Church of the Churchless

Great speech on speaking the truth about ourselves

This evening I was all set to write about a different subject. Then while eating dinner, I watched an episode of a streaming series that I've become addicted to. I'm on season 4 of the seven seasons, having belatedly discovered this show.

Which is going to remain nameless, because I don't enjoy having plot twists revealed in a series that I'm watching, and I don't want to run the risk that I'll do the same to someone else. 

Good actors with good scripts can convey messages about life that are deeply moving. I was hoping to be able to share a video of the actor saying what I've transcribed below, but such doesn't seem to exist. So I replayed the scene with a pen and notepad in hand, getting his words down as best I could.

What follows is almost entirely accurate. To set the scene, the actor, who plays a well-known attorney seeking political office, was prepared to tell a press conference that he was going to withdraw from a race, because a shameful truth about him was going to be revealed by an opponent.

He has those remarks in hand. Then he puts them away. What came next captivated me. Reading his words won't be nearly as powerful as watching them acted on screen. Still, the message resonated with me big time: none of us should fear speaking the truth about ourselves.

Unless we have a very good reason not to. Even then, generally it is better to be open and transparent -- naturally with exceptions. Most of us feel that if other people knew who we really are, they wouldn't like some parts of us.

Maybe. However, it's also possible that because everybody is hiding something from other people, an act of radical honesty would be refreshing, not off-putting. I could say more, but I'll let my transcript of the scene where the attorney reveals his secret do the talking. 

Nope. Not going to read that one.

"A lie," the wise man Winston Churchill purportedly said, "goes halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants off."

But, uh, I have a feeling that this truth will find its way quick enough. It's high time for truth, for openness, for unburdening. 

I'm not here like most politicians might be to ask you to trust me. No, instead I'm asking if I may trust you. With my deepest fear. Which is that you might know me for who I really am.

The idea of a prosecutor is to expose that which is hidden away, the evil, the dirty, the crooked, and the untruthful, to shed light, to reveal what is under all that darkness.

And I've come to realize that to do it right, I must first shine light on my own dark parts. Which is why I've asked you all here today.

You know what, I'm just going to say it. I, uh, in my private life, in the confines of my happy marriage, with my consenting wife, practice sadomasochism.

Uh, yeah. Bondage. Dominance. All the rest. Masks. Binds. Ropes. Fire. Wow, even just saying it like that I can feel my shoulders loosen for the first time in decades.

I am a masochist. In order to achieve sexual gratification I need to be tied up, pinched, whipped, kicked, or otherwise tortured. By my loving wife.

And here's the bigger truth. All of us need something, right? I don't know what you do in your bedroom, with your loved one.

But I do know that you're probably a little embarrassed about it. You probably don't want the rest of us looking at you while you do it. Unless that's your thing. And if so, great.

But wouldn't we be better off if we didn't let shame win, if we didn't feel sheepish, like we need to hide what moves us?

There are those who believe I've just ended my legal and political careers. They don't think that you can handle what I've just told you. 

I know that you'll get it because, at the end of the day you want the truth. At worst, maybe it won't stop you from getting to the polls to support me.

But at best, maybe on the way you tell someone who you really are. And maybe they like it. And maybe you feel just a little more comfortable in your own skin. As I finally do in mine.

OK, having typed in the transcript, I decided that because I like what was said so much, Iwant to share a You Tube video of the last part of the politician's speech. It begins with a spoiler alert, but you're going to know the show I'm watching from the video. That's the price to be paid for seeing a great acting job where a powerful messge is conveyed.

Understand: the attorney, though invariably fascinating, is a complex mixture of good deeds and bad deeds. Revealing who he really is in the bedroom was both good and bad. It made him feel better and took away a threat to use his secret against him, and surely inspired others, but his wife wasn't at all pleased with him. Such is life, a mixture of good and bad.

Reflecting on life is different from directly experiencing life

As much as I've enjoyed exploring various approaches to religion, mysticism, philosophy, and spirituality during most of my 74 years of living (hey, I learned to read at a young age, and even comic books contain implicit philosophy), sometimes I feel that it's time to end my searching and simply attend to the life that's easy to find, because it's right in front of me.

Recently I got back to Question Everything, the book of essays from the New York Times philosophy series. The first essay I read was both philosophical and anti-philosophical, Phillip S. Garrity's "Gratitude: In Sickness and Health." Garrity starts by writing about dental work.

I remember staring up at the ceiling from the dentist's chair as a child and wondering with genuine perplexity, "How am I here again?" It seemed as if I had awakened there, wholly present to the undeniable reality of a cavity filling or tooth pulling. The days that had passed between dental visits were nothing more than a dreamlike filler.

Only in the chair did real life flare back into being, the drill keeping me relentlessly awake to the present moment. In the grip of pain, a tinge of anger would arise. How had I let all those carefree days slip past me in what felt like an instant?

I spent a great deal of mental energy in my adolescence tryin to capture that dreamlike filler, to perpetually feel what the Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh calls the "non-toothache" that I unknowingly walked around with most days. It was an exercise in imaginatively conjuring pain in order to appreciate its absence.

That reminded me of the book about a modern take on Stoicism I've written about recently. The author encourages negative visualization, a Stoic practice where you imagine losing something you care about -- your job, your spouse, your child, your health -- to better appreciate what you do have. 

Setbacks, from this Stoic perspective, are to be viewed as tests sent by the Stoic gods, who don't have to be real in order to make this practice effective. All that's needed is an attitude that places an experience of a setback within the frame of a challenging test rather than a disturbing problem.

Garrity then talks about how, at twenty-four, he was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive bone cancer.

The ability to walk, to keep food down, to defecate without electric pain were no longer mundane givens, but miraculous gifts. In their absence, the vibrancy of illness burned brightly.... But as my health returned, the vibrancy did fade.

Now almost five years in remission, I notice myself falling back into that same pattern of trying to harness the vibrancy of illness, of forcing myself back into the dentist's chair to avoid my failure to feel the non-toothache. I am learning, however slowly, that maintaining that level of mental stamina, that fever pitch of experience, is less a recipe for enlightenment, and more for exhaustion.

Which gets me to the part of the essay that struck me most strongly. These passages echo how I'm coming to feel about taking spiritual pursuits too seriously, instead of living life more directly and simply.

The existentialist philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre describes our experience as a perpetual transitioning between unreflective consciousness, "living-in-the-world," and reflective consciousness, "thinking-about-the-world." 

Gratitude seems to necessitate a certain abstraction away from that direct experience. Paradoxically, our capacity for gratitude is simultaneously enhanced and frustrated as we strive to attain it.

Perhaps, then, there is an important difference between reflecting on wellness and experiencing wellness. My habitual understanding of gratitude had me forcefully lodging myself into the realm of reflective consciousness, pulling me away from living-in-the-world. 

I was constantly making an inventory of my wellness, too busy counting the coins to ever spend them.

Gratitude, in the experiential sense, requires that we wade back into the current of unreflective consciousness, which, to the egocentric mind, can easily feel like an annihilation of consciousness altogether. Yet, Sartre says that action that is unreflective isn't necessarily unconscious.

There is something Zen about this, the actor disappearing into the action. It is the way of the artist in the act of creative expression, the musician in the flow of performance. But, in most of us, it is a loss of self -- and the sense of competency that comes with it.

...I am left with one thing: my ordinary, present self who is as empty-handed as he was the day before diagnosis -- no better equipped for the ensuing battles of life, no better shielded from pain he will yet face. And it is not just heroic pain.

It is the hurt of parking tickets, the ache of commuting, the grief of deadening routine -- small pains to which I was immune while they were eclipsed by cancer. But that moon has since passed.

And yet, that isn't reason for despair. It's strangely consoling to be reminded of my failure, to remember that my efforts to be prepared for epic loss were mostly in vain. I wasn't ready then, and yet, I got through it. I won't be ready next time, but I have reason (and experience) to believe that I will get through it again.

If there is any sage in me, he says I must accept the vulnerability of letting the pain fade, of allowing the wounds to heal. Even in the wake of grave illness -- or more unsettlingly, in anticipation of it -- we must risk falling back asleep in wellness.

We make our own purpose, not God, not the universe

Without a purpose, life is barely worth living. That's one sign of depression: when nothing seems to matter and our existence seems meaningless.

But where does purpose come from?

Religious people typically say "God." They believe that God has a plan for us and we just need to let it unfold, trusting in the Almighty. People who strongly embrace a particular culture or nationality may feel that their purpose is to live in accord with the tenets of their society.

And as Joseph Carter says in an essay I read today in Question Everything: Essays from the New York Times Philosophy Series, Aristotle considered that everything in the universe has its own inherent goal.

From cars, trees, animals, all the way to the cosmos itself, Aristotle argued, each thing has an inherent principle that guides the course of its existence.

But Carter argues that purpose arises from ourselves in "The Universe Doesn't Care About Your 'Purpose'." Here's the PDF file if you're unable to access the New York Times essay.
Download Opinion | The Universe Doesn’t Care About Your ‘Purpose’ - The New York Times

He basically sees that the stories we tell ourselves are what provide a sense of purpose. It's as if we're our own screenwriter who pens "The Story of My Life," along with being the lead actor in this drama. 

Naturally Carter puts things more philosophically than that crude summation.

Meaning begins and ends with how we talk about our own lives, such as our myths and stories.

...Purpose springs from our longing for permanence in an ever-changing universe. It is a reaction to the universe’s indifference to us. We create stories about the world and ourselves as contours, “phantom bodies,” of the inevitability of loss and change.

Myths appear timeless; they have what Blumenberg calls an iconic constancy. Stories pass through generations, often becoming traditions, customs, even laws and institutions that order and give meaning to our lives. Purpose grows out of the durability of human lore. Our stories serve as directives for the ways we need the world to exist.

An indifferent universe also offers us a powerful and compelling case for living justly and contentedly because it allows us to anchor our attention here. It teaches us that this life matters and that we alone are responsible for it.

Love, friendship and forgiveness are for our benefit. Oppression, war and conflict are self-inflicted. When we ask what’s the purpose of the recent gassing of Syrian children in the Idlib Province or the torture and killings of Chechnyan homosexual men, we ought not simply look to God or the universe for explanations but to ourselves, to the entrenched mythologies that drive such actions — then reject them when the institutions they inform amount to acts of horror.

The purposes and goals we create are phantom bodies — vestiges of and memorials to the people, places and things we stand to lose and strive to keep. Purpose indexes the world’s impermanence, namely our own.

...Purpose is about loss, or at least the circumvention of it. And there’s nothing wrong with that. We create purposes to establish happy endings in a universe where endings are simply that — endings.

...So, take a moment to think about the mythologies informing your purpose. I’ll reflect on mine, too. The universe, however, won’t. And that might be the most meaningful distinction of all.

Sometimes I've thought that we don't really need stories about our lives. Isn't simply living life enough? Is it necessary to fashion a narrative of My Life where I'm the starring character of my own theatrical production who, not surprisingly, usually comes across as an appealing hero or heroine?

Sure, one with flaws, because that makes my character more interesting. But essentially a good person who is doing their best to make their way through the myriad problems and opportunities that have arisen in My Life.

At times I've viewed this personal mythology as being out of touch with the lack of self that I've come to believe, via Buddhism and neuroscience, is likely to be true. However, when I examine how I actually live my life, I realize that just as Carter says, I need stories about myself that foster a sense of purpose.

Even materialists can’t deny the fact that purposes somehow exist to give us meaning and happiness.

Anthropologists like Dean Falk recently suggested that goal-directed behavior is also evolutionarily advantageous. This doesn’t imply that evolution itself has a purpose, of course. (Though some have argued otherwise.) What it does suggest is that as purposeless as human evolution is, we generally benefit as a species from a belief in it.

Every day I sit down at my laptop and write a post for one of my three blogs. No one forces me to do this. If I didn't do it, there wouldn't be any big problem. I don't view my writing as very important to the world at large.

I write because this gives me a sense of purpose. I write for myself, mainly. I feel a need to get thoughts and feelings out of my head and into cyberspace. When I finish a blog post, as I'm about to do, I have a feeling of satisfaction.

I've fashioned a story about myself that includes the plot element, you write blog posts, and some people read them. Everybody has such stories about themselves. It's how we create meaning in a world that lacks it.

The wonderful thing is how often our individual stories coalesce into a shared sense of meaning and purpose. Our friends typically share much of what we find meaningful. Same with larger groupings, whether they be work-related, religious, sports-related, political, artistic, or whatever. 

Though each of us is responsible for creating our own meaning, it's those shared meanings that give life a special pleasure. For example, a marriage that works well is when two people share a story of their togetherness that is mutually meaningful.

Is it necessary to make our life into a narrative, a story?

As I noted a few days ago in "Are you endurant or transient? Me, I feel like I'm a bit of both", there was more to say about this distinction between people who feel a sense of continuity about themselves during their lifetime (endurants) and people who feel that they're being constituted anew as their life unfolds (transients).

Part of that additional saying relates to what Galen Strawson, whose book ("Things That Bother Me") is where I'm getting these ideas, calls a narrative approach to one's life.

Meaning, we not only recall events in our life, but make a story out of those events in somewhat the same way as a novelist would. If someone asks, Tell me about yourself, a person with a strong tilt toward narration likely would relate their life in a chronological order: birth, childhood, schooling, marriage, jobs, children, grandchildren, retirement, and such.

Someone who wasn't into a narrative approach probably would be inclined to speak more about their life right now, giving little or no attention to telling a story about how the past turned into the specifics of now. Strawson writes:

Psychological narrativity clearly involves putting some sort of construction -- a unifying or form-finding construction -- on the events of one's life, or parts of one's life. This needn't involve any clearly intentional activity, nor any departure from or addition to the facts, but the narrative attitude must amount to something more than a disposition to grasp one's life as a unity simply insofar as it is the life of a biologically single human being.

Nor can it consist just in the ability to give a sequential record of the actual course of one's life, even if one's life does in fact exemplify a classical pattern of narrative development, independently of any construction or interpretation. One must have some sort of relatively large-scale, coherence-seeking, unity-seeking, pattern-seeking, or most generally form-finding tendency when it comes to one's apprehension of one's life (or relatively large-scale parts of one's life).

Religion or spirituality often is part of that form-finding narrative tendency. I'm not a Christian, but I'm pretty confident that when devout Christians get together they like to talk about how someone found Jesus or was converted to Christianity.

I know this to be the case with the India-based group I belonged to for 35 years, Radha Soami Satsang Beas (RSSB). Learning how someone learned about "the Path" and was initiated by the RSSB guru was a frequent conversation topic. I certainly engaged in this, in part because I had such an interesting, and unusual, initiation story to tell.

But here's the thing about engaging in this sort of story-telling: as Strawson says, it involves more than just a straightforward description of the facts. This happened, then that, and afterward something else. In my experience a narrative view of life injects meaning into those facts that obviously isn't present when the facts are looked at from an objective point of view.

A key thing to remember is what I wrote about recently in "It had to be" -- a great four-word secular philosophy.

Looking forward from now, the future is uncertain. Looking backward from now, the conditions of this present moment were completely determined. Which means, everything that occurs in the future will eventually become the past that was also completely determined.

So It had to be, while a truism, is a valuable reminder of how reality outside of our subjective perceptions actually is. 

We worry about an uncertain future, losing sight of the fact that it really isn't uncertain at all. Only one thing is going to happen: that which happens. Likewise, we engage in regrets about a past that didn't turn out as we wanted, losing sight of the fact that the past could only turn out in one way: that which occurred.

The big bang had to be. The formation of the Milky Way Galaxy had to be. The creation of our solar system had to be. Earth had to be. Evolution had to be. Extinction of the dinosaurs had to be. The rise of Homo sapiens had to be. The birth and death of each of our ancestors had to be. The circumstances of our life from infancy to the present moment had to be.

Pretty damn simple: It all had to be. No exceptions. Our joys and sorrows had to be. Our successes and failures had to be. My writing this blog post had to be. Your reading it had to be.

