Church of the Churchless

Imagining one's death is impossible, but a crucial part of living

Some things are impossible to imagine, because we have no experience of anything akin to that thing.

This is why, as I noted in a recent blog post, we can't imagine what the cosmos would be like without consciousness existing within it, because our attempt at imagining takes place within our consciousness. 

It's also why, no matter how hard I or anyone else may try, we can't imagine what things will be like after we're dead, because our attempt at imagining takes place while we're alive.

So our living consciousness is an inescapable barrier to knowing what, if anything, lies beyond conscious life.

Still, I believe that making an effort to imagine the imaginable can be beneficial, even if the attempt is doomed to failure.

Rather strangely, the older I get (I'm 74), the less concerned I am with pondering my eventual death -- which, as the saying goes, is as certain as taxes. Well, actually a lot more certain, since we can escape taxes but not death.

When I was younger, and a devotee of an Eastern/Indian spiritual teaching that taught either rebirth or union with God awaited us after death, I made the attorney who handled the wills for my wife and I say "When Brian gerbils..." instead of "When Brian dies..." Back then I had a strong fear of non-existence.

I have no idea why I picked the word gerbil for a death substitute.

Maybe it was because we used to have an annoying gerbil when my daughter was young, and I'd wish that it would die a peaceful gerbil death and leave us in peace.

Now, though, I don't think about death nearly as much, even though I've become an atheist. And when I do, the thought, or more accurately a feeling, usually comes over me unbidden. Meaning, spontaneously.

I've written about this now and then -- how I'll be raking leaves, or walking to my Tai Chi class, or doing something else routine, and suddenly I'll have a sudden realization that one day will be the last day I do that activity.

Or any activity. Because I'll be dead.

It's both a weird disturbing feeling and a normal pleasant feeling. Somehow my mind manages to combine both sensations in a single experience. 

I don't like the notion that eventually I'll die and be gone forever. As Woody Allen said, "I don't want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying." I heartily agree, though sadly, I don't have any way to make that wanting a reality. Nor does anyone else.

What I do enjoy is how a visualization of death, as imperfect an imagining as this may be, leaves me with a deeper appreciation of life.

When that feeling of my eventual death comes over me, it makes my present-day living seem richer, more vibrant, more important. For at least a little while I vow to not sleepwalk through life, since each and every moment of this life is hugely significant compared to the nonexistence of death.

So there's a lot to like about death, as well as a lot to fear. If death were absent from life, seemingly the meaning we derive from our living would be much reduced, since we'd have plenty of time, eternity really, to do anything we wanted.

As it is, we don't know when we'll take our last breath. This lends every moment a certain poignancy. And it makes our problems seem less serious, given that most of us would rather be alive with problems, than dead with no problems. 

The exception being a life filled with so much pain and suffering, death appears preferable to life. Some people end up in such a state, and I find it difficult to deny them the right to end their life if that's what they want.

God, like money, is real only because of the human mind

As I noted in a previous post about Lisa Feldman Barrett's book, How Emotions Are Made: The Secret Life of the Brain, I'm enjoying the book more now that I'm past the introductory chapters.

One reason is that Barrett doesn't just describe how emotions are made. She embeds that description in larger issues. For example, her "Emotions As Social Reality" chapter starts off with the classic question, If a tree falls in the forest and no one is present to hear it, does it make a sound?

Even though I should know better, when I ponder this question my first intuitive reaction is to visualize a big tree falling in a forest with no one around, and it sure does make a sound. 

But that's my imagination talking, not reality. Meaning, I forget that the question says no one is present to hear it, and that includes me -- even though I'm just visualizing the tree falling, not experiencing it in physical reality.

It's easy to make this sort of mistake. After all, for each of us, the only way we know anything about the world and our surrounding universe is through the human brain. So for us, reality basically is synonymous with "how we experience reality."

This is true even on the cosmic level, though scientists likely are less prone to this thinking error. 

I wonder, how would the universe appear if there was no consciousness in it? I wrote about this back in 2007 in Consider a cosmos with no consciousness. 

I try to imagine a cosmos with no consciousness. No human awareness. No animal awareness. No plant awareness. No alien life form awareness. No angelic awareness. No awareness of any kind. None at all.

(Note: I consider “consciousness” and “awareness” to be terms pointing to the same mysterious phenomenon, as this Wikipedia article implies).

Now, this is where the thought experiment should end, because it’s already failed. For I’m aware. And awareness, or consciousness, obviously can’t envision a cosmos with no awareness, for the same reason I can’t picture what the world would be like without me in it.

Nevertheless, I keep forging ahead because the experiment is so intriguing, ignoring the impassible existential abyss that’s stopped me in my tracks.

I consider a universe with no life, no awareness, no sentience. It’s easy to do. I think: “What a marvelously simple thought experiment!” The universe appears to me just as it does now, planets, stars and galaxies filling the fabric of space, yet with nobody conscious of it.

