Letting go

I like beautiful rationales. I spend a good chunk of my thinking hours trying to find the purposes for my actions and my circumstances. My co-worker is taking out her unreasonable anger on me – maybe she will reflect later, become miserably repentant, and look for a savior. There is an extra soft drink from an office party – maybe there will be a day when someone really needs sweet refreshment. I just barely missed that train – maybe it’s going to blow up. (Note that a rationale does not have to be reasonable, and the instinctive ones are pretty self-centered).

To be clear, I don’t think I’m deluding myself by concocting a world of pseudo-science and magical forces (at least not to an unhealthy extent – I think we all probably do this at least a little bit). Instead, a number of my strong beliefs and traits incline me to constantly look for meaning, or how things fit into a larger picture. I’d like to say that a large percentage of this drive is good faith – or maybe just hope – that God is weaving together all of the world’s details for some spectacular exhibition of his sovereignty. Part of it is a Hollywood-esque romanticism, a pining for the charmed life. I have to admit that at least sometimes it is a defense mechanism. Some of it is just a fun way to keep my imagination working. An uglier force is the prideful ache to always be in the know.

Each rationale, of course, may be driven by one or more of these forces, and so the accuracy and motivation of each will vary. But all contribute to the fact that I brainstorm rationales large and small with impressive regularity.

My rationales usually fall into one of two categories: narrative and mathematical. The three examples in the first paragraph are narrative rationales – an exploration of the unseen, unfolding tale of why something had to happen. (I’m talking about “This happened in order that…[future],” not “This happened because…[past].” The latter is an example of a post hoc rationalization, or an excuse.) Mathematical ones are a bit harder to both demonstrate and describe; their explanation lies in the fact that there is some elegant numerical result of the situation. I’ll try to explain by example.

Recently I bought a gift for B. Those of you who have been shopping with me know that my buying strategy is clear and impossible: to scour every last corner of the retail kingdom to make sure that the product I choose is undeniably the best. This assurance is all the more important the higher the cost/value of the purchase. But this time I was looking at a semi-costly investment and had virtually no time to inspect the glut of relevant shops in HK. I did my best (slogged through the entire inventory of all the shops on one particularly concentrated block), but it was far from a guarantee. When faced with the decision to buy, I had prayed hard and then stepped out in (uncharacteristic) faith that I should not shop elsewhere. My conscience demanded an explanation all the way home.

It turns out that B really liked my choice – and that, I know, is most important. But I have to admit that I wasn’t completely satisfied with it until I found that the total price was almost identical to my overtime pay for August. The numbers worked out, and by extension, it was Providence. Some (small) throbbing part of my psyche was finally put to rest.

It’s impossible to “prove” the correctness of a rationale. Nonetheless, I still like to have one on hand for most events that I analyze. Even if I don’t really believe that it is the Truth, at least there’s a story to tell.

(Disclaimer: I do believe there is a difference between reality and my rationales. I do not believe that reality is simply a psychological or social construct, and I understand that all of my rationales may be wrong. That is, the real reason I missed the train may actually be to get me in trouble for being late, so I won’t hit the snooze button three times tomorrow. But being wrong just means I should continue exploring for the right ones. And I think that in particularly (divinely) inspired moments, I can/do actually get it.)

This has gotten longer and more philosophical than I intended, but it sets the context for what I’ve been thinking about these last 24 hours:

Yesterday was the first day I spent in Hong Kong without seeing B. There were two earlier days that, at the time, seemed like they would be “the day”. But in both cases we snuck by with a careful shift of schedule. Interestingly, both fell on days where the mathematical rationale was clear: the first was August 4, the first day of my third month in HK; the second was on September 11, my 100th day in HK. Under either case, the numerical rationale was a compelling argument (to me) that yes, this was the right day to end our streak. But yesterday was day 107 (3 months and 15 days) since I arrived in HK. What a meaningless symbol! I can think of no good reason why our first day apart should be the 107th.

And so, I’m just a little bit disgruntled. Perhaps I should explore the narrative rationales, and all the potential purposes for our separation on 18 September.

Or maybe yesterday was about letting go. Twice.