A Small Complaint Against the Universe

Nokkhotro, there is a peculiar moment that visits every human life from time to time. Something goes slightly wrong in the careful arrangement of our days, and suddenly the world feels a little crooked.

Not broken exactly. Just off. Like a chair that has one leg a little shorter than the others.

In those moments we tend to take the matter up personally with the universe. We do not file a formal complaint of course, but the conversation in our heads becomes very serious. We look upward in a philosophical sort of way and think something along the lines of, "Really? Was that necessary?"

It is a very human response. I have conducted this conversation with the universe many times myself, and I must confess it has never once replied with a satisfactory explanation. The universe, it seems, is remarkably confident in its decisions and equally uninterested in customer feedback.

Now the Stoics, those unusually calm fellows from ancient Greece and Rome, had a rather curious habit in situations like this. When something unfortunate happened, they did not immediately begin arguing with fate. Instead they paused, like a man examining a strange object he has found on the road.

Epictetus, who knew more about difficulty than most philosophers ever cared to experience, suggested that life can be sorted into two categories. Things within our control, and things outside of it.

This is an excellent theory in calm moments. During calm moments I agree with it completely.

It becomes somewhat harder to appreciate during the less calm ones.

Still, the Stoics insisted that most of the distress we feel does not come directly from events themselves, but from the stories we attach to them. Something happens, and within seconds we construct an elaborate explanation about injustice, bad luck, and the general unreliability of existence.

The Stoics would gently interrupt this narrative and ask two questions.

First, what exactly happened?

Second, what part of it was ever under your control?

These are not comfortable questions, but they are remarkably clarifying ones.

It must be said in fairness to the Stoics that they were not emotionless statues. They felt sadness, frustration, and disappointment like anyone else. Their ambition was simply not to let those feelings take over the entire house.

A Stoic might say that when sadness arrives, the best approach is to acknowledge it politely, the way one acknowledges rain. It is inconvenient, yes, but shouting at the clouds rarely improves the weather.

The Sufis, meanwhile, take a slightly different approach. They suspect that the universe behaves less like a machine and more like a poem, and unfortunately it is written in a language we only half understand.

Rumi once suggested that what leaves our hands may simply be making room for something else to arrive. He did not promise that the arrival would be immediate, or obvious, or particularly convenient. But he seemed rather confident that the story of a loss is rarely finished at the moment it occurs.

The Zen people, however, might be the most mysterious of all. They have an almost alarming patience with the unfolding of events.

There is a small story they like to tell.

A farmer once lost his horse. The neighbors came to offer sympathy.

"How terrible," they said.

The farmer replied, "Maybe."

A few days later the horse returned with three wild horses.

"How wonderful," said the neighbors.

The farmer replied again, "Maybe."

Soon after, the farmer's son broke his leg trying to tame one of the horses.

"How tragic," said the neighbors.

The farmer said, "Maybe."

Later soldiers came to draft young men for war, but the farmer's son was spared because of his injury.

By this point the neighbors wisely decided it might be best to delay their conclusions until the universe finished the paragraph.

The Zen masters like this story because it reminds us of a small but important truth. Life rarely reveals the meaning of an event immediately. We are usually reading the first page of a chapter that has not yet finished being written.

And this is perhaps the most difficult lesson for creatures like us, Nokkhotro. We grow attached to the small arrangements of our lives. The objects, the routines, the familiar things that quietly accompany our days. When one of those arrangements changes unexpectedly, it feels personal.

In a way, it is personal. After all, our lives are built from these small things.

But perhaps the Stoics are right that many of them were never truly ours to keep forever. Perhaps the Sufis are right that the universe rearranges things for reasons we cannot yet see. And perhaps the Zen farmer is right to keep saying "maybe," simply because the story is still unfolding.

The universe, unfortunately, has a habit of continuing its work without asking our permission first. It has been doing this for several billion years, which suggests it is unlikely to adopt a more democratic policy anytime soon.

Still, I suspect the universe has another quiet habit that philosophers do not mention often enough. When life becomes heavy for someone, it tends to place other human beings nearby. People who can listen. People who can sit beside the moment instead of trying to fix it.

Sometimes they appear as friends. Sometimes as family. And occasionally as a slightly overenthusiastic fellow somewhere in the background who is perfectly willing to lend both of his loyal soldiers, the left shoulder and the right one, whenever the situation requires reinforcement.

It is not a very advanced service, I admit. These shoulders have no philosophical training and possess no impressive academic qualifications. But they were designed by nature for exactly this purpose, and they remain permanently available for duty.

And if the owner of those shoulders secretly considers it a privilege to offer them, then the arrangement becomes rather fortunate for everyone involved.

So when life becomes slightly crooked for a while, perhaps the most sensible response is not to demand immediate explanations.

Perhaps it is simply to sit with the moment, allow the feeling to pass through, and remember that the story is still moving forward.

And if philosophy fails to provide a satisfactory answer, there remains one final remedy which has served humanity quite reliably through the centuries.

We sigh a little. We laugh softly at the strange behavior of existence. We make another cup of tea.

And we wait to see what happens next, Nokkhotro.