Obvious questions then crash the party of my thought experiment: Who is doing the considering of this cosmos with no consciousness? From what perspective is this entity contemplating the universe?

It dawns on me that this entity, namely me, is equipped with eyes that translate a certain wavelength of electro-magnetic radiation into perceptions of which I’m aware. Photographs of distant galaxies, for example, from which I derive some of the raw imaginative material for my thought experiment.

Yet what if I had the body of a bat and sensed with sonar? Or that of a snake with heat-sensing capabilities? The world would look entirely different.

So my envisioning of the cosmos as illuminated by light is terribly anthropomorphic, a fact I’m reminded of every time I walk the dog and watch her spending enthralled minutes sniffing a bush that my smell-impaired brain considers to be nothing special.

So not surprisingly, Barrett's answer is:

A falling tree itself makes no sound. Its descent merely creates vibrations in the air and the ground. These vibrations become sound only if something special is present to receive and translate them: say, an ear connected to a brain...Even after the brain receives these electrical signals, its task is not complete. The wave must still be interpreted as the sound of a toppling tree. For this, the brain needs the concept of "Tree" and what trees can do, such as fall in a forest.

A tree is indisputably real, though. So is a forest. And so is the cosmos, or universe. While these things appear the way they do to us only because of how human consciousness operates, there's little or no doubt that something would be there whether or not humans or indeed any other form of awareness is.

This is similar to how Barrett views human emotions.

A third and final riddle is, "Are emotions real?" You might think this question is ridiculous, a classic example of academic indulgence. Of course emotions are real. Think about the last time you were thrilled or sad or furious. These were clearly real feelings.

But in fact, this third riddle is like the falling tree and the red apple: a dilemma about what exists in the world versus in the human brain. The riddle forces us to confront our assumptions about the nature of reality and our role in creating it. But here, the answer is a bit more complex, because it depends on what we mean by "real."

Barrett explains that some things fall in a perceiver-independent category, such as subatomic particles. If there were no humans, there would still be subatomic particles. (Such was the case for virtually every moment of the universe's 13.7 billion year existence, until very recently.)

She goes on to say that "Emotions are real, but real in the same manner of the sound of a tree falling, the experience of red, and the distinctions between flowers and weeds. They are all constructed in the mind of a perceiver."

So these are examples of social reality. Human civilization, Barrett says, is literally built with social reality. Money, to offer another example, only has value because we human give it value. Otherwise money is just a piece of paper or electronic digits.

Yet this doesn't make money less important to humans (though it is utterly meaningless to our dog and other animals, or to a person who lacked the concept of "money"). 

Likewise, I see the notion of God as akin to that of money. It has immense value to people who imbibe the concept of "God" with meaning. But for those of us who don't embrace that concept, "God" is just a word that, like "money," only has meaning to those who create that meaning in their own mind. 

Unlike a tree, there's no evidence that God exists outside of the human mind. Thus God has even less significance that a tree falling in a forest with no one present to hear it, since that tree possesses an independent reality while God doesn't.

The "magic" in magical moments comes from our own mind

After including a quote in a previous blog post about how we construct the environment in which we live, thanks to how the human brain functions, I got to thinking about the implications for magical moments.

We all have them, though it's difficult to say whether there's much agreement between people as to what constitutes a magical moment. Here's some examples from my life, using my own intuitive definition.

Birth of my daughter
Catching big waves on Maui with my boogie board
Marrying my wife
Seeing Janis Joplin perform in person 
Taking mescaline with a friend in the Sierra Nevada mountains
Spending two weeks in India with the guru who initiated me

Since I'm writing this post on my churchless blog, I'll use the last example as a focus of my discussion about what makes a moment seem magical.

For a long time -- I went to India in 1977 because I wanted to see Charan Singh, my guru, face-to-face, having been initiated by a proxy in 1971 -- I believed that what made those two weeks at Dera Baba Jaimal Singh in the Punjab so magical was the atmosphere emanating from the guru.

However, this doesn't make much sense. 

As I wrote about back in 2005 in "Did I see God in first class?", my wife didn't find seeing Gurinder Singh, Charan Singh's successor, to be at all magical, even though devotees of the guru undoubtedly did.

Psychedelic researchers speak of the importance of set and setting in determining the nature of a LSD (or similar drug) experience. “Set” includes the personality of the individual; “setting” includes cultural views about what is real. If someone with a devotional frame of mind joins a group like RSSB that affirms the divinity of a guru, then this person may very well see God sitting in first class. I, on the other hand, just saw an Indian man.

My wife, Laurel, joined me in Palm Springs a few days later. She was more interested in shopping and sunshine than attending the bhandara, but I did talk her into going to two RSSB meetings. At one of them she got to sit in the front row, just a few feet away from the stage where Gurinder Singh spoke and answered questions—a highly favored spot to devotionally-minded disciples.

Afterwards Laurel said to me, “He just seemed like a regular person.” I couldn’t argue with her. I believed then, and still do, that Master Gurinder Singh is uncommonly intelligent, insightful, well-spoken, charismatic, and inspiring. But I had no reason then, nor any now, to assert that he is God in human form. I’ve stopped being concerned with the level of divinity someone else possesses, and now am almost exclusively focused on getting in touch with my own hypothesized higher self.