So the problem I now have with a narrative attitude toward my life is that I've come to feel that it doesn't make sense to view events as pointing toward a predestined conclusion. I'll use marriage to Laurel, my second wife, as an example, though I could have used my RSSB invitation and subsequent history with the group as another example.

A lot of things had to happen just so in order for Laurel and I to end up getting married in 1990. I've spoken about some of these things in other blog posts. 

If I hadn't overheard a conversation in the San Jose State cafeteria back in 1970 about being able to get a Master's of Social Work degree in two years, almost certainly I wouldn't have applied to the school of social work at Portland State University here in Oregon, which brought me to this state in 1971, where I've never left.

And if I hadn't picked up a copy of Willamette Week, Portland's alternative paper, to pass time before a meeting of the state legislature started in 1989, I wouldn't have seen Laurel's personal ad, which appealed to me, and which I responded to. 

When people ask how we met, there's a story I've cobbled together from these and other facts. And I admit that I tend to tell the story as if it was "meant to be" that Laurel and I met, dated, and decided to get married, since if any of the key facts in my story had happened differently, we wouldn't be celebrating our 33rd anniversary in a few months.

Here's the problem, though, with that sort of story-telling, whether it be about how someone found a religion or a marriage partner or a job or anything else. 

Everything in life is meant to be once it has happened. That's a truism, and the point of my "It had to be" blog post. If I hadn't gone to a School of Social Work after getting a B.A. in Psychology, I would have done something else, and probably not in Oregon.

In that other place, doing that other thing, my first wife and I would have had a much different life than we actually did. Maybe we never would have gotten divorced. If we did, it wouldn't have been at the same time. And if I'd gotten divorced and remarried, it would have been to a different woman, not Laurel.

In that alternative reality, I'd be telling a story about how all that was "meant to be," because it was what actually happened. But in real life, only one thing happens. So making a story out of what had to happen isn't at all like a novel where the author can fabricate all kinds of different plot lines.

In real life there's only one plot line: what actually happened. And for that, we don't really need a story. Just a recollection of what happened.

"It had to be" -- a great four-word secular philosophy

At my age, 74, it gets more common to have worries pop up in my life that are different from younger person concerns.

Health problems, for example. They occur at any age, but when you're young, things that are wrong with you tend to get better. However, the older we get, the more likely we have to deal with chronic problems, things that aren't going to go away. 

Best we can do is manage them so they're annoyances, not major obstacles to living an enjoyable life.

I find that when I have a doctor appointment scheduled where I'm not sure whether the news I'm going to get about a health problem will be good or bad, my mind sometimes gets anxious over the uncertainty.

Then, when the day of the appointment comes and I learn what the doctor has to say, I feel better -- no matter what happened. 

One lesson from this is what I've known for a long time: our minds are adept at imagining both the worst that can happen, and the best that can happen, even though usually what actually happens is somewhere in-between. 

A related lesson is how comforting four simple words can be when I take them to heart: It had to be.

When I say that to myself, no matter what the "It" is that has occurred, I feel grounded, in touch with reality, part of the whole of life that is so much greater than my small self. 

Sure, in a sense It had to be is a truism. After all, if something has happened, obviously it had to be, or it wouldn't have happened.

But saying those words reminds me that just as religious believers like to submit themselves to what they regard as God's will, or God's plan for them, us atheists can enjoy our submission to the marvelous chains of cause and effect, or determinism, that produce everything in existence.

Including the state of our health. And happiness. And all the other thoughts, emotions, actions, and states of being that combine to produce what we call "my life."

Looking forward from now, the future is uncertain. Looking backward from now, the conditions of this present moment were completely determined. Which means, everything that occurs in the future will eventually become the past that was also completely determined.

So It had to be, while a truism, is a valuable reminder of how reality outside of our subjective perceptions actually is. 

We worry about an uncertain future, losing sight of the fact that it really isn't uncertain at all. Only one thing is going to happen: that which happens. Likewise, we engage in regrets about a past that didn't turn out as we wanted, losing sight of the fact that the past could only turn out in one way: that which occurred.

The big bang had to be. The formation of the Milky Way Galaxy had to be. The creation of our solar system had to be. Earth had to be. Evolution had to be. Extinction of the dinosaurs had to be. The rise of Homo sapiens had to be. The birth and death of each of our ancestors had to be. The circumstances of our life from infancy to the present moment had to be.

Pretty damn simple: It all had to be. No exceptions. Our joys and sorrows had to be. Our successes and failures had to be. My writing this blog post had to be. Your reading it had to be.

We can complicate life all we want, or simplify it all we want. Regardless, it had to be. That's why I love those four words: It had to be.

"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.

I'm a human being having a human experience. How about you?

During my religious believing days -- well, 35 years actually -- I'd frequently hear people talk about "We are spiritual beings having a human experience, not human beings having a spiritual experience."

That quote came from Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, a French philosopher and Jesuit priest. So it isn't surprising that he'd have such a dualistic attitude, with our bodily existence as humans just being a step on the way toward a supernatural experience as a spiritual being.

But early on in my churchless evolution, I realized that it makes no sense to view myself in that way. So if I had to describe my current approach to life, it would be that I'm a human being having a human experience.

Which isn't exactly an astounding observation. It's obvious, clear for both me and everyone else to see in their own lives. However, religions specialize in making what's simple and obvious, complex and indistinct.

In 2010 I wrote "Religions are wrong about self-realization."

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin said, "We are not human beings having a spiritual experience; we are spiritual beings having a human experience."

Well, that's highly doubtful.

Yet even if it were true, every human being who has any sort of experience is accomplishing this via a physical brain that, as noted in a quote above, processes most of what we come to be aware of outside of conscious awareness.

And what's much more likely is that we indeed are "only animals" who have evolved an ability to think of ourselves as having passed beyond our animal nature. This is belied, however, by the neuroscientific understanding of the brain's primitive parts.

Admittedly, the triune brain theory (reptilian, ancient mammalian, modern human) has been superseded by more accurate and sophisticated models. But the fact remains that whatever our "self" may be, it isn't something simple, obvious, supernatural, or transparently evident to awareness.

So this makes traditional religious/spiritual notions of self-realization laughably out of touch with reality. Whatever we are, it isn't what we intuitively consider ourselves to be -- often with ridiculously excessive confidence.

If somebody claims to be self-realized, or says he knows how this can be achieved, ask him to show you a "self." He won't be able to do it, just as no supposedly God-realized person ever has been able to demonstrate the existence of a "God."

And in 2013 I wrote "Be a real actual body, not an imagined abstract soul."

What are we? Ah, there's an ageless question. Matter? Energy? Mind? Spirit? Soul? A combination?

As noted in a post from a few years back, "Feeling the spirit... via body or soul?," I used to believe that our true nature was non-material soul-consciousness. After I died, or maybe before if my meditation bore fruit, I'd soar into a spiritual realm of existence and enjoy a soulful (literally) existence.

Yet where is the evidence for this? Nowhere. Except in the minds of people who believe this sort of stuff -- which seemingly includes the majority of the world's population, given how popular supernatural religiosity is.

(Though traditional Christianity taught that resurrection of the faithful was a bodily affair, I've seen surveys that indicate most Christians today think their soul will go to heaven after death and spend quality time with God, Jesus, departed relatives, and other souls who won the Salvation Lottery.)

One reason I've switched to embracing my bodily nature a lot more enthusiastically than I did in my churched days is this:

For me, living in my head, surrounded by abstract conceptions, isn't anywhere near as satisfying as dwelling in the physical world -- immersed in real live sensations and perceptions. This was the theme of a recent post, "To be 'spiritual,' get physical."

In other words, all our notions about divinity, spirituality, the supernatural, soul, spirit, angels, and such derive from our experience as physical beings in a physical world. 

If someone has a vision of God, that vision was processed through a physical brain and body. If someone writes a holy book, that writing was produced by a physical brain and body. If someone speaks about what lies beyond the material world, their speaking came from a physical brain and body.

Religious people are physical beings pretending to have a spiritual experience. Wisdom lies in seeing through this pretension. Genuine "spirituality" is achieved by being honestly physical.

Amen (secular version) to what I said back then, and believe even more strongly now. I feel a great sense of relief being what I so obviously am: a human having a human experience. Just like everybody else in the world, no matter if they wrongly believe otherwise.

Beneath all our differences; beneath all our political, religious, and other divisions; beneath all our widely varying views about what makes life meaningful -- there's the common denominator of our shared humanity. 

In one sense, none of us is anything special. Yet in another sense, we're all marvelously special. Each of us is a physical being in a physical world, sharing that being'ness with all of the other living creatures on our planet, which, given our current knowledge of the cosmos, is the only place life exists that we're aware of.

Beautiful. Inspiring. Unifying. It's what I see John Lennon talking about in the secular/atheist songs he wrote.

Hope is the secular equivalent of religious faith

I've finished Kieran Setiya's book, Life is Hard: How Philosophy Can Help Us Find Our Way.

As might be expected, Setiya doesn't conclude that's there some magical bit of philosophy that can be sprinkled over his first six chapter titles -- Infirmity, Loneliness, Grief, Failure, Injustice, Absurdiy -- and renders those manifestations of life's hardness harmless, or at least bearable.

The best Setiya can come up with is Hope, the title of his concluding chapter. He warms up to that topic in the Absurdity chapter.

Thus the existentialists were wrong: reason may dictate a total reaction to the world, and that reaction may be, if not exactly affirmation, then acceptance of the universe and the place of human life within it. 

This need not rest on anything transcendent or divine, the nonexistence of the self or the immortality of the soul. The afterlife it calls for is collective. The meaning of life -- the truth that tells us how to feel about the whole residual cosmos -- would lie in our halting, perhaps perpetual, progress toward justice in this world.

This vision is less distant from religion than it seems. It is often said that religious belief originates in fear of death, that it's meant to console us in our mortality. But that view is simplistic.

As the pioneering theologian John Bowker argued, the ubiquitous injustice of our world -- where the innocent suffer and the guilty go free -- cries out for metaphysical solution. That is why religions look for justice in a world beyond, or dismiss the world we know as an illusion. The truth would otherwise be intolerable.

The point of being immortal is not simply to cheat death but to make room for the justice our mortality frustrates. The virtuous must be rewarded and the vicious damned; and if that does not happen in this world, it must happen in another. Justice comes first -- as it does in my account of the meaning of life.

I don't believe in another world, not one that compensates for ours. If there is meaning to be found, we must find it in the shape of history, the arc of the moral universe that bends, or does not bend, toward justice.

...I am not by nature optimistic. When I look at whee we are heading, I am terrified, by climate change most of all... If climate change leads to widespread food and water insecurity, mass migration, conflict, and war, we can forget about equality and human rights.

That climate change threatens the meaning of life is not mere rhetoric; it is plain fact. Human life could have meaning. It's meaning could be to limp slowly, painfully, contingently, toward a justice that repairs, so far as it can, the atrocities of the past.

If human history had that shape, we should accept it and play our part. In our small corner of the vast, indifferent universe, we would have made a home. If climate change leads instead to social collapse, that meaning will be lost, not in absurdity but in shame. 

...Our task now is to pull the emergency brake on climate change -- along with the injustice, domestic and global, gendered and racial, with which it is entwined. Our efforts will shape the facts that tell us how to feel. We'll rise to the challenge or we won't. Things may look bad, but remember how they looked before, when we faced the vacuum of absurdity. The question of life's meaning is intelligible and the answer is up to us.

Today, the future is uncertain. We can't be sure, can hardly guess, how history's arc will bend. And so we cannot say what human life means, if it means anything at all. The question that remains is what to feel when so much is unknown. What total reaction makes sense when the meaning of life is unsettled and at risk. Should we be lifted by hope or flattened by despair?

Great question. Me, I answer it either way depending on my mood. My mother, who raised me after my parents divorced, was highly political. So am I.

I love to follow the ins and outs of politics, even as American and world politics both elates and depresses me, depending on how the arc of justice Setiya speaks of appears to be bending. In three weeks the United States will hold midterm elections that will determine which party controls Congress and state legislatures.

Since I care so much about politics, and the related subjects of climate change, American support for Ukraine in its fight against the war crimes of Russia, and other pressing issues, I'm unable to simply live my everyday life, as appealing as that seems at times.

So how do I, or anybody, who cares about making the world a better place, find the energy and determination to pursue justice in all of its varied forms? I think Setiya has it right when he gives a qualified nod to Hope in his final chapter.

Until recently, I didn't think much about hope, and when I did, I was suspicious. My chronic pain is here to stay. To hope otherwise is to be dishonest. And when there's something to be done, what matters is to do it, not whether one does it with hope or resignation. 

Hope isn't important to me. My therapist disagrees. She believes that its significance in my life shows up in my resistance to it. The problem is that I'm afraid to hope; and what I need is courage. It's not just me. For many, hope blurs into wishful thinking. And the more we hope, the more we risk despair.

Why put ourselves through it? At the same time, we cling to hope, a seeming source of light when times are dark. I have come to think that none of us are wrong. Hope is and ought to be an object of ambivalence. Imprisoned in Pandora's jar, hope is both useless and essential.

What is hope, anyway? Philosophers have spilled some ink on this in recent years and, amid dissent, a broad consensus has emerged. 

Hope has elements of both desire and belief. To hope for something is, in part, to wish for it, in part to see it as possible, though not inevitable. You don't hope for what you don't want. Nor do you hope for what is out of the question or what you're sure is bound to happen.

What's more, to hope for something is to think it isn't wholly up to you. It doesn't make sense to hope for what you can simply bring about. Hope is a concession to what you cannot control.

...It is much easier to say why despair is bad than why hope is good. We despair when things are hopeless, but we remain attached to them. "The relationship is over; she is gone forever," cries the jilted lover. The terminal patient weeps: "There is no cure." What they feel is grief or something like it. The pain of passion for a possibility that has died.

But that doesn't mean there's merit in hope. Sometimes impossibility is a fact. My mother's Alzheimer's is not going to get better, only worse, and it would be foolish to hope otherwise, however much I wish it weren't.

Even where hope is rational, what is the good of it? I think of the U.S. elections in 2016 and 2020, when I watched the returns with agonized hope. There was nothing to do but manage my anxiety and vehemently plead for the better result.

Where is the value in that? Hope coexists with quiescence. If there's courage in hoping, it's the courage to face the disappointment that hope creates. When things turn out badly, hope is more harrowing than despair. 

...This is where the myth of hope's value starts. Hope is a precondition of what matters: the pursuit of meaningful change. But that doesn't make hope worthy in itself.

...Hope is like the forging point of iron: the temperature at which it can be wrought. Hope is the point at which we can be moved to act. But it is not the source of heat that brings us to that point or the force that moves us forward, the hammer blow with which we bend the world. Like hot iron, hope is dangerous: it can hurt us. 

And by itself, hope does nothing at all.

Hope doesn't inspire us to act: it makes room for grief and rage to do that. Fear, too, can be a motivating force, as it is for those who work on climate change. "I don't want you to be hopeful," the activist Greta Thunberg told an audience at the World Economic Forum in Davos. "I want you to panic."

Hope is consistent with inaction. It's a precondition of something good -- of striving, uncertainly, for what matters -- but it's not good in itself. 

If you are trying to find a therapy for your illness, to adapt to disability, to cope with loneliness or escape from it, to succeed against the odds or to learn from failure, you are living in hope. Depending on your temperament, you may feel good about this or, like me, beset with fear.

If hoping makes you anxious, you'll need courage. My therapist was right: I have to fight the fear of hope that inhibits me from taking risks. But hope itself is idle -- a prerequisite, not a goal. 

I said hope is and ought to be an object of ambivalence, but I've been mostly negative so far. Hope doesn't do much for us: at best it correlates with something good; and the correlation is imperfect. When we give up hope, we give up trying; but we can hope while doing nothing. 

And it's action, not hope, that matters.

...The virtue of hoping well is a matter of belief, of standing with or searching for the truth, attending to what's possible. And it's a matter of will, the courage to conceive alternatives, even when it's not clear what to do. 

