“It’s chaos, be kind.”

That’s the life philosophy of Patton Oswalt’s wife Michelle McNamara, who’s research and book I’ll Be Gone in the Dark led to the capture of the Golden State Killer. In his special, Annihilation, Oswalt said he used to get into philosophical arguments with her about it. He might not believe in a supreme being but perhaps there’s a an overarching structure or direction to it all. No, she would say, it’s chaos, it’s all random, all you can do is be kind.

Then, a little over two years ago, she passed away suddenly and, as Oswalt puts it, “… she won the argument in the shittiest way possible.”

I’ve been thinking about chaos and randomness lately. It comes up in both therapy and meditation. I’m finding that I have to feel like I control everything. I’m not a control freak. A control freak is very proactive in the manner in which they control things. I’m too lazy for that. I’m more of a semblance of control type of person. I like to think that I have everything figured out. I saw that coming. I can tell what’s coming next.

It’s the paradox of getting a handle on everything so I can relax but thinking so much to attain it that I drive myself crazy.

In meditation, the goal is to live fully in the present moment because each moment is unique.

And then my brain says, yeah, but is it?

In therapy, one of the goals is to break down the storylines you have about yourself. It’s about trying to navigate between “I know what’s going to happen” (depression) and “Anything can happen!” (annoying optimism).

I keep finding myself coming back to sameness. I know what’s going to happen tomorrow. The sun will rise. I will wake up. I will shower, eat, go to work, go to improv rehearsal. The sun will set. I’ll come home then go to sleep. Repeat, with minor variations. Days turn into weeks into months into years.

“Anything can happen!”

Yeah, but can it?

Tomorrow Lorne Michaels probably won’t add me to the cast of SNL for next season. Conversely, I probably won’t be diagnosed with a neurological disorder so debilitating and rare that it is henceforth known as Rob Penty’s Disease.

I used to tell my first therapist that I knew what was going to happen. It would be the same thing that always happens. “Oh,” she’d say, “so you’ve already written the story.” She had a point.

I talk with my current therapist about why I worry. I think I’ve got it boiled down to, if I don’t worry, then it’s like telling the universe that I don’t care enough. That’s like, to borrow an analogy from David Mamet, a pilot flapping his arms in the cockpit to make sure the plane takes off.

I keep a ledger in my mind of good things and bad things because everything has to have a cost. Everything has to make sense somehow because if it doesn’t, what is there?

Chaos.

But there’s freedom in that. What if you really don’t know what’s coming next? What if every moment truly is all that you have?

I know I’m not going to inherit the continent of Asia from a long lost uncle tomorrow, nor will I grow a conjoined twin out of my ass. But in my lifetime I’ve seen the Challenger explode, I’ve watched airplanes fly into the World Trade Center, I’ve seen my favorite comedian revealed to be a serial rapist, I’ve seen my country elect a reality television show host president of the United States, and I watched both my parents die within six months of each other. Stars explode, tectonic plates collide, glaciers melt, hurricanes touch down in New York, trains derail, cars crash, and your DVR didn’t record the game that you wanted to watch for some damn reason.

It’s all chaos.

I hold on to my conception of the world so tightly so nothing can come along and shock or embarrass or hurt or surprise me. But holding on so tightly can be suffocating and I’m not sure it’s working anymore. It’s an act of courage to live each moment like it’s truly unique and be open to the idea that anything can happen.