So I now see magical moments as being akin to a happy moment, sad moment, exciting moment, boring moment, or any other kind of moment where someone's frame of mind generates the adjective before "moment."

Sure, there has to be a substantial outside reality in a moment. It's a mistake, though, to view external circumstances as producing the magical aspect of a moment, because different people will view those circumstances differently.

My wife saw an Indian man sitting on a stage. Many of his devotees saw a guru who is God in Human Form. Big difference. I highly enjoyed catching big waves that would scare someone who wasn't used to doing this. Big difference. I found Janis Joplin's singing and overall style really appealing. Others with a different musical taste wouldn't like her voice. Big difference.

Thus it's wonderful to experience a magical moment. But almost always the credit for the magic should go to the brain of the person having that experience, not to the external circumstance.

My daughter Celeste is a much better skier than I am, or my wife is. I remember us going with Celeste to ski on Mt. Hood here in Oregon many years ago. Celeste talked us into taking a lift up to the highest point on the mountain, where we'd never been before.

When we got off the lift, I instantly realized that the snow was much more akin to a sheet of ice. Celeste took off down the steep slope, turning with ease, giving every sign of having a magical moment up there on a sunny cold day with such a beautiful view.

Me, all I could think of was "I hope I don't break a leg" as I gingerly made my way down, snow-plowing in an inelegant fashion. My daughter and I shared the same external circumstance, but for her it was magical and for me it was terrifying. 

Feelings are an unreliable guide to reality

Thanks to a Church of the Churchless commenter who mentioned Lisa Feldman Barrett's book about how emotions are uniquely fashioned out of our experiences and environment, rather than appearing ready-made the same way in every human brain, I've been reading How Emotions Are Made: The Secret Life of the Brain with increasing enjoyment now that I'm past the initial introductory chapters.

Barrett, a psychologist and neuroscientist, makes a strong case for her admittedly out-of-the-mainstream view of what emotions are and how they come to be. She cites lots of research, both her own and that of others, as she systematically describes why the prevailing view of emotions is wrong.

So far, I'm finding a lot to like in her book. Her stance fits with other books I've read about how the human brain constructs reality, rather than being a mirror of reality. Of course, because most human brains are similar in many regards, we tend to agree on the more objective aspects of reality, such as whether a stop light we're approaching is green, yellow, or red. 

(That's a good thing for our traffic safety; not so good for auto body repair shops.)

I'm reading the book straight through, though I was tempted to skip to the "Mastering Your Emotions" chapter, since like most people I'd like more happiness/peace of mind and less sadness/anxiety. But when I started that chapter, I realized that it contained key concepts that I hadn't been exposed to yet, like the body budget, which should be in balance for optimum well-being.

So here's some excerpts from "The Origin of Feeling" chapter that I finished this morning. I found these passages to be interesting and accurate. It's easy to believe that how we feel about something is the way that thing truly is -- whereas actually we're simply looking upon it as our affect guides us to.

A definition: interoception "is your brain's representation of all sensations from your internal organs and tissues, the hormones in your blood, and your immune system."

Affect is the general sense of feeling that you experience throughout each day. It is not emotion but a much simpler feeling with two features.

The first is how pleasant or unpleasant you feel, which scientists call valence. The pleasantness of the sun on your skin, the deliciousness of your favorite food, and the discomfort of a stomachache or a pinch are all examples of affective valence.

The second feature of affect is how calm or agitated you feel, which is called arousal. The energized feeling of anticipating good news, the jittery feeling after drinking too much coffee, the fatigue after a long run, and weariness from lack of sleep are examples of high and low arousal. 

...When you experience affect without knowing the cause, you are more likely to treat affect as information about the world, rather than your experience of the world.

The psychologist Gerald L. Clore has spent decades performing clever experiences to better understand how people make decisions every day based on gut feelings. This phenomenon is called affective realism, because we experience supposed facts about the world that are created in part by our feelings.

For example, people report more happiness and life satisfaction on sunny days, but only when they are not explicitly asked about the weather.

...Affect leads us to believe that objects and people in the world are inherently negative or positive. Photographs of kittens are deemed pleasant. Photographs of rotting human corpses are deemed unpleasant. The phrase "an unpleasant image" is really shorthand for "an image that impacts my  body budget, producing sensations that I experience as unpleasant."

In these moments of affective realism, we experience affect as a property of an object or event in the outside world, rather than as our own experience. "I feel bad, therefore you must have done something bad. You are a bad person." 

...You might think that in everyday life, the things you see and hear influence what you feel, but it's mostly the other way around: that what you feel alters your sight and hearing. Interoception in the moment is more influential to perception, and how you act, than the outside world is. 

You might believe that you are a rational creature, weighing the pros and cons before deciding how to act, but the structure of your cortex makes this an implausible fiction. Your brain is wired to listen to your body budget. Affect is in the driver's seat and rationality is a passenger.