This is how we should approach life's hardships, finding possibility where we can: the possibility of flourishing with disability or disease, of finding one's way through loneliness, failure, grief. The question, then, is not whether to hope but what we should hope for.

In the spirit of this book, the answer's not an ideal life. What we need is acknowledgement and close reading of the lives we have. I can hope to ignore my pain or to make something of it, even if I don't hope for a cure.

I can hope to see my mother again, to hold her hand and walk with her along the foreshore where the estuary gathers the tides and the great bridge sweeps across the river mouth, curving with the Earth. But I know she won't recover.

...Other concepts we should leave behind: the concept of the best life as a guideline or a goal, of being happy as the human good, of self-interest divorced from the good of others. Disability need not make life worse and pain is not lost for words. Love need not be earned; grief is no mistake, and the tempering of grief is not betrayal.

Life is not a narrative "that swells and tautens until climax"; it's not all about getting things done. Responsibility for justice need not rest on blame; and while we cannot know we've done enough, that's not a reason to do nothing. Human life is not inevitably absurd; there is room for hope.

Unconditional friendship explains a lot in politics and religion

I'm continuing to enjoy Kieran Setiya's book, "Life is Hard: How Philosophy Can Help Us Find Our Way." Every chapter offers up fresh insights into issues that only a skilled philosopher who is dedicated to making philosophy a practical guide for everyday life could come up with.

In the Loneliness chapter, Setiya speaks about friendship. As he did in other chapters, Setiya starts with Aristotle, then picks apart Aristotle's perspective, showing where it is lacking.

As you can read below, Setiya disagrees with Aristotle's contention that when a friend loses the qualities that make him or her lovable, the friend should be dropped. Rather, friendship means being loved for oneself, not for the qualities that you possess.

This rings true to me. Sure, it is easier to be friends with someone who has qualities that you like. But a deep friendship can remain intact even when your friend changes for the worse.

When I read the passage below, it struck me that this helps explain why, say, those who are devoted to Donald Trump stick with him through scandals that seemingly should turn them off to America's most notorious politician. 

Trump's base of support remains amazingly constant even through two impeachments, a failed re-election attempt, countless blatant lies, serious legal troubles, and his attempt to prevent Biden from being installed as president.

I've always thought that Trump's supporters simply were incapable of recognizing the truth about him. But after reading Setiya, I think a more likely explanation is that Trump's charisma and ability to stir up a crowd lead his supporters to view him as a friend.

And friends can disregard a lot of failings in the other person, because as Setiya says, they value their friend for who they are, not the qualities they possess. Same holds true for religious leaders.

So in both politics and religion, if followers consider a leader as a friend (even if they've never met the leader in person), they will be inclined to look past their flaws and mistakes, just as they would for a personal friend.

Here's some of what Setiya had to say about friendship.

Seeing where Aristotle went astray shows something deep about love for friends and family. His mistake was to think of friendship as meritocratic: for him, it's conditional on virtue.

"But if one accepts another man as good, and he turns out badly and is seen to do so," Aristotle asks, "must one still love him? Surely it is impossible, since not everything can be loved, but only what is good."

For Aristotle, friends ought to be flaky, in a way. They should drop you, and stop loving you, the moment you lose the qualities that make you friends. That's pretty much the opposite of the truth. I'm not saying that friendship must be unconditional -- but it can be.

I've had friendships in which a friend changed utterly, to the point that I no longer liked them. I still cared about them. When my friend becomes an asshole, their redemption matters to me vastly more than that of any random schmuck. I suspect that you're the same.

Aristotle's oversight goes back to his initial argument, that loving someone for himself is loving him for his character. That just isn't so.

You are not your character, an assemblage of quirks and traits, virtues and vices, all of which you can outlive. You are a particular, concrete human being, not defined by the attributes you have. Being loved for yourself, therefore, is not being loved for qualities that make you, you, and being valued as a friend is not the same as being admired.

In fact, it's the other way round. Being loved for yourself is being loved precisely not for any special qualities by which love must be earned. And to be valued as a friend is to be valued irrespective of your faults.

Philosophers sometimes claim that to love someone is to see the best in them, even to the point of exaggeration; this is known as "epistemic partiality." 

I hesitate to generalize, but that is not my experience. Parents can be unsparingly critical, and whether or not that's for the best, it doesn't conflict with their claim to love. What is more, their children may be happy to reciprocate. 

Nor is this confined to parental and filial love. No one knows my faults better than my wife, and I know plenty of hers. This doesn't prevent us from loving each other. 

All of which helps us locate the value in friendship, and so, by negation, the harm in being lonely. The rewards of friendship are manifold; friendship offers meaning and pleasure of many kinds. But its value flows ultimately, I believe, from the unconditional value of the people who are friends. 

Pick a friendship that matters in your life: it matters, in the end, because your friend matters and so do you. True friends cherish each other, not just the friendship that connects them. 

Don't protest that something should not be, or it is for the best

I've read a lot of books in my seven decades or so of avid reading.

What I've learned is that sometimes a book is worth reading for a single memorable thought that sticks in the mind long after the rest of the book has been forgotten.

I feel this happening with a sentence that keeps popping up in my psyche several days after I came across it in "Life is Hard," by Kieran Setiya, a philosopher who teaches at MIT. I've boldfaced the sentence below, placing it in the context of where it appears in Setiya's book.

Here it is by itself in all its thought-provoking glory.

Religious or not, we conjure the problem of evil whenever we protest that something should not be; and we engage in something like theodicy when we say it's for the best.

Here's an experience you may have had. You tell a friend about a problem you are coping with, maybe a blowup at work or in a close relationship, a health scare that has you rattled. They are quick to reassure you -- "Don't worry; it will all be fine!" -- or to offer you advice.

But their response is not consoling. Instead, it feels like disavowal: a refusal to acknowledge what you're going through. What we learn in moments like these is that assurance and advice can operate as denial.

Worse than denial, even, is the urge to justify human suffering. "Everything happens for a reason" -- except, of course, it doesn't. Philosophers have a word, "theodicy," for an argument that vindicates the ways of God to man.

Theodicies address the problem of evil: if God is omnipotent and benevolent, what accounts for the manifold evils of the world? 

But theodicy has a life of its own, outside of narrowly theistic or doctrinal contexts. Religious or not, we conjure the problem of evil whenever we protest that something should not be; and we engage in something like theodicy when we say it's for the best.

The problem with theodicy is not just intellectual -- none of the arguments work -- but ethical, too. It's wrong to justify your own or others' suffering, to mute pity or protest in that way. 

I find this sentence amazingly brilliant and well-said. It shows the value of having a philosopher take on the problem of living as well as possible in a world filled with suffering of many varieties.

Every day, many times a day in fact, I protest that something should not be.

When the sciatica in my right leg is more painful than usual. When our dog won't come when I call her. When Putin fires missiles at Ukraine apartment buildings, killing innocent civilians. When I'm late for my Tai Chi class and can't find a nearby parking space.

I'd never thought that I was conjuring the problem of evil when I do this. But it makes sense. After all, evil is viewed as the presence of something horrible that shouldn't be. In the paragraph above, that would be Putin wantonly killing Ukrainians who have no connection to the military.

Yet I think Setiya is correct that the conjuring of evil occurs when we protest that anything should not be.

After all, what exists is a fact. We may not like that it exists. We may want to work to stop it from existing. However, Setiya correctly says in his book that "We have to live in the world as it is, not the world as we wish it would be."

Evil is a creation of the human mind. I use the word occasionally. From now on I'm going to try to use it less often, because it serves no real purpose. What Putin is doing to the Ukrainian people isn't evil; it is terribly wrong. 

Evil demands an explanation for its existence. But we conjure it into existence by viewing evil as something substantively real, often supernaturally real. Dealing with serious problems can happen just as easily without bringing evil into it. 

Politicians like to use the term "evildoers" to justify harsh reactions, as was the case after 9/11. Why not just call them terrorists or extremists? 

More broadly and personally, why do I need to tell myself that such-and-such shouldn't be in my life, when it so obviously is? I can dislike what is happening to me without feeling that its very existence is a mistake.

What is real never is a mistake. It is simply reality. If I don't like the pain in my leg, I can try to lessen the pain. But I gain nothing by complaining to myself that the pain shouldn't be, since it clearly is.

Regarding theodicy, which Setiya defines as vindicating the ways of God to man, I also agree with him that we engage in a secular version of theodicy when we say something is for the best. No, it is just a thing. It is just what is.

The sciatica in my right leg isn't for the best. There's no outside message being communicated to me when I feel that pain. Sure, I've learned some things from the pain, like having the fortitude to ignore it as much as possible for the 75 minutes or so of a Tai Chi class. 

However, this is different than viewing something disagreeable as being for the best, as if there's a Cosmic Teacher who gives us suffering to convey a life lesson. That's absurd, and as Setiya says, "It's wrong to justify your own or others' suffering, to mute pity or protest in that way."

Suffering is simply suffering.

If we find meaning in our suffering, that's our business, and our creation. But to tell someone that they should look upon their suffering as being justified either by God's will or some human rationalization, that's cruel and wrong.

My new favorite book: "Life is Hard: How Philosophy Can Help Us Find Our Way"

I've read countless (more or less) religious, spiritual, mystical, philosophical, and self-help books that basically take an optimistic approach to life.

Yes, life is difficult, as the Buddha said. But those books say that it's possible to turn suffering into well- being through a myriad of suggested ways, many of them contradictory.

Believe in God. Meditate. Find your true self. Flow with whatever happens. Have a positive attitude.

Nothing wrong with all that. Except when it is. Yesterday Amazon delivered into my eagerly awaiting hands a book that Sam Harris recommended on Twitter: "Life is Hard," by Kieran Setiya, a philosopher who teaches at MIT.

It's a breath of fresh air for me. And I've only read the introduction. Here's some excerpts from the introduction. I really like both Setiya's writing style and his clear thinking.  

Life, friends, is hard -- and we must say so. It's harder for some than it is for others. Into each life some rain must fall, but while the lucky dry themselves beside the fire, others are drenched by storms and floods, both literal and figurative.

We live in the wake of a global pandemic and mass unemployment, amid the surging catastrophe of climate change and the revival of fascism. These calamities will disproportionately harm the poor, the vulnerable, and the oppressed.

...Since the age of twenty-seven, I have experienced chronic pain: persistent, fluctuating, strange, a constant drone of sensory distraction. It can be difficult to concentrate and, at times, impossible to sleep. Because it is invisible, my condition is isolating: almost no one knows. 

...There is no cure for the human condition. But after twenty years teaching and studying moral philosophy, I believe that it can help. This book explains how. 

...We should not turn away from hardship; and the best is often out of reach. Striving for it only brings dismay. This attitude may strike you as perverse or pessimistic. But we need not live our "best lives" in order to be more resilient; and we have to face the facts.

Here's an experience you may have had. You tell a friend about a problem you are coping with, maybe a blowup at work or in a close relationship, a health scare that has you rattled. They are quick to reassure you -- "Don't worry; it will all be fine!" -- or to offer you advice.

But their response is not consoling. Instead, it feels like disavowal: a refusal to acknowledge what you're going through. What we learn in moments like these is that assurance and advice can operate as denial.

Worse than denial, even, is the urge to justify human suffering. "Everything happens for a reason" -- except, of course, it doesn't. Philosophers have a word, "theodicy," for an argument that vindicates the ways of God to man.

Theodicies address the problem of evil: if God is omnipotent and benevolent, what accounts for the manifold evils of the world? 

But theodicy has a life of its own, outside of narrowly theistic or doctrinal contexts. Religious or not, we conjure the problem of evil whenever we protest that something should not be; and we engage in something like theodicy when we say it's for the best.

The problem with theodicy is not just intellectual -- none of the arguments work -- but ethical, too. It's wrong to justify your own or others' suffering, to mute pity or protest in that way. 

...So this is where we are: heirs to a tradition that urges us to focus on the best in life but painfully aware of the ways in which life is hard. To open our eyes is to come face-to-face with suffering -- with infirmity, loneliness, grief, failure, injustice, absurdity. 

We should not blink; instead, we should look closer. What we need in our affliction is acknowledgement. 

...Two insights light the way. The first is that being happy is not the same as living well. If you wish to be happy, dwelling on adversity may or may not be of use. But mere happiness should not be your goal. Happiness is a mood or feeling, a subjective state; you could be happy while living a lie.

...The truth is that we should not aim to be happy but to live as well as we can.

...I don't mean we should strive to be unhappy, or be indifferent to happiness, but there is more to life than how it feels. Our task is to face adversity as we should -- and here truth is the only means. We have to live in the world as it is, not the world as we wish it would be.

The second guiding light is that, in living well, we cannot extricate justice from self-interest or divide ourselves from others. It will emerge as the book goes on that even the most insular concerns -- with one's own suffering, one's loneliness, one's frustrations -- are implicitly moral.

They are entangled with compassion, with the value of human life, with ideologies of failure and success that obfuscate justice. Reflecting honestly on affliction in our own lives leads toward concern for others, not into narcissistic self-regard. 

Sam Harris answers "What makes life worth living?"

I came across a tweet by Sam Harris that was a (mildly) animated GIF with Harris' narrated words scrolling at the bottom. 

He asks a good question. Whether you think his answer is New Age bullshit, ancient spiritual wisdom, or something in-between is another good question.

What makes life worth living? This is an important question, probably the most important question, because if we don't know, then we can't prioritize what we actually value.

We tend to live as if we've answered this question for ourselves. But most of the time we're just doing one thing after the next, following our desires, reacting to what happens out in the world.

And only rarely do we step back and ask what it is that actually matters.

I don't think there's just one answer to this question. We might want to say that love is what makes life worth living, or doing meaningful and creative work, or appreciating the beauty of nature, or helping other people and making their lives better.

And I'd probably say all of these things. 

But all of these things have a common property. They all depend on real attention, real presence of mind, real connection with life in the present.

And that's what meditation is, whether most people know it or not. Meditation is the essence of everything else that makes life worth living.

I agree that attention, presence of mind, and connection with the present moment are key to a satisfying life. But obviously there's a chicken-and-egg issue here.

It's much easier to have those qualities when we're engaged in an activity that demands them. Yet almost every activity is more satisfying when we pay close attention to it in the present moment. 

I scrolled through some of the comments on Harris' tweet. I liked this one: "people need to live their lives like they're climbing a 50,000 foot tall ladder. gotta pay attention to whats right in front of you, or you'll fall."

That fits with a comment by Tucson, a frequent commenter on this blog some years back, who said something along the same line.

Namely, that we should be as attentive to our life as if we were walking through a forest in the middle of the night that was inhabited by a dangerous wild animal that could kill us.

A more positive image would be that we're walking in the middle of the day along a busy city sidewalk filled with people, one of whom reportedly is hugely attractive and has expressed a romantic interest in us, but told us only "Watch for my sign that I'm the person you're looking for." 

In each of these scenarios -- and we could think of many more, such as a combat patrol that has penetrated into enemy territory -- it behooves us to pay rapt attention in the present moment and not be distracted by thoughts of the past or future.

But then there's always someone with a more down-to-earth approach to what makes life worth living, like whoever left this comment on Harris's tweet: "Range day. Smoked meats. Blowjobs. Sci-fi novels. Boobs. Cats!"

"May I be free of fear" -- my addition to loving kindness meditation

For quite a while, maybe five years, I've been repeating a form of loving kindness meditation that I learned from listening to Tamara Levitt's guided meditations on my iPhone's Calm app.

It starts like this. Then "I" is replaced by "you," someone I care about (usually my wife), followed by "all" replacing "you."

May I be happy.
May I be safe.
May I be healthy.
May I be at peace.

Recently I've added a fifth sentiment.

May I be free of fear.

When I do the "all" thing, previously I envisioned the entire world, as if I was floating in space and casting loving kindness hopes over our planet.

Now, following Russia's invasion of Ukraine, I picture the Ukrainian people as I mentally say...

May all be happy.
May all be safe.
May all be healthy.
May all be at peace.
May all be free of fear.

As I wrote about in "What do you find inspiring about Ukraine?", the strength and courage of Ukrainians in the face of relentless aggression, bombing, and war crimes by Putin's forces is deeply inspiring.

