A Meditation on Meaningless Suffering

My life is an embarrassment of riches.

Why should I have ten fingers, when nine, or even eight would suffice?

And if I only had 8, why should I be entitled to such a novel, and manageable deformity? When so many are disfigured so as to appear grotesque to those around them.

Even if I were disfigured in a way that disturbed passers-by, why should I have access to the astounding prism of saturated color my eyes have to offer. Others live their whole life without seeing so much as a ray of light piercing the dust in the atmosphere around them.

And should I go blind, how could I explain my access to the infinite plethora of sound? From the dissonant cranking of industrial equipment warning me to make way, to the blissful catharsis of a timeless piece of music? I would in fact benefit from a kind of superhuman sonic experience, with echolocation to guide me through a sonogram of my environment.

But what would give me the right this superpower, when there are an estimated 15 million currently on earth who suffer from severe deafblindness? They’ll never again be taken in by the poetic tides of light and sound.

And even if I were deafblind, how could I justify the luxury of a single piece of chocolate melting on my tongue? Or a spoonful of hot chicken soup on a winter day drifting down my esophagus, warming me to the depth of my core. There have been countless others who have had they’re tongue cut out, much of the time as punishment for mistaken accusations… and that says nothing of the 50 million currently on the brink of starvation.  

And if I suffered any of these misfortunes, it’s more likely, statistically at least, that I would have been born in an archaic time or culture, and considered a kind of witch, or bad omen. I could simply have been a newborn left to die on a hill somewhere…

…

Finally, what of the child born into a short life of misery and suffering? Left to die by the cruel hand of man or fate? Without a single moment of peace or joy? Nothing to express gratitude for, no one to embrace, no warm milk from their mother, no opportunities to grow, or to learn. No prospects for love, or heartbreak. No joy to delineate their pain from. Perhaps, this penultimate misfortune encapsulates the highest order of sin:

Meaningless Suffering

One way to give this child due recognition is by being worthy of our own suffering. To follow in the lineage of Victor Frankl, who discovered the depth of his humanity in the daily tortures of Auchwitz. To find the humor and creativity of Jean-Domnique Bauby, surmounting his full body paralyses to write one of the most ethically impactful pieces of literature of his generation by blinking one eye (his other sewn shut). What about James Holman? This “Blind Traveler” of the 19th Century was a celebrated travel journalist in his time. He travelled to Africa to fight the slave trade, survived frozen captivity in Siberia, and circumnavigated the globe.

And what have I complained about so far today?

I’ll attempt, at least sometimes, to emulate those who find the will not only to survive, but actually live. To find purpose through suffering. And I owe it, perhaps above all, to the exquisite and implausible nature of my own existence.