It doesn't matter whether you're choosing between two snacks, two job offers, two investments, or two heart surgeons -- your everyday decisions are driven by a loudmouthed, mostly deaf scientist who views the world through affect-colored glasses. [Meaning, your brain.]

...Affect is your brain's best guess about the state of your body budget. Interoception is also one of the most important ingredients in what you experience as reality. If you didn't have interoception, the physical world would be meaningless noise to you.

Consider this: your interoceptive predictions, which produce your feelings of affect, determine what you care about in the moment -- your affective niche. From the perspective of your brain, anything in your affective niche could potentially influence your body budget, and nothing else in the universe matters. 

That means, in effect, that you construct the environment in which you live. You might think about the environment as existing in the outside world, separate from yourself, but that's a myth.

You (and other creatures) do not simply find yourself in an environment and either adapt or die. You construct your environment -- your reality -- by virtue of what sensory input from the physical environment your brain selects; it admits some as information and ignores some as noise.

"Soul," the animated movie, has good lessons for living

Tonight my wife and I watched "Soul" while we ate our usual vegetarian Thanksgiving dinner: Trader Joe's Breaded Turkey-Less Stuffed Roast With Gravy, mashed potatoes, salad, homemade apple pie with wholewheat crust.

That's a soulful meal for us. No animals were harmed in its making. Well, our dog begged while we were eating, and she didn't get anything, so I guess we hurt Mooka's feelings. She'll recover.

Soul had arrived as a DVD from Netflix months ago.

We rarely watch DVDs now that we've escaped the clutches of oh-so-slow CenturyLink DSL and embraced Space X's Starlink satellite internet. But it seemed like Thanksgiving was an opportune time to watch an uplifting movie. 

I liked Soul a lot. Though animated, it's certainly not aimed at young children. I had trouble following some of the plot twists, and parts of Soul are disturbing while not exactly scary. 

Fortunately, I'd read part of a review of Soul by a Vox writer in December 2020, when the movie was released. The review's title is right-on: "Soul is Pixar's most visually inventive film, and one of its most poignant."

Since Alissa Wilkinson, the reviewer, clearly grasped Soul more fully than I did (she says she watched it twice, which explains part of her increased comprehension), I'll let excerpts from her review describe why I found Soul so inspiring and philosophically profound.

It just makes so much sense that our purpose in life isn't fated, predestined, meant to be, or a result of our strongest talents. The central message of Soul is to find the spark that kindles a joy in our living. Absent that spark, we're alive but not really living.

So if we've found that spark, this is something to be thankful for. Not just on Thanksgiving. Every day. Here's the most philosophical review excerpts. 

Midway through Soul, our hero, Joe — or, sort of Joe, but you’ll have to watch the movie to know what I mean — is sitting in a barbershop, in desperate need of a haircut before a big make-or-break gig that night. Joe (voiced by Jamie Foxx) is a jazz pianist whose performance career has never really gotten off the ground; to make ends meet, he’s been teaching middle school band. But he’s confident that he was put on this earth to play jazz, and tonight’s gig might finally be his chance.

Joe’s barber, Dez (voiced by Donnell Rawlings), is talking about his own life, something the pair have never really discussed before. Dez wanted to be a veterinarian when he was younger, following his discharge from the Navy. But his daughter got sick, and, as he says, “barber school is a lot cheaper than veterinarian school.”

Joe is surprised — wasn’t Dez born to be a barber? Isn’t that his purpose? He’s great at it, and he seems to love it so much. “That’s too bad. Now you’re stuck as a barber, and you’re unhappy,” Joe says to Dez.

But Dez tells him to slow his roll, because, as he says, he’s “happy as a clam” doing what he does. Sure, it wasn’t his dream to be a barber; he never felt like it was his “calling.” But he gets to talk to interesting people all day and make folks happy. Dez loves his life. And Joe leaves the shop with a lot to ponder.

That’s the philosophical thesis of Soul, the latest Pixar film from director Pete Docter (Inside Out) and first-time Pixar collaborator Kemp Powers (who also wrote the terrific upcoming drama One Night in Miami).

...The last little piece for all of the souls to acquire before they can head to earth is a “spark.” A soul can get this by working with a mentor, which is the soul of a dead person that’s volunteered to help out the new souls. (Think Mother Teresa, or Sir Isaac Newton.)

The spark is the focus of Soul, and — importantly — how a spark differs from a “purpose,” which one of the big beings that shepherds the souls around derides as one of those words the mentors use that don’t really mean anything. A spark is not your purpose. It is, instead, the thing that makes you feel like you’re living.

That’s such a compelling and imaginative concept for an animated children’s film that I had to rewatch the movie to make sure I got it right. Like Inside Out, which delved into “negative” and “positive” emotions in a more nuanced way than I’d seen in a film before, Soul teases out some distinctions that seem to run almost counter to our everyday way of talking about life.