Especially because fear must be omnipresent in Ukraine. Not in everybody. Not all the time. But when the air raid sirens sound, tanks are approaching, or missile strikes are heard nearby, it's entirely normal to feel fear.

How we handle that feeling is the important thing. I have little desire to read the book, Feel the Fear... and Do It Anyway, but I like the title. Here's how the author, Susan Jeffers, summarizes her take on fear.

FEAR TRUTH #1

The fear will never go away as long as you continue to grow!
Every time you take a step into the unknown, you experience fear. There is no point in saying, "When I am no longer afraid, then I will do it." You'll be waiting for a long time. The fear is part of the package.

FEAR TRUTH #2

The only way to get rid of the fear of doing something is to go out and…do it!
When you do it often enough, you will no longer be afraid in that particular situation. You will have faced the unknown and you will have handled it. Then new challenges await you, which certainly add to the excitement in living.

FEAR TRUTH #3

The only way to feel better about yourself is to go out and…do it!
With each little step you take into unknown territory, a pattern of strength develops. You begin feeling stronger and stronger and stronger.

FEAR TRUTH #4

Not only are you afraid when facing the unknown, so is everyone else!
This should be a relief. You are not the only one out there feeling fear. Everyone feels fear when taking a step into the unknown. Yes, all those people who have succeeded in doing what they have wanted to do in life have felt the fear - and did it anyway. So can you!

FEAR TRUTH #5

Pushing through fear is less frightening than living with the bigger underlying fear that comes from a feeling of helplessness!
This is the one truth that some people have difficulty understanding. When you push through the fear, you will feel such a sense of relief as your feeling of helplessness subsides. You will wonder why you did not take action sooner. You will become more and more aware that you can truly handle anything that life hands you.

Everybody can benefit from being, if not free of fear, at least less in the sway of fear. I think those of us of advancing age -- a gentle way of saying old folks -- especially need to find ways to be less fearful.

Sure, it's natural to become more cautious as we grow older. Our strength is less. Health problems limit what we can do. Sticking to routines can seem safer than pushing our boundaries. I spoke with a friend today about this.

I told him that not so long ago I was practicing karate rather than Tai Chi; I was riding around on a Suzuki Burgman scooter rather than a car; I was longboarding (big skateboard) rather than bicycling. Where did the more fearless me go who did those things? 

Nowhere, really. I'm still the same person. I just have fallen into what most 73 year old people do: play it safe whenever possible.

I'm not saying that we should lose all sense of fear and do dangerous things, though having written those words, actually that sounds like a pretty good idea. But we can be more daring and less fearful.

One of the reasons I like the streaming series Yellowstone is that it shows cowboys on a very large (and very beautiful) Montana ranch acting fearlessly. They can do this because they're highly skilled at riding horses, roping, and doing all the other stuff that a cattle ranch requires.

Last night my wife and I watched an episode where the ranch hands want to help out the family of a horse breeder who committed suicide after a bank foreclosed on his property. Their plan is to round up his several hundred horses, then sell them and give the money to the dead guy's family.

"They're all up at the top of that slope," a cowboy says. "How are we going we get them down without being killed in a stampede." "Well," replies another cowboy, "we could be cautious and figure out a safe way to do this, or... we could just say fuck it, ride up there, and do it." 

"Yeah, fuck it. That's a good plan," they all agree. The resulting scene was marvelous. Must have been difficult to film. Hundreds of horses galloping down a hillside with cowboys herding them along, also at full speed.

I found this really inspiring. When they got all the horses in a big corral and closed the gate, the cowboys looked at each other and said, "Damn, we did it!" A dangerous job. Scary, to normal people.

But no matter what fear they might have felt, they got on their horses and did it anyway.

What do you find inspiring about Ukrainians?

I'm curious.

While I realize that most of the people who visit this blog aren't as obsessed with the Russian invasion of Ukraine as I am -- I check my Twitter feed for recent news about Ukraine many times a day -- likely everybody is at least somewhat familiar with how bravely the Ukrainian people are fighting against this unprovoked war by Vladimir Putin.

So I'm interested in learning how you feel about what's happening in Ukraine. Note, feel.

I stress that word because while I do a lot of thinking about Ukraine, all those thoughts aren't nearly as important to me as the emotions I feel when news stories show me what's happening there. Clearly the world has been touched by how Ukrainians have reacted to the invasion.

For sure, I have.

I'll share some of my feelings in this blog post. If you choose to do the same in a comment, great. Again, I'm hoping to learn more about how other people have been affected by Putin's war. Maybe your feelings are much like mine; maybe they're not.

I'm not a big fan of being dead. I'd like to live as long as possible. With this proviso: so long as life seems worth living. 

What's super impressive -- it blows my mind, really -- is the readiness of Ukrainians to fight to the death for what they consider makes life worth living. Yes, that sounds contradictory. How could dying be welcomed by a person who recognizes that something makes life worth living?

Sebastian Junger points to some answers in a Vanity Fair piece, "Can Ukrainian Freedom Fighters Stand Up to the Russian Military? History Suggests They Can."

Most successful underdog groups have three things in common, and Ukraine has all of them. First, such groups need to have a clear moral purpose with deep roots in the history of the population. The ability of a group to be autonomous and self-defining—free—is one of the few things that people will readily die for, and framing a struggle in those terms makes them much more likely to succeed.

(Freedom is a powerful word that often gets dragged into bogus political fights. Recent protesters who appropriated that word in this country were clearly not prepared to die in large numbers for it—a sign that the protests may not really have been about freedom at all.)

The deep moral purpose at the heart of the Maidan Square protests in 2014 and in the current Ukrainian resistance makes sacrificing one’s life seem like a heroic thing to do—a sentiment probably not shared by most Russian troops.

Deep moral purpose. Yes, that's what I find so moving about Ukrainians.

They're willing to endure great misery, even death, in order to resist the moral outrage of Putin's invasion of their country. Tens of thousands of Ukrainian men who had been living in other nations have gone back to Ukraine to help defend their beloved country, risking their lives.

Ukrainian women are equally impressive. I see them being trained to use a rifle. I see them making Molotov cocktails for use in urban warfare. I see them in subway shelters with their children, seeking refuge from Russian bombs.

When my life seems difficult, I envision Ukrainian men, women, and children coping with a hugely worse situation with a courage that I aspire to.

So what if I have some irritating health problems? So what if I feel stressed by Covid? So what if I get tired of all that needs to be done on our non-easy-care house on ten acres? Whatever I have to deal with, the people of Ukraine have it so much worse, my complaints seem minuscule by comparison.

Of course, Putin and his generals also have a deep purpose: to take over Ukraine, bringing it back into a reincarnated Soviet Union led by Russia. 

The difference is that Putin lacks a moral purpose. There's no justification for his invasion of Ukraine, but there's plenty of justification for the Ukrainian people to fight that invasion. Truth is all-important in having a genuine deep moral purpose.

I'm not saying that 100% of what Zelensky, the president of Ukraine, says is true. No one is perfect. However, almost every word that comes out of Putin's mouth is a lie, so there's no comparison between Putin and Zelensky.

When honesty is lost -- whether this is being honest to ourself or to others -- it is next to impossible to fight energetically for something greater than yourself. Sure, you can go through the motions, just as Russian soldiers are doing, but the passion that comes with fighting for something true and good and worth dying for is lacking when a cause is built on a lie.

We all see the world differently. Yet there are times when a certain viewpoint is so captivating, most of the world sees it in the same way.

For me, this is the tragic beauty of Ukraine. It took the horror of Putin's invasion to wake me and so many others up to the value of fighting with all our strength for what we strongly value. Again, that value has to be based on truth and doing good for others, or at least not harming them.

Sometimes life can seem like the Russian army. Disorganized, lacking competent leadership, but seemingly powerful enough to eventually run over anyone or anything standing in its way.

Yet as Junger says in his Vanity Fair piece, might can be overcome by a smaller, weaker adversary. Each of us is capable of so much more strength and courage than we normally are aware of. It shouldn't take an invasion to remind us of this, but with Ukraine, that shock has opened my eyes to a latent power within me, which is the same power within you. 

Junger writes:

On paper, Russia’s quest to occupy Ukraine looks like a foregone conclusion. With about four and a half timesas many soldiers, five times as many tanks and armored vehicles, and 10 times as many military aircraft, common sense tells us that Ukraine does not stand a chance.

In fact, history tells us otherwise.

From street-corner fistfights to insurgencies and wars, size is a terrible predictor for the outcome of human conflict. We are unique among mammals in our ability to defeat a larger, more powerful opponent; were this not so, the world would be composed of fascist mega-states and human freedom would not be possible.

We readily risk our lives to defend others, as combat narratives for Medal of Honor recipients make abundantly clear. The smaller the group, the more stubbornly loyal members are to one another, and the harder—and costlier—they are to defeat.

In 1604, the Ottoman Empire decided that the small, mountainous principality of Montenegro had to be crushed. The Montenegrins were a famously warlike people who had always rejected any form of dominion and supposedly feared nothing except dying peacefully in bed.

They inhabited a land that was too poor to support large concentrations of people, but the scattered population invariably came together to fight invaders. The Ottomans boasted some 12,000 men, including cavalry and artillery, and faced a mere 900 Montenegrins. The Montenegrins were unfazed, though, and sent three-man raiding parties out all night before attacking at dawn. They killed one third of the Ottoman army and sent the rest packing.

Free will is part of the human mind, not the universe

Free will as people almost always understand it is an illusion. There's little or no doubt about that, as I noted in a recent post. 

Here's an idea that is well worth pondering. I've enjoyed doing just that as I go to sleep, letting my mind wrap itself around an intriguing notion.

So far as we know, we humans are the only entity in the universe that doesn't exist in full accord with determinism -- causes and effects operating in a lawful, orderly manner.

Oh, but what about randomness?

Sure, randomness is real. Every programmer knows about random number generators. Quantum physics is based on probabilities of things happening at the atomic and subatomic level.

But randomness is lawful.

Certain rules determine whether a sequence of numbers, for example, truly is random. And quantum phenomena also are lawful. That's why quantum physics is so amazingly successful in serving as a foundation of modern technologies.

Thus here we are, some 13.8 billion years after the big bang that brought our universe into being, with everything in the cosmos going along with the laws of nature, galaxies forming, stars appearing and disappearing, our planet forming from primordial material, single celled life becoming multicellular life, mammals eventually evolving, then primates, and finally Homo sapiens, while sunlight strikes Earth, continents drift into their current configuration, millions of species come and go, volcanoes erupt, hurricanes form, mountains rise and are eroded away.

All without a single trace of free will. Everything occurring naturally. No one wondering other than we humans, "Should this be happening?"

Human consciousness is the only known place in the universe where a belief in the illusion of free will, and a downplaying of lawful determinism, introduces a sense of It could have been otherwise.

Should we be proud of this? Or is this a flaw in what evolution has brought about, an unfortunate side effect of a human brain that is able not only to be aware, but to be aware of our own awareness?

I enjoy looking on myself as a very, very, very small cog in the vast machinery of the cosmos. I find peace in viewing my life as fully determined, causes and effects leading to the sort of person I am now, in the place I am now, surrounded by the circumstances that affect me now.

Human consciousness is wonderful.

But it isn't perfect. Or infallible. Sometimes what seems to be, actually isn't. That's how I've come to view my sense that I'm in control of my life, that I possess free will, that I can stand outside of the deterministic laws of nature. 

Lying in bed, pondering this stuff as I gradually fall asleep, I have a glimpse of another way of viewing my place in the universe that doesn't make me something separate and distinct from the rest of nature.

And that feels good.

U.G. Krishnamurti and Zen have quite a bit in common

As noted a few days ago, I'm taking another look at U.G. Krishnamurti through his book, "Mind Is a Myth."

I read a few pages every morning, along with a Zen book by Shunryu Suzuki I'm re-reading, "Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind" -- the title of which shows that Krishnamurti and Zen aren't totally in sync. 

But there's definitely some commonalities. 

They both can be outrageous.
They both aren't afraid to defy conventional ways of thinking.
They both focus on the physical world.
They both have no interest in supernatural fantasies.
They both advise to live in the present moment.

Zen, at least in its Soto form/lineage, teaches that there is no difference between enlightenment and the act of sitting in meditation. Or doing anything else with full attention. 

Suzuki says, "Enlightenment is not some good feeling or some special state of mind. The state of mind that exists when you sit in the right posture is, itself, enlightenment."

So there's a certain absence of goals in Zen. Suzuki says, "When you do something, just to do it should be your purpose."

You know, the whole chop wood and carry water thing. Just chop wood. Just carry water. Don't add unnecessary gaining ideas to simple actions. 

In a Mistakes in Practice section, Suzuki says:

There are several poor ways of practice which you should understand. Usually, when you practice zazen [meditation], you become very idealistic, and you set up an ideal or goal which you strive to attain and fulfill. But as I have often said, this is absurd.

When you are idealistic, you have some gaining idea within yourself; by the time you attain your ideal or goal, your gaining idea will create another ideal. 

So as long as your practice is based on a gaining idea, and you practice zazen in an idealistic way, you will have no time actually to attain your ideal. Moreover, you will be sacrificing the meat of your practice. 

Because your attainment is always ahead, you will always be sacrificing yourself for some ideal in the future. You end up with nothing. This is absurd; it is not adequate practice at all. 

In passages I read this morning, Krishnamurti speaks using different language, but I see some close connections between his view and that of Suzuki.

Understanding your goal is the main thing. To achieve that goal implies struggle, battle, effort, will, that is all. There is no guarantee that you will reach your goal. 

You assume the goal is there. You have invented the goal to give yourself hope. But hope means tomorrow. Hope is necessary for tomorrow, not for today.

You know. You want more knowledge so you can develop better techniques for reaching your goal. You know that there is no guarantee that more experience, more knowledge, more systems and more methods will help you reach your goal.

Yet you persist; it is all you know how to do. Seeing today demands action. Seeing tomorrow involves only hope.

...You want to see meaning in your life. As long as you persist in searching for a purpose or meaning to life, so long whatever you are doing will seem purposeless and meaningless.

The hope you have of finding meaning is what is causing the present state of meaninglessness. There may not be any meaning other than this.

...Life, the so-called material life, has a meaning of its own. But you have been told that it is devoid of meaning and have superimposed a fictitious layer of "spiritual" meaning over it. 

Why should life have any meaning? Why should there be any purpose to living? Living itself is all that is there. Your search for spiritual meaning has made a problem out of living.

You have been fed all this rubbish about the ideal, perfect, peaceful, purposeful way of life, and you devote your energies to thinking about that rather than living fully.

In any case you are living, no matter what you are thinking about. Life has to go on.

Late this afternoon I went for a walk with Mooka, our dog, around the community lake a short distance from our property.

Mooka enjoyed sniffing for creatures in the vegetation on the water side of the earthen dam. I enjoyed the view. Life seemed fine, just the way it was.

Returning to the trail that leads to our house, fallen leaves heralded the coming of winter. Life seemed fine, just the way it was.

The bright red of a tree next to our water feature caught my eye. Life seemed fine, just the way it was.

The ancient white oak in our yard lost two large limbs in an ice storm last February. It survives, continuing to gladden my heart as I snapped one last photo before going inside to feed our dog. Life seemed fine, just the way it was. 

Always trying to improve yourself is foolish

This morning I meditated, as I always do. Via my iPhone I also listened to a Buddhist speak about Buddhist teachings, as I sometimes do. 

What surprised me, sort of, is that afterwards I felt somewhat worse. It was as if trying to improve myself led to me feeling like I'd temporarily gone backward on the improvement front. 

As soon as I went back to simply living my life -- having lunch, going grocery shopping, listening to CNN and MSNBC as I drove around in my car -- my mood improved.

For quite a while I've been toying with the idea that engaging in a never-ending spiritual search for more... more self-awareness, more control of my emotions, more mindfulness, more knowledge of how my mind works, all that is akin to running on a hamster wheel of self-improvement. 

