“Love life more than the meaning of it? Yes, certainly.” ~Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

At dusk, when sodium‑vapor lanterns washed the streets in a flat amber, the world seemed to move from full color to monochrome. For one child, that shift carried a reliable sadness, an unspoken hush that a perceptive father noticed and gently questioned, even as the child struggled to explain how the evening light could feel so heavy.

On a winter night when the roadside ditch had begun to freeze and people’s condensed breath clouded the air, the father proposed, “Let’s get an ice cream in the village.” They rode together on a bicycle as the yellow world drifted by, reached the shop just before closing, and stood beneath a lamp, snow at their feet, sprinkles on the cone. “Lekker he?” he said. In that small exchange, it felt as if a quiet pact had been made: this feeling could be held together.

Years later, at thirty and a decade beyond the loss of his father to cancer, the passage of time resembled those sodium evenings: a gradual desaturation. Broken hearts, unmade dreams, unspoken words—time leaves its marks. The persistent question sharpened: how does one carry history without growing bitter, retain color, and remain light‑hearted?

Common responses seemed everywhere—career fixation, projection onto partners, earnest but misplaced reliance on gurus, grey resignation, or intoxication with the belief that enough effort can redeem the world outright. By contrast, a different pledge formed: resist embitterment by cultivating lightness with rigor.

Immersed in philosophy, the arts, powerlifting, trading, travel, filmmaking, and writing, the twenties became a laboratory of relentless curiosity. A mentor’s line—“Being a romantic in this world is one of the hardest things you can do”—proved prophetic. The pursuit of answers helped justify suffering’s apparent senselessness, yet the core dilemma remained intact.

Over time, discovery paradoxically heightened bleakness. The sodium‑lamp feeling bled into mornings, and a recurrent image appeared at the edge of awareness—an imagined exit, an invitation to step away from the weight entirely. Eventually it was recognized not as a solution, but as a marker of depletion calling for a different approach.

Then a counterexample arrived in human form: a woman whose lightness was sincere. Her tea box listed Namastea, empatea, tearapy; flavors forgotten, laughter intact. Across serious topics she never dismissed the weight, yet she consistently chose a playful angle—levity as an ethical stance, not as avoidance.

Steam rose from the cup, snow softened into drips, a young tree began to blossom. “Aren’t you simply a man who comes and goes, exploring as genuinely as he can?” she asked. “If so, why not continue exploring? Sure, it won’t be a convenient lifestyle, but who cares? You don’t care, do you?” In that moment, the chase for final answers gave way to the steadier practice of renewing questions.

The unknown—once a child’s ally—had become an adult adversary linked to heartache and hopelessness. At the nadir of that hopelessness, with nothing left to protect, the field of possibility widened. The same unknown that had seemed hostile reframed as the only remaining territory that still breathed with life.

To test this reframing, he and a partner walked backwards for two months along the Camino de Santiago in northern Spain—literally stepping into uncertainty by not seeing where they were going. Initial hypervigilance abated as they slowed down. Catastrophes failed to materialize; the unknown ceased to threaten and began to invite presence, freedom, and felt lightness.

They later left Amsterdam for the campo of Panama to study unadorned solitude. In the quiet, what had been outrun appeared in full: resistance to reality as given, pressure to “be something” in a bleak‑seeming world, and the compulsion to force coherence on what might not immediately yield it.

Seen retrospectively, the childhood scene reads like a method. He would learn that his father, too, had wrestled with existence. On that particular evening, there was no attempt to fix or rationalize. There was a bicycle ride and ice cream: tender, concrete, and sufficient.

The lesson was not about dessert but about refusing to let the monochrome win. The lamps were neither fought nor denied; their glow was simply not a good enough reason to skip vanilla with sprinkles.

Years later, seated in a Panamanian sunset overlooking Volcán Barú, the words returned—“Lekker hé?”—followed by a clear realization: the task is not to rise above the world or wage war against it, but to live within it, to enjoy something good beside someone loved.

