When I started to exist, I was a single cell. Then I divided into several cells and grew over nine months inside my mother, who ate food and drank water to create more and more pieces of me, which, with the help of my mother's body, I subsumed to become part of my body. The little creature who was me grew into something resembling a human baby, and when I emerged out of my mother's body, I was, unlike some babies, unanimously recognized as such. My brain was not mature enough to remember these moments, but such is the story that has been passed down to me by my parents. Regardless, the point is that I am and have always been a creature made out of stuff.
All of those tiny pieces of me, which came originally from the many things my mother was eating during her pregnancy, were not conscious. They might as well have been little pieces of dust. But the miracle of life is that it replicates itself in a largely automatic process, and that the system of systems that was my mother assembled another system of systems that is me. One of the things that amazes me to this day is that those tiny pieces of stuff, when arranged in the right way, can form a living, breathing being. (The other amazing thing is that this living, breathing being has formed its very own version of the universe, between its ears, and, like the system of systems that forms a human animal, that image of the universe can replicate itself in the minds of others. Your worldview is a virus.) The living breathing human being right here is made of tiny pieces of the universe.
Curiously enough, the human being is so composed that it thrives to great heights of achievement when it forgets what it is. Conversely, if a human being dwells too long on the fact that it is made up of matter, it starts to panic and wonder how its life can mean anything if it is the result of such meaningless pieces. As soon as the human being is able to convince itself of a non-material existence and an enduring significance, it feels a sense of relief, as if its existence is somehow justified by an ephemeral falsehood. This is one of the strangest parts of being human, for me: the fact that our bodies cannot usually thrive while being honest with themselves. When a person starts to believe that it is made up of unconscious matter, it is usually called an existential crisis.
That said, the existential crisis is such a defining moment in a person's life because it is so fundamental. A person is defined by his or her response to the fact of existence. People may choose to ignore it and not think about it, which is a good, healthy response for a lot of people; they may choose to dwell on it and, failing to find a way to cope with it, fall into a bottomless depression or kill themselves (as many people do and have done); or, they may seek a way to continue life in light of the fact of existence, and find it, and then live it out to the best of their ability. The third option, I believe, has created many religions and life philosophies that have worked for many people. I believe it is by far the most life-affirming of the three options. It's the option I choose, in light of the fact that I am a bunch of stuff.
My reaction to the fact of my existence is what I call, for lack of a better name, Davidism. I'm not calling it that because I'm hoping to start a religion (though I secretly am); I'm calling it that because it's the way I've found, and it's probably only going to work for me.
In light of the fact that I'm made up of matter, I choose to view the Universe as my friend. It's my friend, my mother, my father, my cousin, my lover, and me. Believing this is like walking on a tightrope over a huge abyss. Sometimes it quivers, and I get scared that I'm going to fall. Sometimes there's a harsh wind, and I get pushed off the tightrope, and I just manage to cling on with my pinky finger. But time after time, with the help of others, I have managed to get back up onto the tightrope and keep walking. And I know where it ends. But I am not there yet.
If this post was depressing for you, take that as a cue to re-examine your response to the meaninglessness of existence.
Is it a response that you can live with?
Or does it need to do a little revision?
Or do you think that you are exempt from this way of thinking, because you don't think it's true?
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