Meaning, when I'm always trying to get somewhere better than where I am now, I'm missing the opportunity to be satisfied with the present moment.

Obviously this isn't a groundbreaking insight. It's common sense that's been echoed by many people much wiser than myself. Today I simply had a stronger feeling that I need to break free of the habit that was with me for the 35 years I was a religious believer, Eastern religion variety.

The habit of considering that there always was another step to be taken on the spiritual path, another flight of stairs to be climbed on my ascent to the spiritual heights. 

Though I've been able to leave behind most of the religiosity that used to be so important to me, the desire to keep searching for greater levels of meaning, happiness, and contentment never left me. But more and more, I'm getting used to the idea of not needing more. 

This is hard to describe.

It's not like I'm becoming fatalistic or uncaring. I still have many goals that I want to pursue. I'm dedicated to trying to make the world a better place. I'm committed to remaining a good husband, father, grandfather, friend.

However, I can do all that without feeling like some essence within me needs to improve. After a lifetime of studying the world's religious, philosophical, and mystical writings, along with daily meditation for up to several hours a day, there's really nothing new that I need to learn or experience in the realm of "spirituality." 

(I put that word in quotation marks because it doesn't capture what I am getting at, but it's the best word I can come up with.)

It's a relief to just settle into the life that I've living, instead of feeling there's a better life awaiting me around some corner.

For many years I've been saying on this blog that mindfulness has become my meditation. That's still true. It's just that even mindfulness can become a chore, an exercise to get better at, instead of simply attending to what's happening right here, right now without viewing that as mindfulness.

If what I've said in this post doesn't make sense, here's some previous posts on this theme, along with an excerpt from each. Maybe they'll help explain what I'm trying to get at here.

Ending the spiritual search

Always looking for more from life than what life already is giving me is beginning to seem unwise. 

More meaning. More happiness. More purpose. More depth. All that more, more, more seems to lead to a hamster-wheel sort of existence.

Spiritual seeking can become such a habit, the seeker doesn't realize that they're going around and around without really getting anywhere.

If we're in an endless loop of seek-find-seek-find, the way out is to either stop seeking or find that which satisfies completely. 

Since I'm not completely satisfied with life (who is?), it seems to me that giving up a quest to make life into something that it isn't already is the best way to go.

End of spiritual questions is the final answer

I've experienced that sort of who cares? clarity now and then. Sometimes life seems so simple, so fine just the way it is, yet also so mysterious, so impossible to comprehend. I grok that there's no answer to life's biggest spiritual, religious, and philosophical questions -- because there's no way to form a cogent query.

And a little while later I order another spiritual, religious, or philosophical book from Amazon -- because searching for answers to unanswerable questions is just so darn much fun.

Great quotes from "Ending the Pursuit of Happiness: a Zen Guide."

"It's a little harder for most people to realize that not only is the mind that I'm trying to escape the only mind I have, but that the mind that I'm seeking is also the mind that I already have. The perfection that we're so busy pursuing is to be found nowhere but right here in the very moment, regardless of its content. This is the most basic spiritual insight that we can have. This moment is it! What we've desperately been seeking is already here."

A.C. Grayling: meaning and meaninglessness

Here's a short video where A.C. Grayling talks about finding meaning in life without resorting to religious superstition. He makes some great points.

Let's agree: life is difficult

With so many divisions in the world -- political, religious, nationalistic, plus many others -- sometimes it seems like there's nothing all of us can agree on.

I suggest this as a foundation for finding common ground: life is difficult. 

Not all of the time. Much of the time. And for some, most of the time. The degree of difficulty varies for each person, sort of akin to a gymnastics routine where a score is based in part on the degree of difficulty of the various moves.

Yet no matter who we are or what circumstances we find ourselves in, it's virtually certain that life poses challenges for us. Heck, even a billionaire has to worry about how to spend their money.

Along with many other worries that are common to everyone, rich and poor alike. 

How to deal with health problems. Maintaining relationships with other people, romantic or otherwise. Raising children. Keeping up with the demands of a job or profession. Helping others to the best of our ability. 

Sure, these aspects of life bring satisfactions along with problems. However, I doubt that anyone can go an entire day without feeling about something, "I wish this wasn't so difficult."

Even if somehow our own day has been going absolutely perfectly, likely we'll learn about difficulties being faced by others that make us feel the same thing: "I wish this wasn't so difficult...for them."

Recently a woman I know was driving along when someone hit her car on the driver's side door. Police had to pry the door open. She broke her collarbone in the accident. She needed to spend two days in the hospital. She's 86 years old. 

Now she has to deal with a difficult recovery period.

She lives by herself, so will need help. My wife and I, along with her other friends and relatives, will do what we can. It's just so unfortunate that the woman, who walked two miles a day and exercised in other ways to stay fit, had her life changed because of an uncareful driver. 

I used to believe there was a way out of life's difficulties.

Buddhism typically refers to this as "Life is suffering." The Four Noble Truths are supposed to be a roadmap for ending suffering. Meaning, we still have difficulties, like dealing with a broken bone, but they don't bother us much or at all. We accept them in a tranquil fashion.

Maybe this is possible. I don't know. I'm just not aware of anyone who has been capable of looking upon life's difficulties with a Buddha-like detachment that enables them to enjoy an equipoise no matter what happens.

I see this as a good thing. 

It points to our common humanity, that universal desire to relieve both our own distress and that of others. Yes, universal, because even the worst psychopath cares about their own wellbeing, even if they are indifferent to the suffering of other people.

There's national political figures who I heartily dislike from afar. Donald Trump. Ted Cruz. Mitch McConnell. Tucker Carlson. When I hear them speak, my mind rejects what they're saying. 

Yet... I'm confident that if I were to sit down with them and have a candid conversation about the difficulties in their lives, I'd feel much differently about them. I'd realize that underneath their right-wing bravado lies a person who, like all of us, struggles with tough personal issues.

Unfortunately, it's difficult to understand someone else's difficulties.

Most of us are reluctant to be open and transparent with anyone but our most intimate companions about what we have to deal with. We put on a brave face to the world when a clerk asks "How's your day going?" and we reply "Great, just great," even though that isn't true.

But I've found that when I'm more honest in my response, saying something like "Not so good; the pain in my leg from sciatica is worse today," often I'll get an honest statement from a perfect stranger. "Sorry to hear that. My back has been giving me problems. Pain sucks."

There's an old saying, misery likes company. I've come to see this not as reflecting a desire that we want other people to be as miserable as we are, but as the human compulsion to share our troubles with others, as they share their troubles with us. 

We are a highly social species. It feels good when we're able to communicate our difficulties, even if no one is able to help us with them. Often what we need most is a compassionate ear, not a helping hand.

 

"The Web of Meaning" -- great book about finding our place in the universe

I've finished The Web of Meaning, by Jeremy Lent, a book with the subtitle, "Integrating Science and Traditional Wisdom to Find Our Place in the Universe."

It's a lengthy book, 382 pages, that I enjoyed. My first post about it was "Marvelous mystery lies in the complexity of the world."

Lent wrote a related previous book, The Patterning Instinct. Both books discuss Eastern and Western religions in a well-informed manner. In 2017 I talked about The Patterning Instinct in "Indian and Greek thought are both dualistic. Chinese thought isn't."

In these passages Lent explains how ancient India embraced a form of dualism that differed in some respects from that of the Greeks, but still was based on the same sorts of splits found in Christianity.

...So if someone is looking for oneness, it won't be found in either Greek or Indian thought, which are both thoroughly dualistic.

Pleasingly -- because I'm attracted to Chinese thought, especially in the guise of Taoism (and Tai Chi, basically Taoism expressed as movement, which I've been practicing for 13 years), Lent is big on the Chinese way of looking upon the world, which he admires as being in tune with modern scientific thought and a naturalistic approach to oneness.

In his new book, Lent is still big on Chinese philosophy. Along with Buddhism and indigenous traditions (Native American and others), this is what is meant by "traditional wisdom" in his subtitle.

What he's after is an integration of what divides us in science, religion, philosophy, and other areas of human life. I heartily agree with Lent that any belief system which finds meaning in some realm apart from our world and this universe -- which is what Indian religions and Christianity have in common -- isn't going to heal the splits that plague us. 

Taoism and Buddhism have a lot in common with modern systems thinking. Since I completed the course work for a doctorate in Systems Science back in the 1970's before I became a Ph.D. dropout, I resonated with the many examples of how systems concepts reflect the reality of how reality works.

Here's some quotes from The Web of Meaning along these lines. 

Reciprocal causality is a lot like the Buddhist notions of dependent origination and emptiness. Reality isn't top-down causation, as religions would have us believe, with God at the top. 

We've seen that reciprocal causality is a defining element of integrated, self-organizing systems -- the system as a whole affects the parts, while the parts affect the whole. The relationship between mind and body is similarly reciprocal. While the mind affects the body, different aspects of the body are simultaneously affecting the mind. 

...As we've seen, a hallmark of living systems is reciprocal causality: interacting parts create the system, while the system as a whole affects how the parts interact.

Purpose doesn't come from outside the universe or outside of life. Life is its own purpose.

When a bacterium in a tank senses sugar is more concentrated in a certain direction, it will turn around, rotate its flagella like a propeller and swim toward what it wants. It's driven by the same sense of purpose that has urged life forward in an unbroken flow from the days of the first protocells: a desire to resist the Second Law of Thermodynamics, to ingest nutrients, metabolize them, regenerate its parts and pass its particular form of negentropy on to the next generation.

We're back to Weber's First Law of Desire: 'Everything that lives wants more of life. Organisms are beings whose own existence means something to them.'

...As we've seen, life is a self-constructed process. There is no programmer writing a program, no architect drawing up a blueprint. The organism is the weaver of its own fabric. It sculpts itself according to its own inner sense of purpose, which it inherited ultimately -- like all of us -- from the first autocatylytic cells: the drive to resist the Second Law of Thermodynamics and generate a temporary vortex of self-created order in the universe.

Consciousness is material, but this doesn't make it any less sacred.

Some people, viewing consciousness as something sacred, might object to the idea that it could theoretically be measured through scientific instruments. My personal opinion is that, rather than diminishing the sacred quality of consciousness, it opens a pathway that bridges the sacred and the scientific. 

In modern gewu, as in Neo-Confucianism -- and in contrast to Western dualism -- there is no inherent distinction between the spiritual and the material. It's the miraculous ways in which the material world self-organizes that create the conditions for all that is sacred and meaningful in the universe. 

Emergent phenomena show that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, that at higher levels of organization newness emerges that can't be predicted by looking at more basic elements.

There is, as we've seen, a vast category of things -- life, mind, consciousness, music, cognition and rainbows, to mention just a few -- that are emergent phenomena, existing only as a result of complex, dynamic interactions between different entities. Meaning also belongs in this category.

In the same way that we can enact a rainbow by gazing into the rain, we enact meaning by the way in which we attune to the connective rhythms of the universe. Like music being played, like the refracted sunlight in the rain, the meaning potential is always there -- its just waiting for us to tune into the right wavelength and engage with it. 

...Just as music is an emergent phenomenon arising between a player and listener attuning through patterns of vibrations, so meaning is an emergent phenomenon enacted by a conscious entity as it relates an experience to other experiences. 

Death is a problem for us only insofar as we have a limited view of ourselves as an isolated being. 

At a deeper level, our identity as living beings can extend to embrace all of life. In the Western tradition, with personhood confined to conceptual consciousness, the existential fear of death has historically been alleviated by the belief in an eternal soul that remains intact after the demise of the body.

But much of this fear is the result of experiencing a self-identity separate from the rest of life. To the extent that we, as temporary eddies of consciousness, can recognize our unity with the entire stream of life of which we're a tiny part, there is less to fear from our own death.

As part of the unfolding cascade of negative entropy that has evolved in all its magnificence on Earth, we have never died for over three billion years. From this expanded perspective, as long as there is life, there is no such thing as death.

The Tao Te Ching hints at this deep insight when it proclaims, 'One who knows how to nourish life... has no place of death.'

Marvelous mystery lies in the complexity of the world

Most of us want to believe in something greater than ourself. That's a worthy ambition. Problem is, religious believers head off in a misguided direction when they imagine that the something greater lies in a vertical direction.

Meaning, they fantasize that a heaven awaits above; or that higher supernatural regions of reality exist; or that their consciousness needs to be elevated beyond worldly concerns.

What these devotees of verticality fail to understand is this: the world right here and right now possesses all the majesty, mystery, and meaning that anyone could desire.

It just takes eyes to see, which, sadly, all too often religious believers lack -- because their attention is focused on mental concepts of a imagined vertical realm rather than the reality of what the world offers.

So what I'm encouraging people to do is extend their vision horizontally. Try to understand the marvelous nature of this world, all that extends in every direction from our own body/mind. 

Nature. Animals. Humans. Galaxies. Plants. Minerals. Science. Art. Culture. A limitless expanse that is partially known, yet mostly remains a mystery.

Not because it can't be known. Because it takes time and effort to unravel the mysteries of the cosmos, including the small portion we call Earth. 

It's a big mistake to think that scientists have a narrow, mechanistic perception of reality.

Sure, some do, but they're by far the exception. The prevailing view of modern science is strongly moving toward a systems approach that emphasizes complex interrelationships, not simple bits and pieces of matter/energy.

Jeremy Lent speaks of this in his book, "The Web of Meaning: Integrating Science and Traditional Wisdom to Find Our Place in the Universe." In the Introduction he says:

The Web of Meaning takes up where The Patterning Instinct [his previous book] left off, by laying out a framework for a worldview that could foster humanity's long-term flourishing on a healthy planet. It is a worldview of integration: one that identifies the unifying principles that flow through all things, while celebrating the differences that lead to the richness of our lived experience. 

It's a worldview that links together scientific findings in recent decades from such diverse fields as evolutionary biology, cognitive neuroscience and complexity theory, showing how they affirm profound insights from the world's great wisdom traditions, such as Buddhism, Taoism, and traditional knowledge from Indigenous peoples around the world.

This integrated worldview breaks down many of the barriers that tend to separate different forms of knowledge and activity in modern society. 

We're accustomed to thinking of science as existing in a different domain from spirituality. We generally view the intellect as distinct from emotion; the mind as separate from the body; humans as separate from nature; and spiritual insight as separate from political engagement.

In the integrated worldview laid out here, each one of these domains is intricately connected with the others in an extended web of meaning.

A complex web of meaning. But "complex" doesn't necessarily mean confusing, disturbing, undesirable. Complexity just is the way the world is. 

Yes, we humans like to imagine that the world is made of discrete entities. There is me, and there is you. Two things. I am me, you are you. Pretty damn simple. 

And yet... 

When I'm with my wife I'm a different person than when I'm by myself. Or with someone else. Every relationship is just that: a relation between two or more entities, in this case, people. That relationship is more than the sum of the parts of the entities. 

It is a process, give and take, a flowing dance that can't be understood by freezing motion into a static "me" and "you." In every relationship between two living beings, there is an astounding degree of mystery, of unpredictableness, of creativity.

We have no idea who our self is. Not really. Almost certainly the reason is that the self doesn't exist. At least not in the way most of us conceive of it.

We imagine an unchanging core at the center of our being. Consciousness. Soul. Ego. Self.

Whatever name it goes by, there's no evidence of it, even though it seems entirely real. So does a mirage, until we drive close to the shimmering pool of water in the middle of a road and realize that it only exists as ephemeral waves given off by a hot road. 

(When I was a child my mother lived in El Paso and drove to New Mexico regularly, so I became familiar with this sort of mirage.)

We have a lot of difficulty grasping that there's no enduring self -- just relationships between our body/mind and the world.

Zen masters are fond of asking their students to point to that supposed self, to their imagined Buddha-nature, to the "I" lurking in their cranium.

When all that pointing is shown to be illusory, they advise looking instead to eating a bowl of rice, or to sweeping the floor, or to carrying a pail of water. We find ourselves by losing ourselves in the greater world.

