It is Everywhere

Some people are like hobbits.

Hobbits want warmth and comfort above all - a well-stocked pantry, absolutely; perhaps books to enjoy, or a garden to tend; children, and loyal friends around us.

In this ideal, comfortable life, we have everything we can desire: we are comfortable and loved, and our happiness is shared with others. We can enjoy the simple pleasures of life, in our own homes and outside our back doors. We can read the morning newspaper over a cup of coffee, take a walk to visit a friend, cook a delicious meal, or improve our living space with a coat of paint or a jar of flowers. Our days pass in a routine that is wonderfully safe, with loved ones to keep us happy, and small tasks and hobbies to keep us busy. We could never desire more.

Or could we?

On the other hand, like hobbits, many people have at least a small portion of insatiable curiosity and a desire for adventure, as well. They seek the mountains and the cities, despite the danger and discomfort. I suppose that these are the characters who make it into stories, who play the heroes, in the stories of their own lives. But that is my supposition.

Other people desire other things, and pursue other dreams.

Our dreams give purpose and meaning to our lives, which is, perhaps, what we desire most.

Most of us are constantly reaching into the future, sure that obtaining this next desire will bring us real happiness. Maybe it's something material - possessions, say, to make us more comfortable; sometimes, we want to experience something, like falling in love, or becoming a grandparent. Many of us believe that, whatever happens in life, we will be happy in an afterlife.

Sometimes we don't know what we want. We might want something that we can't define.

I am sure that these questions have been present all through human history: What do we want? What is a good life? How should we live? How can we be happy?

Most of all: How did all of this get here, and why? What is the purpose of life?

At this last, the questions stop, and our minds are often repelled. These thoughts are too vast, too frustrating.

Where am I going with this?

When I was a child, I was raised in the Church, and I was taught that God was everywhere.

Nowadays, although I no longer consider myself religious, I realize that this idea - the possibility of a greater entity - has haunted my life. Don't get me wrong: the belief that there is a being in the sky who can see me at all times, and even hear my thoughts, seems to me a bit paranoid (no offense intended). But, a skeptic like myself must also admit that even science, for all of its merit, can't seem to find all of the answers, can't answer all of the questions.

As an adolescent, when I was feeling angry and guilty about my religious doubts, I was also spending a lot of time clashing with my parents and sister, worrying about the future, dealing with the magnified confrontations of my peers, and feeling genuine bewilderment about where I stood with the opposite sex. In a bid to escape, I would often sit by the river to clear my head. The sound of the rushing water was soothing, and the mossy green rainforest, simultaneously crumbling and expanding, reminded me of something that I felt I had once known, but had since forgotten. Sometimes, when the wind moved the cedar branches to resemble the slow arms of a conductor, it seemed to me that the forest around me was breathing.

I have felt this same sense of almost-knowledge at odd times throughout my life. For me, the idea of God - first introduced to me by a church that I have since rejected - has never been satisfactorily eradicated from my subconsciousness. Specifically, the idea of God's being everywhere is one that I have never been able to shake.

I am able to imagine that our existence on Earth is not, in fact, unique. I can easily believe that, throughout the rest of the universe, life has sprung up everywhere, independently and compulsorily, following the laws of science. I can believe, not that life is accidental, but that it is incidental; that life is the rule, not the exception; and that what seems miraculous to me is really a standard eventuality, a culmination of events which must be typical, in a universe full of carbon and hydrogen. Sometimes I can believe that my existence is biological and that my experience, though intense, is not singular and is actually relatively insignificant.

Insignificant: I do not say meaningless.

In unguarded moments, when the entire world gives me a sense of wonder, suddenly, small things - the opening of a flower for its own sake; the expressive shape of an old tree; the lazy mesmerizing flight of a white butterfly - in these moments, I remember that there is God is everywhere, and no amount of reason will dissuade me. In these moments, I experience a sudden clarity, and everything seems more real. Sounds are louder, colours are brighter. There is so much meaning I don't know what to do with it all.

There is meaning everywhere, if you look. Even the staunchest scientist would never deny the beauty and majesty present in life. It's not accidental, however incidental; there is always purpose: the purpose of life itself.

What is this more that I desire? .

What is it that I hope to find in the wet markets in Thailand, in the coral gardens in Indonesia? What will I see in the mountains, in the bottle-green rice paddies and the swaying palms? What will I feel, as I walk through cities of ten million souls?

I feel that something is everywhere. Life itself, and evidence of it; a feeling, a dream; something on the edge of my consciousness. Something that I might have known once, but have since forgotten. I can't define it, can't prove that it exists. I don't know if I will ever remember what it is, but, common though my experiences might be, I still want more. If all of life is only experience, then I guess that's really what I want, in the end: to see more of everything, to experience more of life. To make it all real, if only for a moment. To find happiness. To hold onto meaning, something that I am compelled to see in nature, and in others, and in all things in the wide world. I have to ask myself, What are the things I would most regret not doing, if this existence was ended now?

Most of us are like hobbits, I guess, wishing for nothing but a fireplace on a winter day, conversation in the evening and the kettle just beginning to sing.

Some of us are just the opposite, feeling confined by home and hearth, wishing for nothing but an unfamiliar road and the possibility of an adventure.

Regardless of what we want out of life - prestige, success; home, children; adventure; love - I know that we are all searching for the same thing - happiness. Meaning. And above all, whether we see it in our child's eyes or in the wonders of the world, maybe we all feel that something outside of ourselves will help to give our lives meaning. Maybe we are all searching for that almost-knowledge: a moment of understanding - a flash of empathy - a leap of imagination.   

It might not exist, true.

But in unguarded moments, I can't help searching everywhere for it.