We talk about some kids being obviously born to take up a certain profession; we ask high school and college students to take tests that determine their purpose or their “gift,” then cast those in terms of occupations. And if we had a dream of doing one job, but life or necessity led us in another direction, then we struggle with feeling like failures.

Surely some of the reason so many adults feel like they have to land their “dream job” or else they’ve failed in some way is as a result of movies — especially, I might add, the Disney variety — that relentlessly exhort children to pursue their dreams and not let anyone else tell them who they are. It’s not that the sentiment is wrong; it’s just that, according to Soul’s cosmology, it’s getting things a little backward.

In this world, you don’t have a predetermined purpose, which is to say that there’s no slot on earth into which you, specifically, are meant to fall. Instead, there’s something about living that, in turn, sparks life in you. And it may or may not overlap with how you make a living, or where you live, or myriad other things about you.

Which means that your worth as a person isn’t tied to the job you have, either. For generations, we’ve caught on to the idea that our value to society is based on what occupation we’ll have, and we’ve devalued some (blue-collar work, like plumbing, bartending, and working a cash register) while elevating others (white-collar jobs, like investment banker, lawyer, or professor).

We’re supposed to subscribe to the mantra of “do what you love.” And in a world where it’s harder and harder to make a living doing certain kinds of jobs, that’s especially dispiriting — a kind of utilitarianism that doesn’t capture the whole of a person. Soul tries to nudge the pendulum in the other direction, to say that a life lived in pursuit of the spark of joy, rather than some predetermined purpose, is the one to strive for.

Hope is the forward-looking side of thankfulness

Tomorrow is the Thanksgiving holiday here in the United States. So I feel like I should write something about being thankful.

Problem is, I've got doubts about the value of that. After all, for everything I can feel thankful for, there's a seemingly equally large bunch of things that I'm not thankful for. 

Yet we don't celebrate a Notthankful holiday, though maybe we should for the yin-yang balance.

Rather than thankfulness, I was leaning toward fashioning a blog post on the theme of hope -- which strikes me as being the forward-looking side of thankfulness. 

Meaning, we're thankful for good things that have happened to us in the past, and for good things present in our life in the present. 

But since we can't be thankful for something that hasn't occurred yet, hope is a placeholder for a future bit of thankfulness that we'll engage in if life turns out as we would like it to, yet can't be sure of.

Hope, of course, is a big part of every religion, though it often is termed "faith." Pretty much the same thing, though. We can have faith that we'll spend a pleasant eternity in heaven, or we can hope that this will occur. 

Like most people, I generally view hope positively. Well, except when I don't. 

I just used the search box in the right sidebar of this blog to look for previous posts I've written about hope. Google revealed six where hope was a primary theme. 

For relatives of MH370 passengers, hope is like religious faith
Abandon all hope...and be more active
Determinism and hope are good substitutes for karma and faith
Regret and hope are luxuries for the young
Maybe it's time to give up on hope
Hope is the secular equivalent of religious faith

Looking over them, it's clear that I've got decidedly mixed feelings about hope. It can help us through difficult times, but at a cost. Because when a hope is dashed, when we really want something to happen and it doesn't, we can feel worse than if we'd never hoped at all.

(Religions don't face this problem when it comes to hope in an afterlife, since obviously whether or not that hope happens is going to occur after this life, not during it.)

On the whole, I guess I favor a form of realistic hope.

Meaning, know what you're doing when you engage in hope. Keep in mind that hope will make you feel better as you contemplate a desired imagined future, yet isn't at all a guarantee that what's hoped for will occur, so be prepared for disappointment.

Here's some quotes from the blog posts listed above that provide an overview of how I look upon hope.

With belief in the existence of God, there also is essentially zero evidence that this is reality rather than wishful thinking. Nonetheless, billions of people cling to hope that after they die, they will land safely in heaven or some other supernatural realm.

Just as with the relatives of MH370 passengers, I understand why religious believers embrace their hopes. It feels good to envision a happy ending to a sad story, whether this be a plane that has disappeared or the end of one's precious life.

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It's rare to view hope as something to be discarded rather than embraced. Don't we need hope? Isn't hope what keeps us going through tough times, with its power to present a vision of a better future?

Maybe not. I found Derrick Jensen's Orion column, "Beyond Hope," to be beautifully written and quite persuasive. 

Though his main focus is on the benefits of environmental activists giving up hope in favor of action, his piece has considerable general relevance.

For example, most religions put a lot of emphasis on hope, which is almost synonymous with faith. Supposedly we should trust that someone or something -- God, angels, Jesus, a guru, Brahman, Zeus -- will make everything all right in the end.

This weakens our own capacity to make life better for ourselves now. We imagine that the power to produce positive change lies somewhere else, not in our own hands. 

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I much prefer hope in my current churchless frame of mind.

Hope is faith shorn of supernaturalism. Hope recognizes that almost always in everyday life the future can't be predicted with 100% accuracy. Yes, determinism rules. But often, if not usually, life is so complex some form of chaos theory comes into play, where small causes can have big effects.

