First, Ask the Right Question

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I apologize if you have been missing your “dose of strangeness from Schrag” recently, but I have struggling with the third tenet of Distilled Harmony, “Distill Complexity" for several weeks. While I usually cast Distill Complexity as the third among equals in the Distilled Harmony theory of everything, the fact that “distilled” is one of the two words that define the theory itself speaks to its importance. To distill something is to reduce it to purest state, and that is where I have been running into problems.

I’m not sure when the current object of my obsession began spinning around in my head, but when I began peppering the essay with subheadings and “note to self: bring in the part about .  .  .” I realized that any progress toward "distilling complexity" had taken flight. In hindsight that is not terribly surprising as the subject of my current consideration is "why does the universe exist?”  To release you from any suspense let me put the “spoiler” right up here at the front: The raison d'être for the universe is maximizing Harmony. I have paraphrased Dr. King's famous quote several times, because you should always steal from the very best. My version: The arc of the universe is long, but it bends toward Harmony.  

It is in trying to explain to you how I reached that conclusion where complexity rears its frustrating head.  It has become obvious that this particular distillation occurs in a number of steps, and even I am having trouble following my transitions. So that is where I will begin - cutting this kudzu-like post into more understandable pieces. The posts will probably appear separately - again in the interest of distilling complexity. This initial post I will call:

First, Ask the Right Question

I remember encountering general semantics as a young Ph.D. student in Dr. Ray Ross’s class in communication theory. Dr. Ross, who also believed in stealing from the best, would thunder, “The word is not the thing! The map is not the territory!”  Or as I chose to remember it: A description or depiction of something, no matter how artfully constructed, is necessarily different from that which is being described or depicted. [I know, I know - that sounds like the opposite of distillation, but it is for me a necessary inflation as Distilled Harmony asserts that descriptions and depictions - particularly in art and literature - can contain elements of the original. But that is for another time and another post. You see the problem I’m having?]  But Ross’s “purer” assertion [he did cite Korzybski] works better here. The map is not the territory - nor is the equation.

Two incredible minds, Albert Einstein and Stephen Hawking, report agonizing about getting the math of the universe right. They have walked us down fascinating paths into the “what” of the universe. Mass, energy, black holes, wormholes, the intriguing possibility of time travel. These are glorious minds, awe inspiring intellects. It seems almost sacrilegious to assert that they may have led us to the wrong lamppost. You remember the old joke - I use it all the time:  

It's midnight.  Drunk is down on hands and knees, searching for his car keys under the lamppost.  The beat cop comes along, offers assistance and asks "Are you sure you dropped them here?”

"No, I dropped them back there," the drunk responds gesturing back into the shadows.

"Then why are you looking here?" inquires the incredulous officer.

"The light is better here."

There are a number of excellent reasons to read Richard Panek's book The 4 Percent Universe.  But the one that never fails to make me stumble, when it crosses my mind, is his well-articulated assertion that the science that defines the four percent of the universe we can currently observe and gather data from is - especially considering the academic politics that reigns it in - fairly solid. Yet, Panek observes, we cannot escape the equally solid conclusion that what we know about the remaining 96 % is, if not simply smoke and mirrors, pretty much pure guesswork that we label dark matter and dark energy because we don’t know what it is.  Equally inescapable then is the realization that even geniuses like Einstein and Hawking are looking under a very, very small lamppost.

But wait! That’s not all! We can’t forget Heisenberg. He is the guy with the cat in the box, the strange "neither dead nor alive cat." The cat we either kill or resuscitate just by peeking in the box. In Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle our observation of an event affects the event.  That being said, it seems fair to ask to what extent are our "normal” conceptions of space and time the product of "convenient observations under the nearest lamppost” which are further distorted by the very act of our observation? Does make your head spin a bit, not?

Still, front to back, side to side, up down, then-now-tomorrow - those are the easily measurable spaces in which we live our lives. Is it any wonder that the scientific method followed those precise pathways as we sought to measure and understand the world, solar system, galaxy and universe in which we live?  The telescopes get better. Scientific descriptions become ever more precise. We get better and better at defining the "what" of where we live. But remember, those assertions are somewhat of a paper tiger - and possibly a paper tiger in a Heisenberg box. Remember Panek’s  point: We can observe only 4 % of our local universe, and nothing of any other universes that may lie beyond ours.  So, are we going to trust results based on our observations of that 4 %? That makes me a tad nervous.

