as they are lived?

In earlier seasons of life, much of our effort was fastened to visible outcomes — work completed, children raised, obligations met, reputations earned. Retirement loosens those bindings. What remains is a different economy, where motivation can no longer be borrowed so easily from usefulness alone. One must learn, perhaps for the first time, how to stay with an activity that does not improve one’s standing, solve an urgent problem, or offer an immediate reward. That lesson is harder than it sounds, because it asks us to trust that attention itself is meaningful.

To engage in something for its own sake sounds like beautiful advice. We are often told that engagement is its own reward. Perhaps that is true. And perhaps it becomes true only after a long apprenticeship in attention, in the patient art of learning to be fully present. For many of us, the phrase arrives worn by overuse. To internalize, and then to live by it, is another matter entirely.

We understand rewards when they arrive as praise, income, or progress. But the quieter reward of absorption — the kind that leaves behind no certificate, no promotion, no measurable gain — can feel difficult to trust, especially when the mind has been trained for decades to ask what every effort is for.

For now, I find within myself a less modest ambition: to understand the terms on which attention is still possible. Perhaps the task of retirement is not to recover the motives of youth that once propelled action, but to cultivate a different, more unhurried form of devotion — to choose a few things and remain with them, even when there is no promise that some larger purpose will declare itself.

In retirement, making peace with the thought that engagement may be its own reward is no simple task; it is a quiet discipline, and perhaps even a form of grace.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

Do I Feel 68?

At 68, life feels both long and fleeting. A reflection on memory, time, age, and the mystery of what growing older means.

The numbers that mark our passage through life are precise on paper, yet inwardly they seldom settle into anything exact.

Arun Kumar

A couple of weeks ago, I turned 68. Sometime during that day, J. asked, “Do I feel 68?”

Perhaps what J. meant was not whether I felt 68 in any literal sense. The numbers that mark our passage through life are precise on paper, yet inwardly they seldom settle into anything exact. They accumulate quietly, like rings in a tree, recording time without telling us what it should feel like to stand within it. Or perhaps it was only a rhetorical question, one of those small remarks that drift into the day and leave behind an unexpectedly large echo.

The question made me look back over the 68-year arc of my life — where it began, and where it has brought me now. In one sense, it feels like a very long journey, stretching from my boyhood, through my years at Indian Institute of Technology, then onward to America and all that followed after. In another sense, it feels as though the days, months, and years have slipped past with astonishing haste, as if time, after lingering in childhood, eventually learned how to run.

Living through time can feel like walking through a hall of mirrors. Events recede, enlarge, bend out of proportion, or return unexpectedly from strange angles. What once seemed immense may now appear small and insignificant; what felt ordinary at the time may glow in memory with a significance it never announced when it first occurred. The relationship between memory and time is rarely faithful. It is impressionistic, almost dreamlike, preserving sentiment more readily than sequence.

There is still a remembrance of moving through that timeline, but the specifics have faded. The individual days of my thirteenth year on earth, no longer possess enough sharpness to be distinguished from one another. They survive not as dates, but blurred visions.

With time, memory itself becomes a blurred spectrum. What remains are recollections without timestamps: the school I attended, the evenings spent playing in the park across from our house where children my age gathered, the shy ache of a crush on someone I never quite found the courage to speak to, the bicycle rides to the vegetable market. If I reach inward, I can still draw these scenes from their slumber, though they guard their secret well and refuse to tell me the exact year or day to which they belonged.

My mind still carries these small fragments without attaching them to any particular moment in time. Perhaps that is because they were woven into the ordinary fabric of life, part of a rhythm that extended across those years between twelve and seventeen years of age. Routine, while we are living inside it, often feels unremarkable; only later do we understand that it was quietly building the emotional landscape of a life.

And yet there are certain days that remain sharply individualized in memory. September 11 is one of them. I remember the beauty of the day — the clear blue sky, the slight chill in the air hinting that winter was not too far away — the drive back in the green pickup to collect our son from school, and then the hours at home in front of the television, watching the events unfold and trying, like everyone else, to make sense of what could not yet be understood.

In general, though, stretches of time do not possess the same firmness as distances in space. A road can be measured; a year back in the past is not held with the same certainty.

By some strange distortion of time, my earlier life now feels immeasurably distant, as though it belongs not merely to another era, but almost to another self.

So now I am 68. A lifetime has already passed behind me, and I am retired now, living with a clearer awareness of mortality than I once did. At this stage, one no longer takes for granted that time will continue to unfold indefinitely.

In two years, I will be 70, and I am certain someone will ask again, perhaps half in jest and half in wonder, what it feels like to be 70. I am equally certain that I will not have a satisfactory answer then either.

And if, in the community clubhouse, I were to meet someone older than myself, I might ask in return, “Do you feel 90 now?” I would not expect an answer. There is no handbook that tells us what one is supposed to feel at 90, or 70, or 68. The question is less about information. We ask it because age is visible from the outside, but never fully knowable from within.

Answer or no answer, I am glad to be here. I am glad to be 68. I look forward to the pleasures that remain — playing pickleball, and now and then finding myself on a river cruise, watching towns drift past as time continues its patient onward march, carrying me toward 70. For now, that is enough. All I can hope is that I will still be here to hear the question--Do you feel 70?