Or, known causes can have unknown effects.

Either way, hope springs eternal, as the saying goes. Even when things look really dismal, and no way out seems apparent, there's the possibility of something unexpected happening.

Being found when you're lost in a wilderness. Recovering after a dismal diagnosis. Feeling better even though depression seems like it will be with you forever. Finding a true love after many years of loneliness. 

Hope is realistic. Faith isn't. Just as determinism is, and karmic theory isn't.

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At my age, obviously there is much less in front of me than in back of me. The years I've already lived number far fewer than the years I have left to live -- unless I live until I'm 141.

Which isn't realistic to hope for. 

In fact, I'm becoming increasingly convinced that after a certain age, and I feel that I've passed it, both hope for the future and regret about the past are luxuries for the young. 

Why?

Because most young people have many more years to live. They have plenty of time to learn from their mistakes and to plan for a better future. So it makes sense for their psyche to do the sort of "ego feasting" Pollon speaks of.

What made this relationship fail? How did I end up in such a crappy job? Where do I want to live when I'm tired of this town? Should I have children, and if so, how many? Why doesn't my life seem truly meaningful? How can I make friends with people I really care about? How great will it be after I lose 20 pounds?

There's so many questions. Good questions. Great questions.

Our past and future are filled with them. As Pollon said, it is easy, and often fun, to time travel our way into regrets about the past and hopes for the future. Or other sorts of thoughts about what was and what may come to be. 

There's nothing wrong with doing this. But there's a cost. We can't be here and now when we're in there and then.

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I'm conflicted about hope, the desire for something to happen. It certainly seems like a good thing, a shoulder to lean on in tough times, a positive compass heading when happenings in your life are going in the wrong direction.

I've relied on hope a lot, as have we all, most likely. I've dreamed of better times, of bouncing back from a disappointment, of finding a way to accomplish something difficult.

For most of us, it's difficult to imagine not living without hope. 

If we get sick, we hope we'll soon be well. If a romantic relationship falls apart, we hope that love will return to our life in a different guise. If we're fired from our job, we hope that our next employment opportunity will be better.

So hope appears to be a psychological drug with no negative side effects. It lifts us up when we're down, a mood elevator that doesn't require a doctor's prescription. 

However...

There's also something to be said for giving up on hope. It's unclear to me whether that saying, whatever it might consist of, outweighs the benefits of hope. I simply have a feeling, based on my own experience, that hope isn't always a good thing.

One drawback is that it contains the seed of disappointment. Whether that seed sprouts depends on the outcome of our hoping. If we fill our mind with a strong desire that X will occur, the appearance of Y with no sign of X is going to cause us to feel letdown. 

Now, would it be better if there was no hope for X? I don't know. Perhaps.

Ultimate reality doesn't exist, says physicist Carlo Rovelli

When I was a member of Radha Soami Satsang Beas, an India-based religious organization, for quite a few years I gave frequent talks to the RSSB faithful.

One of my favorite topics was ultimate reality. I loved those two words. Putting ultimate before the familiar reality produced a wonderful feeling of transcendent potential wisdom in me.

Not that I really knew what ultimate reality was. It was an aspiration, a goal to be pursued through daily meditation and the other aspects of the RSSB teachings.

Now, I hardly ever think about ultimate reality. Except when it comes up in a book or magazine. Like a story about physicist Carol Rovelli in the October 15 issue of New Scientist, "Do objects exist?"

...So I ask Rovelli whether we will live to see a full description of reality's core. He takes a dim view of the question.

"I don't think that it makes sense to think there is an ultimate reality," he says. "A forest seen from a distance is just a velvety green, but then you go closer, and you see the trees. They're real. Then you see the trunk is real, and you see the atoms in the trunks are real."

"Reality is the ensemble of all these things: they're all real, it's just about understanding things better and better and better. We should get out of this mindset that ultimate reality is matter or language or God or mind or spirit."

Beautiful.

Takes the pressure off of finding the tip-top branch of reality's tree. You can examine any branch, any twig, any leaf, and if that examination is conducted in the correct way, you're coming closer to knowing reality.

Last year I wrote about Rovelli's book, Helgoland, where he lays out his persuasive thesis that reality isn't comprised of things but of relations. Here's an excerpt from my "Each of us isn't a thing, but a web of connections."

Rovelli writes that the central thesis of Nagarjuna is there is nothing that exists in itself independently from something else. Thus Buddhism fits in nicely with the relational approach to quantum physics.

Buddhism evolved in part as a reaction to Hinduism, which assumes the existence of soul, Atman, that is an aspect of God, Brahman. Buddhism denies that anything is eternal or unchanging, including ourselves, or our self. 

So from the most minute subatomic particle to the grandest expanse of galaxies, with us humans occupying a middle ground, size-wise, relations are what reality is all about, not things. 

We're alive because of our relationships with air, water, food, sunlight, other people, bacteria, cells, neurons, and everything else that makes it possible for us to be born, live, and yes, die.

