In teaching family therapy, I used to say that “Why” was a four-letter word, not because it starts with a double U, but because when most people are asked why they do the things they do, they feel attacked. Furthermore, when asked why someone does something, the expected response is to give reasons, and reasons are rarely helpful.

That is a popular position among certain strains of therapists, and very unpopular among others.

Psychoanalytic therapists really like reasons. It is the playground in which they spend years and rack up significant contributions to their retirement accounts. Behaviorists tend to abhor reasons, instead focusing on the how of things as opposed to the why. That’s one reason I like behaviorists, because like most guys I like to fix things, and why things are broken isn’t nearly as important as how they are broken. (The fact that you threw the toaster across the room because you were mad as hell won’t get the toaster fixed, but knowing that the spring came loose when it hit the wall will tell you how to fix it. Okay, so it won’t stop you from throwing the toaster again, but that wasn’t the problem you came to me with.) Cognitive therapists like reasons, but principally so that they can change them. I like that, because very often change is good, leading to a reduction in suffering. But of course, change isn’t always good, because sometimes we try to change the wrong things.

Reasons, to me, are a little like medication: they have their place, but hopefully, their main function is to stop using them.

Now, if you are blessed with being in any sort of intimate relationship, you have no doubt been asked the big question (or have asked it yourself): why do you love me? You know that that is an unwinnable question, that any answer you give is going to get you in deep trouble, so you undoubtedly have learned to avoid it. The truth, of course, is that there is never any good reason to love another person, because love, like faith, is beyond reason. Ultimately, honey, I love you just because I do. That’s it. End of story, as my dad would say.

Fortunately, very few people have asked me why I fly. At least most of my friends know better. If you did ask me why I choose to risk my dear life and spend ridiculous sums of money burning fossil fuel just to get above it all I would end up giving you some sort of dumb-ass lecture about mastery and competence and bore both you and me to tears. But if you asked me how I fly, you will see me light up and we both might learn something in the process.