Conceptually, light‑heartedness can be defined with precision as the cultivated capacity to stay in accurate contact with suffering—personal and societal—while maintaining playfulness, curiosity, and compassion. It is neither denial nor enforced positivity; it is an embodied orientation that reduces reactivity and supports prosocial action. Dharmic traditions have long described its contours, and contemporary research increasingly maps its mechanisms.

Across dharmic streams, the consonance is striking. Hindu thought emphasizes aparigraha (non‑grasping) and prasada‑buddhi (acceptance of results after wholehearted effort). Early Buddhist teaching highlights dukkha, anicca, and upekkha (equanimity) cultivated through mindfulness (sati) and dhyana. Jainism’s Anekantavada trains many‑sided understanding, loosening rigid narratives that feed bitterness. Sikh wisdom articulates chardi kala, the ever‑rising spirit that meets challenge with courage and seva. Taken together, these perspectives promote resilience without denial and action without despair.

In clinical science, Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) operationalizes similar processes: acceptance of internal experience, cognitive defusion from sticky thoughts, present‑moment awareness, values clarity, and committed action. During “sodium‑lamp” moods, these processes reduce experiential avoidance and restore agency. The ice‑cream vignette is a micro‑example of values‑consistent action undertaken in the presence of aversive affect—small, concrete, humane.

Neurophysiological regulation provides a complementary base. Slow breathing with a gently prolonged exhale (for instance, 4–6 seconds inhalation and 6–8 seconds exhalation), soft humming, and affectionate‑awareness practices stimulate the vagus nerve, increase heart‑rate variability, and down‑shift sympathetic arousal. Mind‑body techniques found across meditation lineages—breath awareness, mantra japa, mindful walking—create a physiological platform on which emotional resilience, clarity, and compassion can reliably stand.

Behavioral science further shows that micro‑moments of savoring broaden attention and build durable resources. The broaden‑and‑build theory predicts that brief positive emotions widen cognitive scope and deepen social connection. Quietly noting “Lekker he?” while attending to sprinkles, snow, steam, or birdsong is not trivial; it is deliberate training in presence that counters anhedonia and rumination.

Graduated training with uncertainty is another practical lever. Safe, bounded experiments—taking unfamiliar routes, delaying premature conclusions, or intentionally asking open questions—diminish catastrophic prediction. Walking backwards on the Camino illustrates how alarms quiet when the nervous system learns, through repeated exposure, that novelty is survivable.

Meaning‑making remains central. Logotherapeutic perspectives point to freely chosen purposes rather than guaranteed outcomes. Dharmic articulations parallel this emphasis: dharma as wise action in context; karma‑yoga as wholehearted effort without attachment to results; seva as other‑regarding contribution. Purpose enacted today—in a careful craft, a helpful deed, or an honest conversation—dilutes the monopoly that bleak outcomes often claim.

Social connection amplifies these gains. Sangha, satsang, sangat, or simply trusted friends co‑regulate physiology, model perspective‑taking, and interrupt isolating loops. Humor—like a tea box of Namastea, empatea, and tearapy—is not escapism but a social technology that makes seriousness workable.

From these strands, a practical architecture emerges. First, notice and name the “sodium‑lamp” shift without argument. Second, settle the body with slow, aware breathing. Third, take one values‑aligned action—however small—that adds color to this hour. Fourth, ask an honest question that reopens curiosity. Fifth, share warmth with another being. Repeated patiently, these steps convert monochrome hours into livable ones.

None of this romanticizes despair or substitutes for professional care. If withdrawal or self‑harm ideation recurs or intensifies, clinical support is warranted. The complementary point is that evidence‑aligned practices—reinforced by the plural wisdom of Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, and Sikhism—can help maintain light‑heartedness without turning away from truth.

In that light, “finding one’s ice cream” is a disciplined choice rather than an escapist whim: a refusal to let bleakness dictate the full palette of living. The lamps can keep shining; the task remains to taste the vanilla, to feel the shared breath in winter air, and to say, now and then, “Lekker hé?”

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Inspired by this post on Tiny Buddha.

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