Think about it this way. Let's say you were conducting an experiment to determine the average height of 4th graders. You go to Local Middle School down the street from your house. You walk into the front door and ask for the closest 4th grade classroom. You go to the classroom. There are 25 students in the class. You take the first student closest to the door (1 is 4 percent of 25) and measure his or her height. The student is 4 feet 7 inches tall. And on the basis of that observation you declare that the normal height for all fourth graders in the universe is 4'7”.  This is about as flawed as an empirical design can get. Even a poet can count the ways: There may be other 4th graders elsewhere in the building, but we cannot see them, so we will call them "dark 4th graders," and ignore them. There is another public school across town in a very different neighborhood, but we don’t go there. Private schools and charter schools and gender differentiated schools all exist, catering to specific groups that may reflect taller or shorter gene pools. They too, don’t count. We stay under this 4’7” lamppost. I know, I know, that is just so wrong. But the analogy is frighteningly apt for the declarations we make about the structure of the universe based on our observations of its closest, or most observable, 4 %.

Strangely, that is not what concerns me most. Einstein and Hawking do the best they can with the available information. You cannot make-up data that you do not have. Well, you can, but eventually your articles will be “withdrawn” and you will lose your job. Scientists can only make their best observations and attempt to marry those observations to the theories best articulated in the literature. That is the scientific method. It underlies all the terrific toys and terrible weapons of our world. It is the current king of the educational mountain. STEM [Science, Technology, Engineering and Math, for those of you unfamiliar with the acronym] rules. And that is a shame, considering that the universe is vast and our lamppost is so small.  The sad reality is that despite our best efforts, a STEM-centric exploration of the cosmos not only brings us questionable results, it also stifles our exploration of other, and in my mind, more important questions.

Let me again retreat into analogy. Let us say that STEM allows us to slip the surly bonds of Earth and trek off across our 4% of the universe. In true sci-fi fashion we encounter a planet on which we find the ruins of a magnificent structure. After years of effort and amazing amounts of money, we manage to reconstruct the edifice. A tour is arranged for all of Earth’s leaders. They wander and wonder down glorious hallways, through rooms huge and magnificent, and into smaller architectural pearls.  After the tour they enjoy a banquet back at the base where the scientists and engineers have lived during the reconstruction. The Project Leader shows a holographic presentation of the entire reconstruction process - truly an engineering marvel.  After the presentation the floor is opened for questions. Much cooing and fawning results.

Another guest rises and asks, “What was it for?"

Project Leader: “Huh?"

Guest: “What was it for? Why did they build it?"

Project Leader: “Well. Ah. That’s not really my area. Maybe, George can address that. George?"

George, it appears, cannot be found.

A simplistic analogy, I admit. But the question remains. Why does the universe exist? The current obsession of the scientific community appears to be creating the equations, getting the math right that describes what the universe is. Much effort and treasure has been expended on those equations. Nonetheless, those best efforts still seem to leave us with two significant unanswered questions.

One: Can we derive, and trust, and generalize to the universe - remembering Heisenberg as we answer -  conclusions based on samples of "observational convenience” drawn from 4% of the universe? And,

Two: Even if we can put some faith in those conclusions, are we asking the right questions? Is the “What” of the universe the important issue? Should we not be far more concerned with “Why?”  And I don't mean the simple "why" of how the physical elements evolved or came together, I mean the existential why.  Why are we here? Do we have purpose? Do our lives have meaning? If you believe we are simply a by-product of the evolution of the “ what” - chemicals combining in a fortuitous accident, well, that's fine, I suppose. But for me, it's a bit of a curiosity killer, as is the other end of the great existential debate - an acritical acceptance of ancient writs that place some prophet or another center stage as the mouthpiece for the existential Godfather; who is either open-minded, compassionate and forgiving or ruthless, vicious and vindictive, depending upon your mouthpiece and text of preference.

Personally, from a Distilled Harmony perspective, I have come to believe that we are here as free-will, intentional participants in a universe that is itself sentient, and that, as I said at the beginning, bends toward Harmony.  It is a perspective that, perhaps strangely, might gain significant support were we to add some additional data into current scientific examinations of the nature of the universe. STEMites, for the most part, draw their conclusions regarding the nature of the universe within the solid boundaries of the traditional dimensions; up down, side to side, back and forth, and time - then, now and in the future. Those STEM-oriented observations and conclusions create the equations that we mistake for the universe. Interestingly, those same equations may point the way to a liberating, more encompassing view of the universe. I will share my thoughts on that expanded view with you in another post - hopefully not too far down the path into the future.

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Strolling with Albert

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"So," he said, "If you are concerned about getting more exercise, get a Fitbit or something, a make sure you do 10,000 steps a day."  He isn't just my oncologist, he is a friend, and here on The Schrag Wall like the rest of you.  So I said, "OK."