Jeremy Lent says in his book:

Along with other Buddhist schools, Zen recognizes that, of all the cognitive patterns blocking a deep realization of reality, the most insidious is the belief that "I" am an objective and fixed entity, rather than a mere abstraction. Philosopher Alan Watts illustrates this by comparing the "I" to the illusory circle of light created by a whirling torch or the flight path made by a bird in the sky.

It doesn't objectively exist, but we create the abstraction by weaving together a pattern of past and future.

The word for this Buddhist insight, anatman, which literally means 'no atman', is often confusingly translated as 'no-self', but it would be more accurate to translate it as 'no-fixed-I'. 

The meaning of the ancient Indian word atman correlates closely with the Greco-Christian idea of a fixed eternal soul that is freed from the body at death. When the Buddha renounced this core Vedic belief with the principle of anatman, it would have been as revolutionary as an early Christian claiming that the soul didn't exist.

Ending the spiritual search

It's a bit difficult for me to tell when my spiritual searching began.

Was it when I tried to figure out in high school the deeper meaning of Bob Dylan's enigmatic song lyrics? Was it when I devoured Sartre, Camus, and other existentialists during my early college years? 

Maybe.

But for sure it started when, in 1969, my wife-to-be and I began learning hatha yoga and meditation from a crazed Greek guy who melded Christianity and Eastern philosophy in a decidedly weird fashion. 

Ever since, I've pursued some sort of spirituality. 

For several decades I spent about two hours a day meditating in accord with a mystical practice that aimed at uniting my soul with God.

Eventually I came to doubt whether soul and God even existed, which understandably deflated my interest in trying to join them together.

In my early 40s martial arts became a sort of spiritual search.

After earning a black belt in a karate style that was pleasingly eclectic, I switched to Tai Chi in 2004, which I've practiced ever since.

Taoism and Buddhism became my favorite spiritual philosophies. I made mindfulness my meditation.  

Now, at the age of 72, I've started to ponder the pros and cons of ending my spiritual searching -- with a emphasis on the pros. 

Always looking for more from life than what life already is giving me is beginning to seem unwise. 

More meaning. More happiness. More purpose. More depth. All that more, more, more seems to lead to a hamster-wheel sort of existence.

Spiritual seeking can become such a habit, the seeker doesn't realize that they're going around and around without really getting anywhere.

If we're in an endless loop of seek-find-seek-find, the way out is to either stop seeking or find that which satisfies completely. 

Since I'm not completely satisfied with life (who is?), it seems to me that giving up a quest to make life into something that it isn't already is the best way to go.

Understand: in no way do I see this as embracing fatalism or not trying to make my life better.

But I want to do this in a natural fashion. I want to just be an average person living life as it is, not as some imagined Spiritual Life with capital letters. 

Three weeks ago an inguinal (groin) hernia came into my life, an unexpected guest. 

About a quarter of men will get a hernia at some point. So what I'm dealing with is common. Last week I had a consultation with a surgeon, which went well. 

My old spiritual self would have tried to find some deeper meaning in the hernia. Working off karma? A way to test my equanimity? The universe sending me a message of some sort?

My new not-so-spiritual self just wants to handle the hernia as smoothly as I can and to get it surgically repaired ASAP.

In other words, I'm viewing myself realistically. I'm just a guy who, like lots of other guys, has a hernia that he wants fixed. End of story.

This is, of course, the way lots of people look upon problems in their life. 

Not as an opportunity to evolve into a more refined spiritual being. Just as a damn problem that needs attention. 

I can't say that I've totally given up my addiction to spiritual seeking. I just see the light at the end of the seeking tunnel. 

Or maybe more accurately, the lack of extra light. 

Life already has plenty of light. That's how I'm able to write this blog post. An LED bulb is shining on my desk. My laptop's screen is aglow. 

Where's the need to be spiritually enlightened when the world already has so much light?

What we pay attention to depends on what demands attention

At the moment it's hard for me to write about anything other than the ice storm aftermath here in Oregon, the subject of my last churchless blog post, "Being without power for a week shows what's important." 

Well, it's now been nine days since our electricity went out. All of our neighbors are in the same power outage situation, along with 38,000 other Oregonians. 

Last night my wife and I hosted a Zoom meeting of our monthly Salon discussion group. Our generator powers a Starlink satellite internet connection, which worked great all through the 100 minute meeting.

After the meeting I wrote on my HinesSight blog about three themes that dominated our conversation: How to prepare for no electricity, Independence versus reliance on society, Staying in touch with others.

It wasn't surprising that everyone wanted to talk about what's been the focus of their minds recently -- coping with no electricity. 

One person only was without power for about a day. Others, about a week. My wife and I, along with neighbors who also are part of the discussion group, were the only ones still without electricity because we live in a rural area.

Usually talking about politics takes up about half of our conversation time. Sometimes even more. Last night, no more than five minutes, or about 5% of the Zoom meeting, focused on politics. 

What this shows is something obvious that is nonetheless often overlooked.

What we pay attention to depends on what demands attention. This relates to the familiar hierarchy of needs. I'm not sure where politics and religion are on the hierarchy, but they seem to be near the top of the pyramid rather than close to the base.

Being without electricity for more than a short time when you're used to it -- which is the case with almost everyone in the United States and other wealthy nations -- shifts one's focus into the safety and physiological levels. 

It is more difficult to cook, get water, flush the toilet, sleep comfortably. People reach out to neighbors in a different way than before, because they seek safety and a sense of belonging. 

It isn't that I'm no longer interested in politics or in pondering the downside of religions. Those subjects just haven't been much on my mind the past nine days, because I've had to focus on playing my part in keeping our electricity-less home going.

(Yes, we have a generator, so we have 7,000 watts of electricity available. But that isn't enough for our heat pumps, hot water heater, most lights, oven, dishwasher, garbage disposal, and other things in our house that have been dormant since our power went off.)

So this experience, which is the longest time I've been without full electricity in my 72 years of living, has given me more of an insight into how lots of people in the world live all the time. Namely, struggling to find the necessities of life.

For them, a religion often provides a sense of comfort and meaning.

But if that religion takes up too much time and attention, that detracts from their ability to meet their safety and physiological needs. Same with politics. A little attention is fine; more than that is counter-productive. 

Which raises a question. If what seems important to us is so dependent on our circumstances, can we ever be really confident that what we care so much about at any given time truly deserves all that attention? 

I guess the answer is that in one sense it does, and in one sense it doesn't. Which isn't much of an answer, but it's the best I can come up with.

The good life is the life you already have

lt took me a few months, but today I finished reading John Gray's provocative little book, "Feline Philosophy: Cats and the Meaning of Life." (Other books took priority in my morning reading time; my first post about this book is here.)

The final chapter contained some nice observations about our search for meaning, and what cats can teach us in this regard. Here's some excerpts.

If cats could understand the human search for meaning they would purr with delight at its absurdity. Life as the cat they happen to be is meaning enough for them. Humans, on the other hand, cannot help looking for meaning beyond their lives.

The search for meaning comes with awareness of death, which is a product of human self-consciousness. Fearing their lives ending, human beings invented religions and philosophies in which the meaning of their lives carried on after them.

But the meaning humans make is easily broken, so they live in greater fear than before.

The stories they have fashioned for themselves take over, and they spend their days trying to be the character they have invented. Their lives belong not to them but to a figure conjured up in their imagination.

One consequence of this way of living is that human beings may become fixated on occasions when their stories are disrupted. They may lose loved ones, find their own lives in danger or be forced to leave their homes.

Those who turn their life into a tragic story are coping with experiences of irremediable loss. But it is a way of coping that comes with a cost. While thinking of your life as a tragedy may give it meaning, it binds you to your sorrows.

...Contrary to the post-modernists, there is such a thing as human nature. It is expressed in the universal demand for meaning, for one thing.

But human nature has produced many divergent and at times antagonistic forms of life. How can anyone know their own nature, when human nature is so contradictory? Might the idea that each of us has a nature of our own be just another metaphysical fiction?

The truth in the fiction of an individual nature is that the good life for each of us is not chosen but found.

Even when they come from decisions we believe we have made, our experiences are not determined by us. The good life is not the life you want but one in which you are fulfilled. Stripped of metaphysics, this is Spinoza's idea of conatus and the Taoist belief that we must follow the way within us.

In this we are at one with all other creatures. 

Humans do not rank above other animals, or below them. There is no cosmic scale of value, no great chain of being; no external standard by which the worth of a life can be judged.

Humans are humans, cats are cats. The difference is that, while cats have nothing to learn from us, we can learn from them how to lighten the load that comes with being human.

One burden we can give up is the idea that there could be a perfect life.

It is not that our lives are inevitably imperfect. They are richer than any idea of perfection. The good life is not a life you might have led or may yet lead, but the life you already have. Here, cats can be our teachers, for they do not miss the lives they have not lived.

Cats have no need of philosophy or religion

John Gray is an author who is sometimes irritating (to me, at least) but always interesting. He provokes in intelligent, witty, well-reasoned ways.

My main gripe about Gray is that he often uses a sort of "straw man" argument where he selects the writings of one person to represent a much more diverse way of thinking. He did this in Seven Types of Atheism, which I thought I'd enjoy but instead found annoying for that reason.

But after seeing a mention of his new book in The New Yorker, I eagerly bought a copy of Feline Philosophy: Cats and the Meaning of Life. I've read the first two chapters of this short book and am thoroughly enjoying it.

Gray says about cats:

That cats acknowledge no leaders may be one reason they do not submit to humans. They neither obey nor revere the human beings with which so many of them cohabit.

Even as they rely on us, they remain independent of us. If they show affection for us, it is not just cupboard love. If they do not enjoy our company, they leave. If they stay, it is because they want to be with us. This too is a reason why many of us cherish them.

I really liked the following passage from Gray's first chapter, "Cats and Philosophy." It is indeed strange that we humans find the world to be such a threatening place, we have to fashion religions and philosophies to soothe ourselves.

No other animal does this, which shows that we have a lot to learn from cats and other wise non-human creatures. Gray writes:

Cats have no need of philosophy. Obeying their nature, they are content with the life it gives them. In humans, on the other hand, discontent with their nature seems to be natural.

With predictably tragic and farcical results, the human animal never ceases striving to be something that it is not. Cats make no such effort.

Much of human life is a struggle for happiness. Among cats, on the other hand, happiness is the state to which they default when practical threats to their well-being are removed. 

That may be the chief reason many of us love cats. They possess as their birthright a felicity humans regularly fail to attain.

The source of philosophy is anxiety, and cats do not suffer from anxiety unless they are threatened or find themselves in a strange place. For humans, the world itself is a threatening and strange place.

Religions are attempts to make an inhuman universe humanly habitable.

Philosophers have often dismissed these faiths as being far beneath their own metaphysical speculations, but religion and philosophy serve the same need. Both try to fend off the abiding disquiet that goes with being human.

Simple-minded folk will say the reason cats do not practice philosophy is that they lack the capacity for abstract thought. But one can imagine a feline species that had this ability while still retaining the ease with which they inhabit the world.

If these cats turned to philosophy, it would be as an amusing branch of fantastic fiction. Rather than looking to it as a remedy for anxiety, these feline philosophers would engage in it as a kind of play.

Instead of being a sign of their inferiority, the lack of abstract thinking among cats is a mark of their freedom of mind.

Thinking in generalities slides easily into a superstitious faith in language. Much of the history of philosophy consists of the worship of linguistic fictions. Relying on what they can touch, smell, and see, cats are not ruled by words.

Philosophy testifies to the frailty of the human mind.

Humans philosophize for the same reason they pray. They know the meaning in their lives is fragile and live in dread of its breaking down. Death is the ultimate breakdown in meaning, since it marks the end of any story they have told themselves.

So they imagine passing on to a life beyond the body in a world out of time, and the human story continuing in this other realm.

Throughout much of its history, philosophy has been a search for truths that are proof against mortality. Plato's doctrine of forms -- unchanging ideas that exist in an eternal realm -- was a mystical vision in which human values were secured against death. 

Thinking nothing of death -- while seeming to know well enough when it is time to die -- cats have no need of these figments. If they could understand it, philosophy would have nothing to teach them.

I share a guest post from myself about loving the life you're with

Thank you, me, for giving permission to myself to share on this blog a post I wrote for my HinesSight blog on Thanksgiving Day. I truly am thankful that I am so generous with myself.

So check out "If you can't be with the life you love, love the life you're with." You get extra credit if you're able to identify the source of the saying that I adapted for the blog post title.

Here's an excerpt from the post.

Sure, it's wonderful to be thankful. However, life is difficult. And I hate to break this news to you younger folks, but life gets more difficult as we grow older. 

Not in all ways. In some ways.

Notably, when it comes to health and the pain that often accompanies our problems. Some pain is physical. Some is psychological, such as regret that one's life hasn't turned out as expected way back when.

So it's asking a lot to be thankful for things in your life that aren't welcome. I suppose my love the life you're with sounds similar, but I see some differences between thankfulness and love. Love of life is more inclusive than thankfulness for this and that. 

If our back is hurting so much we can't get out of bed, that isn't an aspect of life we want to have hang around. However, it's possible to view that pain as part of a larger life that we love. Which is sort of how we view our children when they're young.

They can be a pain to deal with, but we still love them for who they are, flaws included.

Acceptance of what is actually present in our life is a big step toward loving our life. Denial, which includes "this shouldn't be happening to me," isn't helpful, though it is temping to indulge in, since we would rather be with the life we love than the life we're with if the latter is lacking some things we value.

Life makes more sense without any kind of god

Here's a guest blog post from someone I regularly communicate with via email. This recent message from the person resonated with me, because it echoes thoughts I frequently have about the absurdity of believing that life has a purpose imposed from outside of us. 

Like, from a god. Enjoy...

Hey Brian, how are you and yours doing?

My family and I are doing well. Lots of folks around us have COVID, but so far, we’ve managed to avoid it.

I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s interesting what hangs around in my head from religion. One thing that rears its ugly head on a fairly regular basis is the idea of purpose. The idea that my life has some specific purpose and I need to figure it out. Wow. Just typing that out feels like 200 lbs has been added to my shoulders. That’s a fucking heavy thing to carry around!

Of course, life purpose implies someone or something that gives purpose. Most feel it is “god” that does this. Well, now that I’m an atheist, that’s a problem!

You’ve written about this and I’m sure I’ve emailed you regarding this topic before. But it still amazes, and frustrates me, that I still struggle with this.

It seems to me that the idea of some specific purpose in life in more of a western culture idea and only if you have more than a little to a lot of money. You don’t have to go to India or Africa to find starving children, there are plenty here in the US. What is their purpose in life? I can’t imagine that they think about it much. Their main purpose is to get food!

Did early humans worry about some kind of ultimate purpose for their lives? I doubt it. They were just like any other mammal on the planet. Eat, sleep, reproduce. That was likely their main “purpose.”

I know all this, but it’s still hard to shake the idea of some kind of purpose that was so strongly instilled (brain washed) into me. “God has a specific plan for your life! You have to find out what it is and do it!”

I heard that message in one form or another for probably 20 years. I asked god about it on a regular basis. I prayed and prayed and cried and pleaded. You know what he said? Nothing! Ugh! It was so frustrating. Just thinking about all that makes me tense and irritable.

I think it’s funny that the memories of hearing about divine purpose come back to me when my job gets difficult, or life is unpleasant for whatever reason, etc. But it’s not surprising that this happens. After all, religion as a whole is kind of an escape from reality. Or at least the attempt at escaping reality.

You wrote a post right at 3 years ago that I found called No need to have a "calling." Just live your life. I read it before sending this email, and I’ll probably read it again. It pulls me back into reality and helps me relax.

I think it’s interesting that at one point, I would have said that without god, life doesn’t make sense. Now, the way I see it, is that without any kind of god, life seems to make more sense. It just is what it is.

Oh, and your last several posts have been very insightful and helpful to me. All your posts are good, but these last 5 or 6 have been very timely. Thanks again for sharing your ideas, insights, and things that you have been reading.

Talk to you again soon.

An ordinary life is all I need. Being religiously special, no thanks.

