January 2, 2016

Aristotle believed everything in the universe was defined by its specific purpose. In his very Aristotelian way, he thought this out in broad, thorough and very rigid terms. A plant which did not flourish was not fulfilling its purpose, and therefore was objectively and absolutely a bad plant. This world view, while it appears absurd, reflects natural human tendencies still prevalent today. Regardless of specific philosophies and theologies, people tend to engage in casual teleological thought about the purpose of their lives. And, however that purpose is arrived at, we all feel ourselves to be unequivocal failures if we do not achieve it.

I wonder if we are not still being to brutal about this. If we planted a bulb, found at random, and it grew a tulip rather than a lily, we would not call it a bad lily. Human life feels as though it should be more directed than that of a flower, but there are still considerations of soil, surroundings and care. We suffer from predators, we are ripped up and re-planted abruptly, and we cannot replace lost leaves. We do not flower on any sort of schedule, and not all of us bear fruit. The varieties are so many we could each be our own species, inhabiting our own climate and bound by our own set of rules.

We do not live in a universe of inflexible definitions. Our classification does not determine our destiny, no matter whether or not we apply it ourselves. It is a fallacy to think that at any point in your life you are capable of knowing yourself completely. We are books still being written, each of us who is alive. We live word by word, passage after passage, ever transforming, ever revising. What the full story is cannot be known until the completion of the work.

You are the author of yourself, but you are writing the biography of a mystery. Aristotle was too harsh in his absolutes. The purpose of what lives is to be, until it is not. Beyond that, you are free