As If

Sometimes someone asks me why I cycle commute and or don’t eat meat when it’s certain that these paltry efforts to save the world—if that’s what they are—won’t make any real difference in the long (or short) run when it comes to whether or not the planet (or more, importantly, the people and animals who live on it) will survive much into the next century or beyond.

(And as a matter of fact, in the case of cycling, it can even be argued that I’m actually making things worse since—although I may be helping a bit by using less fossil fuel, that will be far outweighed by the likelihood that I’ll live a few years longer, thereby using up lots more resources and creating way more greenhouse gasses than if I drove lots, got fat, and died a few years sooner.)

Still, I’m not inclined to change my ways simply because I can’t bring myself to not act as if what I do matters even if it doesn’t.

It’s the existential absurdity of trying to live meaningfully in a meaningless universe.

I have no purpose for being here, but I need to live purposefully in order to live.

The couple times I’ve been successful in a bike race has been when I’ve ridden knowing full well that I have no chance to win while simultaneously believing that I might. (It’s also helped when I’ve followed the reasonable admonition to refrain from getting stoned until AFTER the race.)

The Native American (or shampoo company) norm is to live with the awareness of seven generations. I knew my great-grandmother and if I’m lucky, I’ll know my great-grandchild; that would put me smack in the middle of those seven.

Did my great-grandmother, Emma, really live as if the life of Mimi’s grandkid makes a difference?

I can’t possible say for certain (or even uncertain); I do want to believe, though, that she lived as if it does.