I remember, when I was very young, asking myself a question that seemed quite ordinary at the time.
Why am I here?
I wasn't particularly troubled by it. I wasn't searching for an explanation of the universe, or trying to make sense of some great difficulty. I was simply aware of being here, looking out at the world, and wondering why.
What strikes me now is not the question itself, but the fact that I was asking it.
There is something rather extraordinary about being able to look at the world, experience it, and then turn our attention towards the one who is experiencing it.
We spend so much of our lives looking outwards. There are things to learn, people to meet, responsibilities to manage, places to go. From childhood onwards, we gradually build an understanding of who we are through the things we do, the people around us, and the experiences we accumulate.
We learn our name, our place in the family, what is expected of us, what we enjoy, what frightens us, and what seems possible.
Over time, these become familiar descriptions of ourselves.
But occasionally, something interrupts that familiarity.
We may find ourselves wondering not simply what we are doing with our lives, but what it means to be here experiencing a life at all.
It is a different kind of question.
We can answer questions about our work, our age, our history, our interests and our ambitions. We can describe our personality, our beliefs, our achievements and our difficulties.
Yet none of those descriptions quite answers the question of what it means to be the one who is aware of them.
I have explored that question in different ways over many years.
At times I thought I was getting closer to an answer. At other times, the more I explored, the less certain I became.
Some explanations that once seemed convincing no longer seem so complete. Others remain interesting possibilities, but possibilities are not the same as knowledge.
Perhaps that is one of the more valuable things I have learned: a question can remain meaningful without requiring us to settle it.
There is a temptation, particularly when exploring consciousness, to turn an unusual feeling or experience into a definite explanation. We may discover a theory that appears to fit, or encounter someone who seems entirely certain about what it all means.
Certainty can be attractive.
But I have come to appreciate the difference between what I have experienced and what I believe that experience might mean.
The experience belongs to me. The explanation remains open to question.
I don't regard that uncertainty as a disappointment.
If anything, it leaves more room for curiosity.
The child who once wondered why he was here could not have imagined all the years, experiences and changes that would follow. Nor could he have known how often that early question would return in different forms.
And perhaps it does not matter that he had no answer.
Sometimes I wonder whether we become so occupied with explaining life that we overlook the simple fact of experiencing it.
The light coming through a window. The sound of rain. A familiar face. The quiet moment before a thought takes shape.
Nothing especially remarkable needs to happen.
For a moment, we can simply notice that we are here.
And perhaps, without needing to resolve anything, the first question is still worth asking.
What does it mean to be aware that I am alive?