Here’s a thought that completely messed with my perception of time lately. The time between us and Jesus is roughly 25 lifetimes. The time between us and the Egyptian pharaons is about 45 lifetimes. That’s it. Not thousands of years, not some impossible distance lost in the fog of history, just 25 or 45 people passing life to the next person: you, your parents, your grandparents and so on. Keep going and after only 25 lifetimes, you’re standing astonishingly close to events that shaped civilizations, religions and cultures that still influence the world today.
History suddenly feels less like a dusty museum and more like a very long family story, isn’t it? A story that somehow survived every war, migration, love affair (especially love affair), disaster, invention and bad decision along the way. And then I started thinking about something else: if 2000 years is only about 25 lifetimes, how much of what we call “history” is actually much closer than we imagine? How much of what we consider ancient is really just a chain of ordinary people living ordinary lives? Someone fell in love, someone worried about money, someone complained about politicians, someone wondered what the future would look like one year further…
The details change, humans don’t seem to. But then I zoomed out even further, because 45 lifetimes sounds like a lot, like a very lot, until you compare it with the age of our Earth or the Solar System or the Universe. The Earth is about 4,5 billion years old, you know? The Universe is nearly 14 billion years old. Human civilization occupies such a tiny fraction of that timeline that if the history of the Universe were compressed into a single year, all of recorded human history would appear in the final seconds before midnight on 31st December. Not the final day, the final seconds and somehow, during those final seconds, we convinced ourselves that everything revolves around us, our goals, our achievements, our big (but so tiny on a universal level) plans, our personal purpose…
Don’t get me wrong, I truly believe that purpose matters, meaning matters, I am all about signs and synchronicities, I embrace living in harmony with nature and the laws of the universe. The things we build, create and contribute matter. At least to us. But I’ve started wondering whether the Universe is playing a completely different game. We spend years trying to answer the question: “What is my purpose?” As if there is a cosmic HR department waiting to reveal our job description. Meanwhile, stars are being born and dying, galaxies are colliding, continents are moving, species are appearing and disappearing. The Universe seems remarkably busy without consulting us.
Maybe the bigger question isn’t whether we have a purpose, but maybe, whether the Universe needs us to have one. What if purpose is something humans invented because our brains are uncomfortable with randomness? You know me, I am a randomness manager in my spare time. What if the Universe doesn’t care whether I become successful, famous, wealthy, productive or even remembered? What if it simply keeps unfolding according to rules and processes far bigger than anything you or I can comprehend? Oddly enough, I don’t find that depressing, I find it liberating. You know why? Because if the Universe doesn’t require me to justify my existence, then maybe I can stop carrying that burden. Maybe I don’t need to discover a grand mission that explains every moment of my life. Maybe it’s enough to be curious, to learn, to love deeply, to write things, to help people, to cook that bavette roll for someone you love, to watch a sunset, to laugh at ridiculous memes while texting “this is us”…
Perhaps meaning doesn’t come from fulfilling some cosmic assignment, perhaps meaning emerges from participating in the experience itself. After all, we are collections of atoms that somehow became conscious enough to wonder why they exist (chapeau Descartes!) That’s already pretty incredible, wouldn’t you say so?
The Universe spent billions of years creating stars, planets, chemistry, biology and evolution, and eventually, one tiny species on one tiny planet developed the ability to look up and ask: “What is all this for?” Maybe that question is the point. Or maybe there is no point at all. Maybe the Universe has a purpose so vast that our individual purposes are like trying to understand an ocean by examining a single drop of water. Or maybe the Universe has no purpose at all. Either way, tomorrow the Earth will keep spinning, the Sun will rise again, galaxies will continue their sexy dance, and somewhere, someone will fall in love, invent something, make a mistake, have a brilliant idea or stare at the night sky wondering the same things.
Twentyfive lifetimes from now, nobody will remember most of us. Yet here we are, alive during this brief, improbable moment, a tiny speck on a tiny planet orbiting an average star in a galaxy among billions of galaxies, small enough to be insignificant, conscious enough to find that astonishing. And perhaps that is miracle enough.