It isn't as if I'm a stranger to exercise. I used to work out - a lot. Another Wall member introduced me to running when we both taught out in New Mexico. I never reached his level of dedication, but eventually I was running several miles a day, several times a week - at altitude, for crying out loud. After moving to North Carolina I got a locker over at the gym and maintained a fairly respectable workout schedule. When I was acting as Head of the Department my manta was, "For now, I will live for the department, but I certainly will not die for it!"  So I upped my workouts, adding Racquetball to jogging, and weight lifting, and subjected myself to a bunch of machines apparently left over from the inquisition. Even my incredibly fit sister would be proud.

But then, a few years later, I got sick - multiple myeloma. Now, after a couple of stem cell transplants things seem to be holding, knock on wood.  However, during each transplant my docs over at The Bone Marrow and Stem Cell Transplant Center in Chapel Hill - who, despite not being here on The Schrag Wall, I view as consummate professionals - said "Day 12 is Noodle Day!" I learned that that little bon mot meant that on the 12th day after your transplant you felt like a wet noodle. No energy, no desire to do anything but find a comfortable position and doze. They were right - both times. What they didn't mention was that to a significant extent the get-up and go that had got up and went, stayed gone. 

It turned out that even if I had the energy, most of my old activities, like racquetball, running, etc., would be sidelined because, in my particular case the multiple myeloma had done some pretty significant damage to the bones in my back and hips, so those old routines simply hurt too much.  But walking seems OK, so the Fitbit seems a good option to try. But, not quite as simple as it might appear at first blush.  

You see, I had never been into exercise for the sake of exercise itself.  Secondary motives, stress reduction, the approval of others, etc., had always been what kept me in the gym.  I never experienced the "runner's high" and only observed it when various runners would head for the bar after running for a couple quick martinis, or when they hung out in the parking lot smoking dope. I am reasonable sure that my oncologist was not advocating adding either of those activities to my daily regimen. So I started casting about for someone to serve as my "walkabout role model," some sort of hiking hero. Again, not that simple.

The first tenet of Distilled Harmony is to foster harmony; make the world a more gentle and joyful place. So my role model had to be someone at peace with their "walking self." But watch the people who are out for their daily run, or folks lifting weights at the gym, or people who are obviously "walking for exercise." These do not appear to be happy carefree souls. There is serious work to be done here, and they are doing it - seriously. Smiling is apparently not part of the program and even eye contact seems to be frowned upon unless it is to share a grimace or a groan. I may be wrong. Maybe it is just that the "workout frown" and the "bench press puff, grimace and groan" is mandatory - ritual evidence of membership in some fitness fraternity. Whatever the reason, I'm not going there. Distilled Harmony frowns on frowning.

But I still needed a saint of strolling, a wizard of walking. And that is when I recalled the fitness routine of one of my all time heroes - Albert Einstein.  Nowhere in the biographies I have read about the man does it say "And then Professor Einstein went to the gym for a session on the Stairmaster, and afterwards he did a series of crunches and several rotations of free weights." Apparently that never happened.

However, the professor did walk. Often and at great length. He was a common sight strolling the streets of Princeton, lost in thought - and occasionally lost in Princeton as well. Local citizens and constables would direct him back toward the university from whence he could plot a course home or to the office. Were we to find ourselves doing that nowadays we would immediately take ourselves off the closest healthcare facility with visions of senility or Alzheimer's disease dancing in our heads. Einstein, however, knew he was just thinking, strolling and thinking - and that was just fine.

I had found my model. The idea is to stroll around in your head as much as you stroll around the block, or track, or neighborhood. So now, when I begin a walk, I at least start with a question I want to work on - usually something right-brain creative in nature. But that obviously often gets bounced around; right-brain, left-brain, right-foot, left-foot, right, left, right, left and off I go - strolling and smiling, thinking, musing, and occasionally stopping to take notes before strolling off again.  Left right left right left right. Now, that's my idea of a fitbit.

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Curiosity

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I wish I had paid more attention to curiosity as a child. However our culture and our educational system is obsessed with us knowing answers. Now, at 66, I realize that the prompting of questions is far more important.

Editing history:

"See the green balloon, Robby?  Yes, green."

And Robby nods, or says "green."

What I should have said was "Well, not really green, there is a lot of blue going on there. How does color happen anyhow, Dad?"

"Can you make the letter W, Robby?"

And Robby makes an attempt at W.

What I should have said was: Oh, you mean that upside M, Mom? Isn't weird that those two symbols are inverted versions of each other. I wonder how that happened!?

Can I really fault my students for wondering which answer will get them more points on the test? They live in a world where, most often, answers and the illusion of certainty are rewarded far more often than "not knowing," and wondering why.

