In my formal profession, the focus is on the "how". How stuff works, how to do something, how we got here, how precise that is. 

This thinking mode spills into the other aspects of life heavily. How? It first recognizes itself as an imperfect eye pointed at a blurred mirror. It then fights this confinement, demanding loudly "how come".  Sensing exhaustion from the fight, it tries to wager a deal but finds itself saddened by decline. Acceptance follows suddenly, in a wave of familiarity: the premise is cleared away as illusory, there is no eye, no mirror, only the shifting unsung notes of music yet to be created. There is no how, there's only winter, spring, summer and fall, without and within, and with the seasons, their unseen fruits.