While engaged in my somewhat eclectic reading habits, I recently came across a parable about a man who, in the depths of his despair, sought out the stereotypical mystic on a mountain for advice. On finding the guru, he poured out a story of his pain—telling of the loss of his wife, his home, his job, and admitting that he had lost his purpose for living. The wise man nodded and said, “Just remember: this too will pass.”

Five years later, having found a new wife and a new job, the man once more came before the mystic to share his gratitude. “Thank you,” he said. “You gave me hope during my darkest hour. Without your wisdom, I never would have found this depth of happiness.” The wise man nodded and said, “Just remember: this too will pass.”

The illusion of permanence

I relate to this story at a genuinely visceral level. When I’m on top of the world and tapped into universal truth, it feels like my joy is never-ending, like the bounty that flows from my heart is vast enough to keep me plugged in forever.

Sadly, the inverse is also true. When I’ve lost my way and fallen into a morass of sorrow, it feels like my pain will cripple me for eternity. While I typically don’t fall to the depths that I used to, I still experience episodes of anguish that feel like they’re wrenched from primordial darkness.

In a recent podcast, John Green, the author of bestselling books such as Paper Towns and The Fault in Our Stars, referred to this as playing a game called, “What’s even the point?” This is how he describes it in his own words:

I’m in an airport when suddenly I feel the chill in the air. What’s even the point? I’m about to fly to Milwaukee on a Tuesday afternoon, about to herd with other moderately intelligent apes into a tube that will spew a truly astonishing amount of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere in order to transport us from one population center to a different one. Nothing that anyone has to do in Milwaukee really matters, because nothing really matters. There’s no point to the human endeavor in the largest sense. We will leave no permanent legacy in this impermanent universe, and our central lasting contribution to Earth will be that we were the first species to grow powerful enough to muck up the planet.

Ya, what he said

Look, I can’t speak for you. But in my tiny realm of experience, it seems lots of people feel this way at least some of the time. I realized many years ago that part of the hangup for me is that I’m not clear about my purpose. In truth, I’ve never really felt like I have a grand purpose for being here. Some people discover genuine passion in their careers, or their life work, or their art. Others seem to be driven by an all-consuming goal. Could be giving back, could be making money, could be changing the world for the better, or countless other audacious ambitions—but whatever it is, it gets them out of bed in the morning and puts a gleam in their eye. They’ve got passion. They’ve got purpose. They don’t wonder what the point is.

But then… but then… I don’t know. Maybe I got older. Maybe I got wiser. Maybe I was no longer willing to beat myself up about something I just don’t feel. Instead, I decided to explore the truth of what I actually do feel. And here’s what I discovered: I don’t need a grand purpose or a driving passion to prop me up. I’m not even convinced those things matter. We are, after all, ephemeral beings with built-in expiration dates, dust in the wind.

And yet, despite our frailty, here we are, tromping across this great universe—inspired and inspiring, abandoned and angry, helpful and hopeful, heartbroken and hurting. Which makes me think—if there’s no colossal, overarching purpose to life, could it perhaps be because the purpose is too small to see? Are we so busy searching for all-caps MEANING that we keep overlooking the significance of the mundane?

I know, for me, that when I take time to slow down, to appreciate the little moments, to feel unfeigned and abiding gratitude for the tiny miracles of life, that I am full to the brim. I know, for me, that I will never need a grand purpose so long as there are butterflies as big as my hand, birds with wings of impossible red, trees whose leaves shift in the breeze, coffee beans and sunbeams and stillness.