The meaning of life

“It is an ironic habit of human beings to run faster when they have lost their way.” ― Rollo May

What makes a human being?

The rhetorical question is as easy and yet as hard. Down the rabbit hole or up in hornet’s nest, the wilderness has a viewpoint which varies from valleys to the vagaries.

It is no secret that I don’t believe in humans with a halo over their head ― the ayatollahs, sacrosanct religious gurus and Swami Holier-than-thou and the Ulema Ulysses.

It is the hound I trust in. Period.

Always have. Always will.

Down go the religious connotations.

Science, ah you tricky magician! From Darwin to Dolly, the sheep, you have come a long way but pardon me an answer that summarizes humans as a motley of chromosomes, cerebrum and cervical. Genome and Gnome spell the same to me.

Art however is a paradigm shift; from Shelly’s Frankenstein to Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll (and Mr. Hyde) the answers keep coming. Hesse’s Sidhartha shows the way while Carroll’s Alice reveals how the greatest gifts are found on getting lost.  

Amongst answers many, one is sure; it doesn’t take a t-shirt that proclaims the same to make you human. Take a leaf from Jack London on his idea of charity, an ounce from Gandhi on kindness and those dozens of saints walking all around you changing one life somewhere in their own way and then my friend, give it all back.

Happiness is a strange unit that multiplies when shared.  Together we shall divulge to forget all over again.

Don Quixote lives!

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