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

The Weight of Leisure

Retirement brings time affluence, but it also brings a vivid view of the horizon. How do we learn to live purely for now?

If time is running out, how can you justify spending the remaining currency on something that leaves absolutely no footprint behind?

Arun Kumar

How do we bring ourselves to engage in an activity fully for its own sake when confronted by an enhanced awareness of mortality? For me, this question began as a shimmering, smoky pattern — an ambient background noise that only slowly took shape after the structure of retirement set in.

In the workforce, time was an external currency. It was budgeted, traded, and justified by outcomes — a paycheck, a project completed, an objective achieved. Over decades, I was conditioned to live a strictly goal-directed existence, where the value of the present moment was always borrowed from the future milestone it served. Then, the career ended. The calendar cleared. I entered a state of time affluence, handed a blank check of hours to spend exactly as I please.

It should have been a dream come true.

But this sudden abundance arrived with a dark companion: a heightened view of the horizon, and a stark awareness of the limited time that remains.

And here is where a paradox of retirement bites: a sudden affluence of time, vast enough to support any pursuit, colliding with the narrowing corridor of a finite life. I am finally free to choose activities entirely for their own sake, yet the gravity of finitude raises awkward questions when I engage in them.

How do I summon the devotion to play, to create, to simply be — while knowing the act is entirely self-contained? How do I throw myself fully into an activity when the effort is not for a monument, but a moment? How do we justify the expenditure of energy when it is not preserved in a repository of achievements, carved into a legacy, or used to build a bridge to some future destination?

You would think that knowing time is limited would make us savor the pure, unadulterated “now” — to paint, to read, to play, to walk, purely for the joy of it. Instead, the awareness of mortality twists the autelic activities into unsettling questions that arrive unbidden, crashing into the very middle of doing. A persistent whisper demands to know the ultimate point of an arbitrary pursuit. If time is running out, how can I justify spending its remaining currency on something that will leave no footprint behind?

For now, I do not have answers. I know this interior monologue will go on. It will often feel tedious, spinning in exhausting circles without offering the grace of immediate closure or a neat solution.

But there is also a quiet necessity in keeping this introspection alive. By refusing to look away from the friction, I hope to slowly inch closer to a deeper grounding — a way to inhabit activities purely for the sake of the doing, and perhaps, lengthen the beautiful, tranquil spaces between the echoes of autelic anxiety.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

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 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.

In the quiet, every sound carries a weight.

Lessons From the Retirement Community (10): The Siren’s Aftermath

The EMS siren is the sonic signature of the finite — a sudden invitation to trade the minutiae of the mundane for a life of intention.

The trouble is, you think you have time — Jack Kornfield

Arun Kumar

In a retirement community, the quiet is often broken by the wail of an EMS siren. While it signals a neighbor’s crisis, it serves as a “grounding rod” for the observer. This essay explores how these moments pierce the distractions of daily life, inviting a vital, intentional recalibration of our finite time.

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In the quiet of a retirement community, silence is a norm. We cultivate it in the xeriscaped gardens and preserve it in the stealth silence of electric golf carts driving by. But this silence is punctuated, with a quasi-periodic regularity, by the invasive wail of a siren.

It is the sonic signature of the EMS vehicle — a high-decibel intrusion that slices through the “active adult community” veneer. When that sound is heard, we all pause. We look out the window to see which driveway it claims. For the person behind the door, the siren might signal a minor failure of the body or the definitive closing of a chapter. For the rest of us, the siren acts as a grounding rod. It is a stark, unadorned reminder of mortality that demands to be remembered.

The Gravity of the Mundane

It is remarkably easy to lose oneself in the minutiae of the “well-lived” retirement. We fill our days with a rhythm that mimics importance, and pretends to have some higher meaning and purpose. We step onto the pickleball court and allow the adrenaline of a win or the sting of a loss to feel like a matter of consequence. We sit at our desks to pore over financial tables, performing the modern alchemy of keeping the Adjusted Gross Income (AGI) from tripping the IRMAA surcharge brackets. We immerse ourselves in learning all about the changes in tax rules.

Such “small things” are the gears of a functional life — but they are dangerously effective at clouding the horizon of mortality. We get swept away by these exigencies. We treat tax brackets and court scores as if they are the permanent fixtures of our existence, rather than the temporary scaffolding. In the heat of a “small tussle” over pickleball rules or a portfolio dip, we forget the fundamental math: days of our consciousness are numbered.

The Dose of Reality

The siren is the antidote to this self-imposed amnesia. While it represents a crisis for a neighbor, for us as the observer, it is a dose of reality. It strips away the illusion that we are merely “vacationing” in time.

There is an inherent tension in this. It feels almost predatory to find personal perspective in someone else’s emergency. Yet, to ignore the signal is to miss the invitation. The “toll” of the siren — much like Donne’s bell — reminds us that we are not spectators of mortality; we are participants in it.

Shifting the Perspective

When the siren fades and the flashing lights eventually dim, the silence that returns is different, at least for a while. It is heavier, and touched by introspection, it is also clearer.

It invites a recalibration of who we are, and where we stand.

Living in the retirement community periodically becomes living with the veil pulled back. And that is good. By acknowledging the finite nature of our stay, we not only feel somber; we also become intentional. We return to our rhythms not as people killing time, but as people who finally understand what it is worth, even if that understanding is effervescent.

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.