The good news is, from the relational view of Rovelli's take on quantum physics and Buddhism, we never exist as a separate and distinct entity, so when we die, it is the relations that cease to exist. In a very real sense, each of us has never existed as the "I" we generally take ourselves to be.

The bad news is, there's nothing that can live on after the relations which sustain life are broken. But this is just reality speaking, and I don't see reality as dealing in good news and bad news. It simply is what it is.

This fits with what I read this morning in a chapter in neuroscientist Patrick House's book, Nineteen Ways of Looking at Consciousness. The chapter is creatively titled, "The North African Rhino of Charismatic Megaquale."

(Quale, the singular of qualia, means a quality or property as perceived or experienced by a person.)

House starts off by talking about how those interested in animal conservation have a bias toward "charismatic megafauna" -- animals that are large, blunt, and beautiful. The blue whale, North African rhinoceros, and so on. Algae, viruses, beetles, and ants, he says, get short shrift.

This is akin to how I used to look upon "ultimate reality." I envisioned a megatruth at the top of the heap of lesser truths, a Truth so massive it made all those little truths appear insignificant, mere trifles. But this is a linear, dualistic, simplistic way of looking upon reality.

House then writes a paragraph where he argues a counter-perspective when it comes to consciousness.

So, too, do many theories about how a brain works focus on what could be called "charismatic megaquale" -- that is, those experiences that feel big and vibrant and can charm us into thinking that there is something it is like to be something: what it is like to be a bat, what it is like to be a North African rhino, what it is like to try to remember how many windows were on your childhood home, what it is like to remember looking through your eyes right now, and what it is like to experience large, generous emotions like fear, attraction, happiness, and sadness, which seem to take over the subjective world in one large brushstroke, coloring all its objects.

But so much more is happening to a brain in the process of acting on itself. Populating consciousness are more species of noncharismatic minor quale, which are often ignored and undetected, than any other kind. What is the point of theories of consciousness if they cannot just as easily explain the minor quale of human emotion as the megaquale?

Yes, agreed. This fits with how I've come to view mindfulness, as described in a recent post. One of my points was: 

The small things in life are just as important as the big things. One of my adages is I am a child of the present moment, who finds delight in small things. 

So I've discarded the notion of ultimate reality from my life's to-do list. Plain reality is plenty good enough for me.

Shabnam Dhillon's "usual address" belonged to RSSB insiders

Someone just sent me information regarding the house in England shown on Shabnam Dhillon's death certificate as her "usual address." 

She was the wife of the guru of Radha Soami Satsang Beas (RSSB), Gurinder Singh Dhillon. Since RSSB headquarters are in India, it was a surprise to me to see that an English house was shown as Shabnam's usual address. 

The person also sent along a Google description of when an inquest is performed after someone dies, which happened in this case.

A coroner must hold an inquest if:

• • the cause of death is still unknown
  • the person might have died a violent or unnatural death
  • the person might have died in prison or police custody

Here's the home ownership information. It appears that the Dhillon family didn't own the house that was Shabnam Dhillon's usual address. This shows the connection between the Dhillons and wealthy RSSB devotees.

A land registry search on the address quoted reveals it belongs to:

Rahendra (DOB Oct 1961) and Sunita Naidoo (DOB April 1965). Bought in May 2001 for £500,000.

Both are dental surgeons. Both are connected to RSSB (chairperson) of the charity.

https://register-of-charities.charitycommission.gov.uk/charity-search/-/charity-details/1013061/trustees

Shows Sunita Naidoo as chairperson for RSSB charity.

Company RSSB Southall Limited  shows Sunita Naidoo as director since 2010 (address is Haynes Park, a RSSB center in England).

Company info is here: 

https://find-and-update.company-information.service.gov.uk/company/03551429

This company is also related (RSSB is parent company). Sunita Naidoo is director

https://find-and-update.company-information.service.gov.uk/company/06558863/officers

Doesn't lead to anything sinister - but it's always rich people involved with the guru. 

If the inquest knew that she was due to appear in court and that her appearance would be hugely detrimental to RSSB and the guru, I am sure the inquest would look at this in a different light.

Christian Nationalism defeated in Pennsylvania, but still scary

Politics is divisive and arouses strong emotions. Religions are divisive and arouse strong emotions. Mix politics with religion, and not surprisingly the worst qualities of each can combine in a toxic combination.

Such is evident in countries around the world where dogmatic religion fuses with narrow-minded nationalism. Iran. India. Saudi Arabia. Israel. There are others, including the United States.

This was personified in the recent midterm election here in the United States by Doug Mastriano, the Republican candidate for Governor of Pennsylvania. 

Fortunately, Mastriano lost to Democrat Josh Shapiro by a large margin: 56% to 42%. But in the runup to the election, Mastriano often was described as the most dangerous Trump-backed far-right candidate running in a swing state.

A big reason for this was that in addition to the usual power of a Governor, in Pennsylvania the Governor appoints the Secretary of State, who oversees elections. And Mastriano thoroughly accepted Trump's Big Lie that the election was stolen from him in 2020.