There are various reasons why I'm happier after ditching religion some fifteen years ago. Feeling ordinary is one reason. I get a lot of satisfaction from no longer believing that I'm on a special path that leads back to God.

Of course, virtually every religion believes that same thing. 

So religious people are like the children in Garrison Keillor's Lake Wobegon. Everybody is above average. Or at least that's what those who embrace religion think.

Supposedly they've been singled out for special treatment by God, Jesus, a guru, good karma, whatever. So the pressure is on to live up to a belief that they're destined to enjoy a life, and/or an afterlife, in a fashion denied to ordinary people.

This leads to constant questioning by the Chosen Ones.

Am I falling short from what is expected of me by the divinity I believe in? Is there more I can do to live up to the moral standards, or commandments, of my faith? What worldly desires stand between me and the exalted spirituality I aspire to?

By contrast, us ordinary people are content with living an ordinary life in ordinary ways. 

We don't agonize about whether we're doing God's will because we don't believe in God. We don't worry about what will happen to us after we die because we don't believe in an afterlife. We don't worry about meeting a divine moral standard because we don't believe in divinity.

Sometimes I'm struck by an overwhelming sensation of gratitude for having found the freedom to simply be who I am, where I am, how I am.

I feel deeply happy to have been deconverted from religious fantasies. No longer do I consider that there is a gap between what I should become and the reality of my present state of being.

Sure, I still have goals. I still worry about this and that. (Such as whether Biden will defeat Trump this November.) My mood goes up and down. 

But all of this takes place against a backdrop of an ordinary life. I feel a stronger kinship with other people, because I no longer identify with a religion that taught its devotees to feel special, being on a path to God-realization denied to others. 

I understand the appeal of feeling special. All I'm suggesting is that feeling ordinary is a wiser way to live.

 

Life is best lived by embracing insecurity

One of the things I talked about in my first book, a shorter and simpler version of which I published a few years ago, is that happenings in the world can be deterministic while also being unpredictable.

This is what chaos theory is all about. Complex systems are made up of causes and effects, yet in such a fashion that it is virtually (and maybe totally) impossible to know what they are going to do next. 

An example I cited in my book is tossing a cork into a stream above some rapids.

Every movement of the cork is determined by the laws of physics, yet there is no way to predict exactly where the cork will end up a few hundred yards downstream, because a slight movement at any point in its journey can lead to big changes in its final destination.

Such is one reason why our longing for security, for predictability, for being assured that what we want to have happen actually will happen, is doomed to failure. 

Another way of looking at security and insecurity is wonderfully discussed by Alan Watts in his book, "The Wisdom of Insecurity." I've written many posts about this book over the years, since it is one of my favorites. You can find those posts by using the Google search box in the right sidebar.

I'm making my way through Oliver Burkeman's book, "The Antidote: Happiness for People Who Can't Stand Positive Thinking." This morning I finished a chapter called The Safety Catch. 

It contains a nice summary of how Alan Watts looks upon our quest for security. Here's how the chapter ends.

To understand the final flourish that Watts has in store, think back to the end of the previous chapter and the challenge it presented to our assumptions about the nature of the self. 

There we confronted the fact that there seems to be no straightforward place at which to draw the line between 'self' and 'other' -- and that the boundary itself, even if we settle on somewhere to draw it, is more of a meeting point than a dividing line. 'Self' and 'other' rely on each other for their very existence.

If that's true, it follows that 'security' is a mistake -- because it implies a notion of separate selfhood that doesn't make much sense. What does it even mean to separate yourself from an ecosystem that is, in fact, what constitutes you? 

The point is not to 'confront' insecurity, but to appreciate that you are it. Watts writes:

To understand that there is no security is far more than to agree with the theory that all things change, more even than to observe the transitoriness of life. 

The notion of security is based on the feeling that there is something within us which is permanent, something which endures through all the days and changes of life. We are struggling to make sure of the permanence, continuity, and safety of this enduring core, this center and soul of our being, which we call 'I'.

For this we think to be the real man -- the thinker of our thoughts, the feeler of our feelings, the knower of our knowledge. We do not actually understand that there is no security until we realize that this 'I' does not exist.

This extraordinary passage, once you grasp the point -- and it took me a while -- explains in the most complete sense why our efforts to find happiness are so frequently sabotaged by 'ironic' effects, delivering the exact opposite of what we set out to gain.

All positive thinking, all goalsetting and visualising and looking on the bright side, all trying to make things go our way, as opposed to some other way, is rooted in an assumption about the separateness of 'us' and those 'things'. But on closer inspection, this assumption collapses.

Trying to flee from insecurity to security, from uncertainty to certainty, is an attempt to find an exit from the very system that makes us who we are in the first place.

We can influence the system of which we are a part, certainly. But if we are motivated by this misunderstanding about who we are and what security is, we'll always risk going to too far, trying too hard, in self-defeating ways. Watts concludes:

The real reason why human life can be so utterly exasperating and frustrating is not because there are facts called death, pain, fear, or hunger. The madness of the thing is that when such facts are present, we circle, buzz, writhe, and whirl, trying to get the 'I' out of the experience.

...Sanity, wholeness and integration lie in the realization that we are not divided, that man and his present experience are one, and that no separate 'I' or mind can be found.

...[Life] is a dance, and when you are dancing, you are not intent on getting somewhere. The meaning and purpose of dancing is the dance.

This, then, is the deep truth about insecurity: it is another word for life. That doesn't mean it's not wise to protect yourself, as far as you can, from certain specific dangers. But it does mean that feeling secure and really living life are, in some ultimate sense, opposites.

And that you can no more succeed in achieving perfect security than a wave could succeed in leaving the ocean.

Oregon wildfires reflect the uncertain nature of reality

Religions are prone to all sorts of ridiculous errors, but one of the worst is believing that reality can be tamed. Meaning, eliminating uncertainty, chance, randomness, unpredictability.

It's a psychological truism that we humans are uncomfortable with uncertainty. So we make up stories to fill the gap between what is known and what we have questions about where answers are lacking.

How did existence come to be? Nobody knows. Science is content with leaving this question as a mystery. Religions, though, make up a tale about how God created the cosmos -- ignoring the obvious problem of how God came to be.

(If it is assumed that God always has existed, then it also can be assumed that the cosmos always has existed.)

Here in Oregon, and also in our neighboring states of Washington and California, massive wildfires are burning. Today I saw a tweet by a reporter that said, "Since 1900, Oregon has never had more than 2 mega fires (100K acres or more) in a single year, said Jim Gersbach from ‪@ORDeptForestry‬. Now depending on how you count them we have 3 or 4 all burning at once."

Earlier in the summer it seemed that Oregon would have a mild wildfire season. There were some fires, but they weren't creating  big problems.

Then an unexpected combination of circumstances combined to create a Perfect Storm for wildfires.

Oregon has been in a long-standing drought. Very little rain has fallen for many months. And a rare September snow storm in the Rockies was followed by high pressure in that region that created strong east winds in the Pacific Northwest.

The National Weather Service realized the danger. They designated much of Oregon as being at high risk for wildfires. That turned out to be an accurate prediction. Yesterday I took this photo at 9 am while standing in our almost pitch black driveway. 

Smoke from what now is called the Santiam Fire was so thick, blown by the east winds in the direction of Salem, where I live, that the sun was completely obscured. All that could be seen in the sky was an eerie red glow. Later in the day it was still strangely dark, which made me think darkness at noon.

Thousands of people living in the Santiam Canyon east of Salem had to evacuate in the early morning hours on Tuesday. A small fire in the mountains that seemed to be posing little danger grew astoundingly rapidly, pushed by the strong east winds. This map shows the current size of the fire from satellite imagery.

(Yellow is satellite fire detections 24-48 hours ago. Orange is 12-24 hours. Red is 0-12 hours. So the red dots show where a fire has moved most recently. Note: on a slow Internet connection like what I have, the dots take a while to load.)

So far two people are known to have died in the Santiam Fire, a grandmother and her grandchild, who were in a car trying to escape the flames. Many homes and businesses have been destroyed. And this fire is just one of many ravaging Oregon.

Bad things happen.

This isn't news to anybody. It's the way the world is. If bad things could be predicted with certainty, we could stop them from happening. But usually we can't do that. Sure, meteorologists knew that the strong east winds could fan dangerous wildfires. 

Yet whether this actually would come to pass wasn't known until the winds arrived. And yes, now Oregon is suffering through the worst wildfires in the state's history.

My Tai Chi instructor and his wife have had to evacuate their home. They live near the road that links Silverton and Molalla in the map I shared above. They got out safely, along with their dogs, horses, and goats. That's good news, though better news would be if their house ends up being untouched by fire.

I can hope for that. Yet I can't know that. Life is uncertain. That's for sure. Which is why I started to work on an evacuation checklist yesterday, just in case.

"We must accept there is no grand design" -- physicist Brian Greene

There's only good news in the final pages of physicist Brian Greene's new book, "Until the End of Time: Mind, Matter, and Our Search for Meaning in an Evolving Universe." (See here, here, and here for my previous posts about the book.)

Yes, there's no evidence for a grand design to the cosmos. No god fashioned our universe. The laws of nature didn't spring out of a divine mind. They just are what they are.

Which leads to another positive yes: So, yes, it is up to us to determine the meaning that we find in our otherwise meaningless universe.

Greene urges us to look inward for that meaning, since it won't be found by looking outward. Here's how Greene ends his book.

Whereas most life, miraculous in its own right, is tethered to the immediate, we can step outside of time. We can think about the past, we can imagine the future. We can take in the universe, we can process it, we can explore it with mind and body, with reason and emotion.

From our lonely corner of the cosmos we have used creativity and imagination to shape words and images and structures and sounds to express our longings and frustrations, our confusions and revelations, our failures and triumphs.

We have used ingenuity and perseverance to touch the very limits of outer and inner space, determining fundamental laws that govern how stars shine and light travels, how time elapses and space expands -- laws that allow us to peer back to the briefest moment after the universe began and then shift our gaze and contemplate its end.

Accompanying these breathtaking insights are deep and persistent questions. Why is there something rather than nothing? What sparked the onset of life? How did conscious awareness emerge? We have explored a range of speculations, but definitive answers remain elusive.

Perhaps our brains, well adapted for survival on planet earth, are just not structured for resolving these mysteries. Or perhaps, as our intelligence continues to evolve, our engagement with reality will acquire a wholly different character, with the result that today's towering questions become irrelevant. 

While either is possible, the fact that the world as we now understand it, remaining mysteries and all, holds together with such a tight mathematical and logical coherence, and the fact that we have been able to decipher so much of that coherence, suggests to me that neither is the case.

We are not lacking the brainpower. We are not staring at Plato's wall, unaware of a radically different kind of truth, just beyond reach, with the power to suddenly provide startling new clarity.

As we hurtle toward a cold and barren cosmos, we must accept there is no grand design. Particles are not endowed with purpose. There is no final answer hovering in the depths of space awaiting discovery. Instead, certain special collections of particles can think and feel and reflect, and within these subjective worlds they can create purpose.

And so, in our quest to fathom the human condition, the only direction to look is inward. That is the noble direction to look. It is a direction that forgoes ready-made answers and turns to the highly personal journey of constructing our own meaning. It is a direction that leads to the very heart of creative expression and the source of our most resonant narratives.

Science is a powerful, exquisite tool for grasping an external reality. But within that rubric, within that understanding, everything else is the human species contemplating itself, grasping what it needs to carry on, and telling a story that reverberates into the darkness, a story carved of sound and etched into silence, a story that, at its best, stirs the soul.

There's no reason the world has to make sense

I've been reading a book by Steve Hagen that I thought I'd like, because the title was so intriguing: Why the World Doesn't Seem to Make Sense. Unfortunately, it is the book itself that doesn't make sense. 

When I'm not liking a book, I enjoy going back to the Amazon listing and clicking on the 1 and 2 star reviews, the worst ones. I heartily agree with what I found there just now.

-- Drivel. I regret spending the money, and more importantly the time, to read this book.
-- A horrible, tedious book purporting to be an inquiry but more just a tired, pointless use of paper and ink.
-- Great topic and obviously intelligent author but very poorly written - confounding & confusing. A disappointment after his book, Buddhism, Plain & Simple, which it was. Author needs to apply same writing strategy to this book. This is the opinion of highly educated readers.
-- Very repetitious. Says the same thing over and over and over again. If the book was half as long as it is, it would still be too long.

However, I'm forcing myself to finish the book, because here and there I find ideas that resonate with me. Mostly, though, Hagen does indeed repeat himself without making any progress toward answering his key question: why the world doesn't seem to make sense.

I'll probably write another blog post about the book once I'm through with it. For now, I'll address the question Hagen should have asked himself before he embarked on writing this book: Why should the world make sense?

Hagen is a Buddhist. A Zen Buddhist, apparently. He goes to great lengths, none of them very persuasive, to argue that concepts and thinking are our main problem, and that we should simply see what is going on in the world with supposed "pure awareness" or "bare perception."

Pure awareness or bare perception doesn't exist, as I've pointed out numerous times on this blog. (Here's one example.) We're always aware of some thing, not of awareness itself. Someone may think that is possible, but in that case they are aware of a thing they call "awareness." 

Leaving that aside, my main problem with Hagen's book is the problem I have with Buddhism. Or at least, the aspect of Buddhism that believes in something called enlightenment. 

This seems to be what Hagen is after, because he repeatedly refers to Truth and the Real Thing -- which are capitalized to distinguish them from something called (lower case) truth and the real thing. The latter, if my memory serves me correctly, was part of a Coca-Cola commercial.

Or maybe Pepsi. I don't drink either one.

I also don't embrace any organized religion, philosophy, or form of spirituality, preferring to make my own way through life the best I can. But Taoism comes closest to how I've come to see the world.

Namely, simply as I see it. Though I used to believe in a transcendental mystical enlightenment, now I reject that notion and enjoy looking upon life however it appears to me. And I don't have any desire for the world to make sense, because I can't envision any reason why it would.

Make sense.

Big bang. Hundreds of billions, maybe trillions, of galaxies. Likely, countless other life forms in the universe beyond our imagining. Evolution producing us after starting with single-celled life. The human brain being the most complex entity known to us so far.

I could go on and on. We're surrounded by so much wonder and mystery. Sure, we can comprehend some of it -- such as why there is such a toilet paper shortage in the United States -- but there's no way little us can grasp the gigantic entire cosmos.

So whatever meaning we find in life comes from us. It isn't out there waiting to be found. It is here, a unique presence within each of us, our personal sense of meaning and purpose that is unlike anyone else's. 

Some days, the world makes sense to me. Other days, it doesn't. Regardless, everyday I'm able to get out of bed and do what I need to do, think what I need to think, feel what I need to feel. I don't expect that I'll reach a point when the meaning of my life is crystal clear, when all makes sense.

I'm fine with murky.

I'm fine with not knowing what the hell is going on, or why this and that is happening. Stuff goes on. Stuff happens. I enjoy trying to figure out the trajectory of my life, along with that of my state, my country, my planet, but I realize this is a journey with no destination.

Hagen does believe in a destination, along with believers in other faiths, religions, mystical paths, and such. That's OK. Each to their own.

Again, I just consider that Hagen wrote a book with a fatal flaw: the assumption that the essence of the world can be grasped by the human mind. 

We make our own meaning in an indifferent universe

Here's a great question that Lesley Hazleton asks at the start of the Making Meaning chapter in her book, Agnostic: A Spirited Manifesto.

What do you do when someone tells you about a treasured experience that you know is in all probability untrue? True to that person that is, but not objectively true.

Since people share all kinds of religious and mystical experiences in comments on my blog posts, I'm confronted with this question often. Usually I have the same answer Hazleton chose when a woman told her about orca whales lining up and singing to her as she stood on a low cliff overlooking the ocean.

I chose discretion over honesty because I had no desire to hurt this person by questioning what was clearly so meaningful to her. There can be great beauty in the enterprise of making meaning, that very human desire to find significance in the world. But it seems to me essential that we be aware that this is what we are doing, and that we retain a certain sense of bemusement, even amusement, at our proclivity to translate the world into human terms. Aware, that is, of our own subjectivity.