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Fixing Up The Porch

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I have written about the porch of the house where I was raised a number of times. For example -

The Porch on Monday, January 27, 2014

http://schragwall.blogspot.com/2014/01/the-porch.html

and, Minding Mindfulness or Ignore This Post on Friday, November 21, 2014

http://schragwall.blogspot.com/2014/11/minding-mindfulness-or-ignore-this-post.html

There were some earlier ones - back in 2011 I think. They touch different issues but they are always, to some extent, exercises in memory.

Well, I came up with another piece of that particular memory a few days ago. During the mild months, the porch was screened in so we could read and sleep and play in a relatively bug free environment. It is from those months that I think I remember another detail. There was a metal panel over the lower half of the screen door. It was a sort of box weave, shiney green metal strips about a quarter of an inch wide that made a grid of squares about an inch and a half across. It rattled when the door shut. I try to see it on the other screen walls, but it fades out. Might not have been there. I'll look again another day. However, I need to emphasize that getting the physical reality of the porch clear in my head is more entertainment than harmonic necessity.  It is the memory of the Harmony of the porch that is important.

James Taylor does a “what I remember about growing up” song called, Copperline. Copperline captures that difference between physical and emotional recall. The song is all about memory, magical memory if you will.  In the song Taylor recalls the harmonic moments that unfolded in that magical place : 

Branch water and tomato wine, creosote and turpentine,
sour mash and new moonshine . . .
First kiss ever I took, like a page from a romance book,
the sky opened and the earth shook, down on Copperline.

But then there is this bit in the last verse:

I tried to go back, as if I could, all spec house and plywood.

Tore up, and tore up good, down on Copperline.

It doesn't come as a surprise to me, it doesn't touch my memory.

I could, and have, gotten on Google Earth and flown back to the porch of the house where I was raised. The fact that the house and the porch are still there is a bittersweet testimony to the fact that my hometown has been frozen in time for the last half century. Springfield appears to be neither dying nor thriving.  Rather it is caught in a strange kind of stasis, as though waiting for the kiss of a prince to wake it.  The house and the porch, unlike Copperline, are not "tore up good," still,"seedy" would seem an apt adjective.  But just as current Copperline leaves Taylor unperturbed, current Springfield cannot touch my memory. The current physical reality has no impact on the meditative porch that I keep in my heart and head.

As described in the linked posts above, I go to the porch of my memory to calm the cognitive stream that defines my "walk-about, get it done now, take a stand, real world." The tranquility of the porch in my head lets the subsequent meditation unfold. However, before I relax into the meditation, I do "walk around" the porch, checking its physical and metaphysical structure, seeing if there is anything in need of repair.  And the criteria for any remodeling of the porch adhere to the old notion of "form follows function."

The function of the magical porch in my head is to create a space that is in tune with what a couple of decades ago I called The God Chord, and now think of as the Distilled Harmony of existence. So any changes to the porch need to be changes that move me toward that goal, toward creating a meditative space that manifests the four tenets of Distilled Harmony (see www.distilledharmony.com) - Foster Harmony, Enable Beauty, Distill Complexity, and Oppose Harm. Well, the last time I walked around the porch I discovered a bit of discord that I needed to address.

You may remember that I wrote about envisioning the discordant bad bits of your life as tennis balls that tried to bounce up onto your porch. You then seized your metaphysical tennis racket and smacked them off the porch and out into some universe far, far away. Remember that? Well, I'm afraid I'm going to have to back away from that idea. It does Oppose Harm. But Oppose Harm is the fourth tenet. The first tenet of Distilled Harmony is Foster Harmony. It seemed more and more that while it might feel good to smack those discordant bits out into some alternate reality, it was counterproductive from a meditation perspective.  Raised the heart rate, the old fight or flight reaction kicked it. Calming it was not.

Here is the thing to remember as you construct your own version of "the porch," whatever, whenever or wherever it may be.  Harmony is the natural state of existence, but you cannot force it to surround you. You need to wait patiently for it to gently enfold you. Your porch is the metaphysical - perhaps with physical elements - space that you construct as “the space in which you wait."  Hence it must be an environment that welcomes Harmony. Whacking the discordant bits with metaphysical racquets and bats does not create an environment that welcomes Harmony.

So here is what I have changed. The porch screens are now woven from Harmony. The bad bits still try to tempt me into the "Boy, I should have . . ." and the "If I'd only . . ." fights. But now when they try to bounce up onto the porch they “poof" into the transparent screens of Harmony, about the texture of Cotten candy. The screens restrain the bad bits and re-tune them into harmonies that I still cannot recognize. Once re-tuned, the bad bits are sent drifting off into spaces and places that concern me not at all. Occasionally, the thump of their initial impact intrudes upon the porch.  But at most I glance up, nod in friendly recognition, and wave as they toddle off.

Then I focus on the music and wait patiently for Harmony to be once again revealed, and waft me away to quiet nothingness.

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