So the reasonable fear was that if Mastriano was elected Governor of Pennsylvania, he would refuse to accept his state's choice for president in 2024 if Trump ran and lost to the Democrat nominee.

But the pre-election November 7 issue of The New Yorker contains a story about Mastriano that includes descriptions of his Christian Nationalism which makes Mastriano an even scarier candidate, since he not only embraced a political Big Lie but also a religious Big Lie.
Download How Election Subversion Went Mainstream in Pennsylvania | The New Yorker

Here's some excerpts related to his Christian Nationalism.

Mastriano, who is tall and bald, wore a black baseball hat. His wife, Rebbie, a chaplain, stood at his right hand, her jean jacket unzipped. Mastriano reminded the audience that he was running only because, a year earlier, in this very barn, a small group of followers had begged him to. “You urged us, even with tears in your eyes, ‘Please run for governor,’ ” he said. He had also received instructions from Heaven, Rebbie added: “God said go!”

...In the past year, grassroots groups, led by Faddis and others, have come to describe themselves as part of a statewide “patriot movement,” which Borick characterized as a “broadly defined populist and xenophobic movement.” 

The movement is fuelled in some quarters by what scholars call Christian Nationalism, which is centered on the notion that America is and should be a Christian country. Few people self-identify as Christian Nationalists; in 2021, Mastriano asked me, “Is this a term you fabricated?”

But social scientists describe it as a belief system characterized by Dominionism: the idea that God has ordained Christians to exercise control over political institutions in order to prepare for the Second Coming of Christ. “They don’t believe in one person, one vote,” Philip Gorski, a sociologist at Yale, told me. “They think they’re involved in a battle between good and evil.”

In 2020, this ideology helped drive the moral call to overturn the election. “Some of their most fanatical supernatural beliefs have been mainstreamed into the maga movement, such as the notions that Democrats are demonic or engaged in witchcraft,” Jennifer Cohn, an election-security advocate, told me.

In November, 2020, Abby Abildness, the state director of Pennsylvania’s Prayer Caucus and an “apostle” with the New Apostolic Reformation, a network of pastors, hosted a series of “Jericho marches”—religious precursors to the insurrection. Followers gathered in Harrisburg, likening it to the Biblical city of Jericho, where, according to Scripture, God knocked down the walls.

At similar marches in some states, people wore animal skins and blew rams’ horns, as they imagined the ancient Israelites did on their way into battle. Abildness declared her intent that, with God’s help, Pennsylvania’s electors would “go to the President” rather than to Biden. 

...Two years later, Mastriano won a special election for the State Senate. He pushed bills that would mandate prayer in schools and allow adoption agencies to turn away same-sex couples. “ ‘Separation of church and state’—anyone who says that, show me in the Constitution where it says it,” Mastriano has said. “It’s never been there.”

In the spring of 2020, when Governor Wolf called for places of worship to suspend in-person services, Mastriano appeared at protests alongside armed men who wore fatigues and Hawaiian shirts, a look associated with a militia called the Boogaloo Bois.

...In December, 2020, Mastriano took part in two Jericho marches. Later, on a conference call, he prayed that God would help protesters “seize the power” on January 6th. He continued, “Bless these letters that President Trump asked me this morning to send to Mitch McConnell and Kevin McCarthy outlining the fraud in Pennsylvania, and this will embolden them to stand firm and disregard what has happened in Pennsylvania until we have an investigation.” 

...Mastriano, certainly, has remained steadfast. In September, he announced that, to win God’s favor, he would undertake a forty-day fast, to end on Election Day.

Mindfulness made simple, by my own mind

I like mindfulness a lot. It's become my favorite approach to meditation. But given how many books I've read about mindfulness, I'm struck by how overly complicated this activity can be described.

Which I think says more about the economics of the book business than about mindfulness.

After all, few people want to buy a book that's just a few pages long. So authors who write about this subject have to say a lot about something that appears to me to be quite simple.

Thus here's my exceedingly brief summary of how I've come to view mindfulness.

Naturally others likely will have a considerably different view of mindfulness. This is just what works best for me at the moment, though I readily admit that my perspective is continually changing.

When I can recall a blog post that dealt with an aspect of my approach to mindfulness, I'll share a link. (Turns out I could do this with all five.)

(1) As much as possible, I try to look without rather than within. The physical world grounds me when I pay attention to it. Often my mental world distracts me.

(2) Living in the present is better for me than living in a remembered past or imagined future, though often it is necessary to briefly sojourn in what was or might be.

(3) Emotions are to be embraced, not denied, whatever they are. What works for me is being happy when I'm happy and being sad when I'm sad. Ditto for every other emotion.

(4) The small things in life are just as important as the big things. One of my adages is I am a child of the present moment, who finds delight in small things. 

(5) Seeking perfection is an absurd quest. I realize that just as every other aspect of my life is imperfect, so are my attempts to be mindful.