Although I’m kind of a knowledge junkie, I’ve always argued for the limits of human understanding. I’ve been railing against the pointlessness of trying to figure out why something happened or why someone or something is the way it is for decades. Of course, I fall into the very same trap myself. My personality is such that I expect things and people to be and behave logically or at least to stay out of my way. Talk about an exercise in futility.

My assertion has always been, though, that the reason there’s no point in trying to figure out the why of someone or something is that since we never, ever have all the information, we can never, ever get a complete answer. It’s a bit of a fool’s game to believe we can answer why questions with convincing certainty.

[W]hen you explain a why, you have to be in some framework that you allow something to be true. Otherwise, you’re perpetually asking why. –Richard Feynman

That doesn’t stop us from doing it. We think that when we know the why of something, we then understand it. And if we understand something, we can accept it or at least know how to deal with it.  It’s as if the why is even more important than the what. When it comes to people and why they are the way they are or do the things they do, why questions most often go to backgrounds or motivations. Given that we don’t even know what our own motivations are for doing what we do, thinking we can know someone else’s motivation is more than hubris—it’s delusional.

But, again, we all do this. Asking why questions is very compelling. It seems to be a built-in mechanism that operates first and foremost to explain ourselves to ourselves. Asking and answering why questions helps us construct and maintain a consistent personal narrative—a sense of personal identity. It also operates to explain the external world to us.

Good Enough for Government Work

But another problem with why questions, in addition to the fact that our answers are always incomplete at best, if not wholly erroneous, is that once we get an answer that seems satisfying, we close the door on that particular line of inquiry. Once we get a good-enough answer, the cause and effect link is cemented into place. Occasionally someone might say about something, “Well, that’s as good an explanation as any,” but we could say that about the vast majority of our explanations: one is probably just as good as another. Yet we believe in whatever answers we’ve arrived at, and we proceed as if they are the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So to an extent we do create our own reality, and this is how we do it, through constructing and maintaining a very flawed and false sense of certainty about ourselves and the world around us.

We abhor uncertainty, so any explanation, even a wrong or partial one, is better than none at all.

I’ve been trying to pay attention to this process of explaining everything to myself. It’s exhausting. What a relief when I just admit I don’t know why something or someone is the way it is (or I am the way I am), and I don’t need to come up with an explanation. There’s a surprising amount of freedom in not having an explanation.

What questions seem to be a lot more open-ended than why questions. They cast a wider net, and they tend to focus more on the here and now. I wonder if asking what questions might be a way of training our attention on the present and away from restlessly searching for facile explanations just so we can maintain a comfortable and consistent narrative.