Life is difficult.

Whatever helps us get through the day, the week, the month, the year, the lifetime -- that's to be embraced, even if it is based on a fantasy. I have no problems with fantasy, nor does Hazleton. But I heartily agree with her that it's important to recognize that the meanings we ascribe to the world are our meanings, not an objective meaning inherent in the universe.

Here's some additional passages from the Making Meaning chapter about how the absence of objective meaning creates a wonderful space for us to fashion our own subjective meaning.

The absence of an "ultimate" meaning of life -- a grand, over-arching explanation of everything -- does not render life empty of relevance. On the contrary, it makes it all the more relevant. 

It means we can no longer use divine intent as an excuse, in the same way fatalists talk of fate. It places responsibility directly on us -- responsibility for how we act, for what we do, for our relations with others, with our society, with our planet. 

It is we who determine meaning by what we do. And part of that meaning is the awareness that we are not and cannot always be in control, that we are indeed subject to chance, to serendipity, to the unforeseen, the unanticipated, the fortuitous. 

I see no reason why meaning and significance should be any less for knowing how vast the universe is, and how small I am in it. Far from being appalled by this, I am excited by it. It allows for life as an adventure, and for the unexpected and under-appreciated value of misadventure -- for wrong turns and dead ends, chance discoveries and unintended turns.

It makes life a matter of open-ended exploration instead of a predetermined slog along a straight line from birth to death.

Instead of what's the meaning of life, then, I'd rather ask what makes my life meaningful. Instead of mission, I'm happy to wake up in anticipation of a new day, with work I want to return to, people I want to walk and talk with. Happy, that is, to wake up with desire, with appetite, and with the bemused acceptance of being human, fallible, and imperfectly rational.

I rejoice in there being no single meaning -- in there being instead a multitude of meanings, an infinite number of ways in which we exercise our subjectivity and imagination, rendering meaningful what is objectively meaningless. Meaning is ours to make, and to choose.

The search for meaning, then, is itself a choice. It offers the hope of a consoling narrative that will stave off the awareness of an indifferent universe. 

It's the go-to defense against the fear of insignificance, against the realization that there's nothing personal in nature -- that it's not about me, or you, or us -- and that whatever narrative we detect in it is entirely of our own making. We make ourselves significant. We persuade ourselves that whales sing to us. Even, as happened to me, that a snow-covered mountain speaks to us.

...I may like to think that I have no illusions about the terms of my existence on this planet, but that itself is merely an illusion: my own pathetic fallacy. Romanticism lingers, a sop to my vanity, to my sense of the centrality of my own existence.

However clearly I think I accept the case with which I could, at any moment, cease to exist, some part of me stubbornly refuses to accept my own insignificance, and sees personal meaning in impersonal forces. I shamelessly insist, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, on my own significance.

Best wishes for an ordinary New Year

Here's my New Year's wish for visitors to this Church of the Churchless blog, myself, and indeed, everybody.

Be ordinary. Do ordinary things. Feel happy in your ordinariness.

I say this because now that I've reached the wise old age of 71, I've realized that overlooking the ordinary that's right at hand for some supposedly extraordinary thing that's around a corner has some serious drawbacks.

One reason is what I talked about in a post last month, Why you should be happy today, right now, no matter what.

Be happy today, right now, at this very moment and every following moment.
Why? Because our future contains only three possibilities. 

Tomorrow, or the next moment, could be better than right now.
So be happy! Life will look even brighter soon.

Tomorrow, or the next moment, could be worse than right now.
So be happy! Enjoy life in this more pleasant present.

Tomorrow, or the next moment, could be the same as right now.
So be happy! Life has brought you some stability. 

I'd like to die with a smile on my face. Problem is, I don't know when I'm going to die. Few people do, aside from those condemned to death, those who commit suicide, and a few other types of predictable deaths. 

Since my life, as is true of almost all other lives also, mostly involves experiencing ordinary things with my ordinary self, it figures that being happy with ordinariness offers the best chance of dying with a smile on my face.

Or at least, with an effort to smile. And if even that isn't possible, with neither a smile nor a frown, but an expression of acceptance.

Another reason is that ordinary things bring considerable pleasure when they are enjoyed for what they are, rather than feeling that we're missing out by not pursuing something extraordinary. 

Here's an excerpt from a 2018 post, "Happiness lies in ordinary things." This is a quote from a TIME magazine essay by Meg Wolitzer in a special issue about the science of emotions. 

At this point, being happy is about having the space to appreciate the ordinary things that do in fact make me "happy," though at first glance they might not be seen that way. 

An absence of chaos; an absence of phone calls with disturbing news; an absence of business emails that up-end your day and demand attention right then and there; no acutely ill parents; no fragile children calling shakily from college.

Being able to sit down with a glass of wine and some really good, tiny little olives with your husband; having a nice meal with your kids that's not rushed or fraught.

These seem like small things, perhaps pedestrian things, but I protect them fiercely, knowing that on the other side of an imaginary wall waits the possibility that all of them will soon be gone and that something terrible will replace them.

But I no longer quake in fear.

I used to think that happiness was something a person was so lucky to find that, like Lord Voldemort (a.k.a. He Who Must Not Be Named), it should never actually be mentioned. Now, with happiness taking on a new, modest cast, the fear of losing it is smaller too.

You might think: Good god, woman! This isn't happiness. Happiness has wild colors and flavors; it involves bodies draped across a bed, or things that come in gift wrap. Or even, once in a while, Carvel. Don't you want any of that?

Of course I do.

But being allowed to enjoy some of the more modest pieces of my life happens right now to be my own personal Carvel; my own dachshund, gift-wrapped present, snow day and secret lover. Perhaps for most of us -- or anyway, for me -- happiness has gotten smaller over time, becoming endlessly and exquisitely refined, though somehow never diminished.

Lastly, I'm continually impressed by the marvelous grace and courage of ordinary people. There's no need to look for heroes anywhere else but next door. I'll offer up two examples from my ordinary life.

Here's a Facebook post from a woman I've known here in Salem, Oregon for many years. She's one of the sweetest, gentlest people I've ever come across. When she was diagnosed with lung cancer, even though she'd never smoked, this was a big shock to me and her many other friends.

Yet yesterday she wrote:

What a year! 13 months ago I was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. I haven’t written about it because I know that many deal with worse, and the world is beset with larger problems than what I face.

But, at the end of 2019 I’d like to share what these harrowing months have taught me.

Despite pain and fear, illness and uncertainty, 6 hospital trips, harsh chemotherapy, infections, being too sick to work - or sometimes even to eat - I have learned gratitude for each and every day. Maybe this is surprising, maybe it isn’t.

I have been amazed at how many have been generous to me, and how many have been kind to me. How many have donated time, resources, advice and food. THANK YOU, thank you!

Also - I can’t remember ever enjoying each day more, or feeling more gratitude for the multitude of sights and sounds, large and small, that make up my life. I can’t remember ever appreciating more the wonders that each day brings.

Scans show the cancer is growing, but I mostly feel pretty good these days, and keep hope alive. While my prognosis is not what I want, I understand that ultimately we all have the same prognosis.

I celebrate knowing you! I wish you a happy and meaningful 2020!

Those words are more inspiring to me than anything I've read in a religious book, or heard from a religious person. They're the words of an ordinary person dealing with their troubles in an amazingly courageous way.

Then, my wife came home a little while ago from her New Year's Eve stint as a volunteer dog walker at our local Humane Society. She told me about a man on her shift who "walks" dogs even though he is in a wheelchair.

This can be difficult for him even on nice days, since some dogs are strong pullers on their leash, so can take him for an unwanted ride before he can get them under control. Today it rained heavily for much of the dog-walking shift. 

He didn't have a jacket with him, so even though my wife helped him find a jacket he could borrow, it wasn't waterproof. And his knees got soaked anyway from sitting in his wheelchair while walking dogs in the rain. Yet this man is one of the more dedicated dog walkers.

An ordinary man. Doing an ordinary thing. Yet in such an admirable way. 

I aspire to being as good a person as the woman with stage 4 cancer, or the man who walks dogs with a wheelchair. I have no interest in emulating saints, gurus, holy men/women, or any other religious personage.

I just want to learn from ordinary people who are able to live their lives with love, peace, acceptance, and courage.

Lessons about thankfulness from our dog

Our oldest dog, ZuZu, died last month. I'm still grieving. So when I looked through my previous Thanksgiving Day blog posts (a holiday here in the United States), it seemed fitting to share a 2013 post, "Our 14 year old dog teaches me about thankfulness."

That dog was Serena, shown above in her younger days on a bank of the Metolius River in central Oregon. Here's most of what I said in the blog post I wrote about her when Serena's health was fading.

She doesn't look like she did in her younger days. But heck, who does? Surely not me. Being almost fourteen, Serena is something like 100 years old in dog time.

Serena is a Shepherd/Lab mix (her sisters looked like black labs; we were thrilled to get a kind-of German Shepherd-looking dog with a laid back Lab personality -- great combination). Her back legs are weak, a common trait in aging Shepherd canines.

Yet she still can go on a mile walk every evening with me and ZuZu, her four year old sister-dog. Not literally; they just look somewhat alike.

Serena chugs along, uphill and downhill, across two creek bridges, around a neighborhood lake, through grassy fields. I fired up an iPhone GPS app a few days ago. We meander along at an average of 1.8 mph. Hey, not bad for a 100 year old. 

Her pooper, which may not the precise veterinary term for what controls her bowel movements, isn't working very well.

Most mornings we get up to find roundish firm dark "presents" in the room where Serena and ZuZu sleep. A tiled room, thankfully, because some days the poop is mushier. Which, in case you're worrying, is all I'm going to say on this subject.

Because its my Thanksgiving Day thankfulness thoughts about Serena that are important. I'm grateful that she's helped me realize the importance of, so to speak, sniffing the heck out of life every single freaking day. 

No exceptions. 

I used to look upon our evening dog walk much differently. That was when both Serena and I were younger, when it seemed like an endless stream of dog walks lay before us. 

If Serena paused too long to smell something, inhaling the scent of what, to a dog, at that moment, is the most fascinating thing in the world, I'd get impatient.

Hey, Serena, I'd think, get a move on; I've got other things to do than watch my dog obsess over a clump of grass that, to my impoverished human senses, looks utterly meaningless.

Now, though, our walks have taken on some of the quality of the Zen "Enjoy the Strawberry" parable.  

The meaning of living fully in the present moment, neither retreating to the past nor anticipating the future, is wonderfully illustrated by a Zen parable about a monk being pursued by a ferocious tiger.

The monk raced to the edge of a cliff, glanced back, and saw the growling tiger about to spring. The monk spotted a vine dangling over the edge of the cliff. He grabbed it and began shinnying down the side of the cliff out of the clutches of the tiger.

Whew! Narrow escape.

The monk then looked down and saw a quarry of jagged rocks five hundred feet below. He looked up and saw the tiger poised atop the cliff with bared claws. Just then, two mice began to nibble at the vine.

What to do?

The monk saw a strawberry within arm’s reach, growing out of the face of the cliff.

He plucked it, ate it, and exclaimed, “Yum! That’s the best strawberry I’ve ever tasted in my entire life.”

If he had been preoccupied with the rock below (the future) or the tiger above (the past), he would have missed the strawberry in the present moment.

I'm thankful when Serena stops to taste her canine equivalent of a strawberry. My dog-expert wife tells me that dogs experience dementia just like people do.

But I prefer to think that when Serena suddenly stands still, staring off into the distance for no discernible reason, she is drinking in the present moment. Just as I should always be doing. As we all should be.

Because even though I'm appeciative that Serena's advancing age and deteriorating health have helped remind me that I'm in the same sinking mortality boat she is, it shouldn't take a 14 year old dog to remind me that we'll never know when the last time will come. 

Probably it won't be very long before Serena and I take our last evening dog walk.

There's a good chance I won't know which one it is. So I want to look upon every walk as our last walk. I want Serena and I to enjoy it like the best strawberry (or chew stick) either of us has tasted in our entire life.

The older I get (I'm 65 now), the more I realize there is only one way to cheat death: making the most of every moment. Not in a frantic skydiving, tango in Buenos Aires, howl at the moon fashion (though there's nothing wrong with this).

In the sense of being present, in the present. 

Serena is. Dogs always are. Serena doesn't know she's old and getting ever closer to dying. She just knows that when her nose senses an enticing odor, it needs to be attended to.

If this life is all there is, what should we do during it?

Poet Mary Oliver asked a great question in the last two lines of "The Summer Day." The poem ends with:

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Obviously the question isn't for others to answer. Oliver addresses it to each of us, every reader of her poem. Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

I'm not sure why Oliver added the Tell me. The question remains the same without it. But I like that Tell me. It forges a bond between the poet and the reader. as does the previous Tell me, what else should I have done?

Frequently I have intimations of my mortality. This isn't just because I turned 70 a few months ago. Death always has been lurking around in my consciousness, sometimes scarily. Of course, death is impossible to ignore, given that everything which lives, dies. 

What I'm talking about, though, when I speak of intimations, is this: I'll be doing something utterly ordinary, when suddenly I'm struck by a vivid awareness of the fact that life is limited and one day I will die. 

I used to believe in life after death, but now I don't. However, that vivid awareness was just as strong -- maybe even stronger -- when I was a devotee of an Eastern form of mysticism that taught an immaterial soul survives physical death. Sure, I accepted that concept. 

But since no one knows for sure what happens after we take our last breath (my bet now is nothing, because we're dead and gone forever), even the most fervent religious believer still has to face the stark reality that this life could well be, as Oliver says, our "one wild and precious life."

Last night my wife and I were watching TV. In the midst of The Late Show With Stephen Colbert a thought unexpectedly popped into my mind: Brian, you're doing to die one day. Should you be spending these precious present moments watching Colbert make jokes about Donald Trump?

It only took my mind a few moments to come up with an answer to my mind's own question. (Weird how the brain engages in conversations with itself.)

Sure. What would be better to do than what I'm doing right now?

Sort of like Mary Oliver, minus her refined poetic sensibilities, I responded to myself with a question that nonetheless contained an answer. 

In my current churchless frame of mind it seems senseless to view any activity of life as lacking meaning. A few hours ago I walked our dog, ZuZu. When we got home, I grabbed a stick from a tree branch where I store our dog's favorite toy, high enough so she can't reach it. 

Like most pet owners, I talk to ZuZu as if she speaks English. "Let's play stick, little dog!" My preparing to throw the stick was all she needed to get excited, the words being superfluous.

We then spent ten minutes or so engaged in her favorite game: not bringing a stick back, reverse fetching. I throw the stick. ZuZu runs and gets it. Then she runs away from me when I say, "Bring it here!" We repeat this until ZuZu lies down, with the stick nearby, for her other favorite activity: being patted.

Is playing stick what I want to do with my one wild and precious life? Absolutely. In fact, I consider that everything I'm doing, including writing this blog post, is what I want to do, given that I am doing it. 

Circular reasoning? No. 

I just have reached a point in my life where I consider that the whole Bucket List thing has no attraction for me, because it assumes that some things are really important to do before we die, while other things are less important. 

In my opinion, and I'm really just speaking for myself, going down that way leads to, if not madness, dissatisfaction. When our doings are divided into less and more important, less and more meaningful, it seems to me that we're always questioning whether what we're engaged in is what we really should be doing.

I think Oliver's first question gets it just right: Tell me, what else should I have done?

Woody Allen talks about the meaning of life, or lack thereof

Thanks to Jen for sharing this Woody Allen video in a comment. Allen says that artists, and I guess we're all artists of life, have to provide reasons for living in a universe that doesn't possess inherent meaning.

Meaning is provided by us humans, not by the cosmos. Allen also observes at the end of the video that everybody needs illusions to get us through the harsh realities of life. I agree. But our goal should be to embrace the wisest sorts of illusions.

(Defining "wise" in this context is what keeps this blog going, along with almost everything else in life -- philosophy, politics, hobbies, relationships, etc. etc. etc.)