Ebenezer's Legacy

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A couple of weeks ago my younger daughter, knowing of my lifelong affection for Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol and buttered theater popcorn, wrote to urge us to see the recently released, The Man Who Invented Christmas. We did and it proved a delight. The film, which depicts the variety of personal and professional pressures and convictions that led to the novel's completion, is a kaleidoscopic construction in which the characters of the incubating narrative wander through Dickens’s real life much like Scrooge and his ghostly companions wander unseen through Scrooge's past and present lives in the completed novel. 

Other than recommending it, I will not dip deeply into the film. That is not the purpose of this post. However, I must offer a word of caution. If you are among the handful of unfortunate souls in the world who have neither read nor seen A Christmas Carol, you must remedy that sad situation before seeing The Man Who Invented Christmas. I suppose the film would still engage the unprepared viewer, but knowledge of the original text adds significant spice to the dish.  

The novel is widely available in both digital and analog media. To my mind, it is one of those works that particularly lends itself to the turning of physical pages. A comfortable chair and some mulled wine further enhances the experience. If you prefer your fiction on the big - or little- screen, I strongly recommend the George C. Scott version. Others have portrayed Scrooge well. Scott becomes him. The attentive parent will shield their young children from the Disney version. The damage this travesty can visit upon the evolving brain is still uncertain, but in this unfortunate instance one cannot be too careful. 

While The Man Who Invented Christmas is a welcome addition to the Christmas Carol universe, I came away from the film thinking more about the original work. It strikes me that the actual world to which the three spirits led Scrooge that Christmas morning had changed not a whit from the one realized in the Christmas Eve before. What had changed was how Scrooge saw the world. 

It was a profound change. In the course of a few short hours Scrooge morphs from a miserly misanthropic pessimist to a gregarious generous optimist. In The Man Who Invented Christmas Dickens, as the author, agonizes over the seeming improbability of such a transformation. In the end it is "the Scrooge character in Dickens's head" who sways him. Standing in his own grave the changed Scrooge promises, "I will honor Christmas in my heart!" And Dickens, finally realizing the power of that sentiment, captures the words on paper, and with the novelist's omnipotence, makes it so and ends the book. 

Christmas was, in Dickens' era, a minor holiday often viewed suspiciously by the Anglican Church of the time as having pagan roots. As such, it makes sense that the dominant theme of the work is social rather than religious. As Scrooge's nephew Fred puts it, "I have always thought of Christmas time…as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they were really fellow-passengers to the grave and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys."

This sweeping, secular definition of Christmas is a call to a compassionate optimism that in those days was economically feasible only for the gentry. Today, in our hopefully more permeable society, it is an option open to us all. It is a choice we can shoulder in the face of a cynical pessimism that advocates behaviors and social policies that spring from a fear that some pernicious "other" will steal what is rightfully ours. Following this path of cynical pessimism leaves us as snarling dogs fighting over a single bone, blind to the feast that surrounds us.

Pessimism, then, is a self-protective worldview with its roots in fear. From the point of view of the pessimist, one must seek to beat a punitive fate to the punch. If I habitually assume the worst will happen, it hurts a little less when I am proven right.

Optimism however requires the courage of hope. Yes, things may go badly, but I choose to believe they will not. Furthermore, if things do go astray, I hope to have the courage to carry on and seek the silver lining of whatever clouds I may encounter.

It is this compassionate optimistic worldview that is Ebenezer Scrooge's legacy - should we choose to accept it. This is Dickens's pantheistic spirit of Christmas, the one his protagonist urges us to honor in our hearts. It is not a simplistic Pollyanna optimism. It is rather a worldview of hope chosen in the face of an often capricious realty. It comes with its share of bruises. But, more often it brings the gift of a quiet enlightenment that allows us to echo Tiny Tim - who remember, did not die - and say, "God bless us, everyone!"

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Bedtime Poetry

The problem with writing poetry 

In bed, in your head

Is that should you happen to stumble across

A good one

You either have to get up

And write it down

Or give in to the futile illusion 

That you will remember it

In the morning.

How The Internet is Killing Intimacy

George Strait sings a song called “Check Yes or No.” It is about passing notes in class, back in third grade. Part of the lyric goes like this:

"Do you love me? Do you want to be my friend? . . .

If you want to, I think this is how love goes,

Check yes or no.”

I remember my own embarrassment when my mother discovered my fifth-grade “list of the cutest girls in class.”  And then there was the summer when I made my normal visit to my Uncle Paul’s farm. This time I was tragically separated from my first “real girl friend.” I would scan the horizon looking for the dust cloud raised by the mail carrier’s truck. Upon spying it, I would leap upon my bike and pedal furiously down the seemingly endless lane to the mailbox. All the while humming the Marvelette’s refrain - “Please, please, Mr.Postman. Look and see. Is there a letter in your bag for me?”

That was the way love went back in those innocent days before the Internet. Words on paper. Words handwritten on paper. From hand to hand, from heart to heart. 

And not just for love-struck youngsters.  Who better than The Bard?

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? 

Thou art more lovely and more temperate."

Much of Shakespeare’s life remains unknown. Scholars debate for whom Sonnet 18 was written. Yet, they agree it was probably intended for a particular lady, or perhaps a young man. As I said they debate - endlessly. However, I’d be willing to bet the farm that he did not compose those lines with his thumbs.

In that seeming simple time of my high school years, love and intimacy were far more private concerns.  As close as we got to posting our "status" on social media was exchanging ID bracelets or carrying your girlfriend’s books to class. That was harder than it sounds. We didn’t have backpacks. Just humongous binders upon which you stacked a dozen textbooks - his and hers - and strolled off to class with what you hoped was nonchalance. It that wasn’t love, what was?

Then the Internet went public in 1994. Ten years later Harvard sophomore Mark Zuckerberg launched “Thefacebook” and intimacy has never been the same.  I don’t know who first said, “Privacy is so 20th century.”  Zuckerberg has been accused of being the source - but I can find no reliable data to convict him. So, unlike the renamed Facebook, I will refrain from simply laying that damning  accusation at his feet with no proof.  But his creation is the easiest target to snipe at when seeking to lay blame for the destruction of private intimacy.

When we consider privacy in their world, I ask my students “What do you do if you want to send a message to one other person, and be sure that the other person is the only person who will have access to that message?” The major social media platforms quickly fall by the wayside because those pages usually fail to employ even the existing security tools and hence are easy to hack. Furthermore, I learn from the class discussion, one contemporary version of the “exchanging ID bracelets” from the '60s has become sharing, with your significant other, the passwords to your social media accounts. No, really, I am serious. Next, the latest incarnations of "The Disappearing Message” applications like Snapchat get short shrift due to a campus-wide brouhaha last year that was fueled by the swift distribution of such “private" messages that were captured by screen shots. 

We eventually stumble our way to two options. The first is the most frightening, and the most common. They simply accept that "privacy is so 20th century,” and they try to game the system. I recently sat in on a colleague’s class and was introduced to what I have come to think of as “hiding intimacy in plain sight.” Her students knew it as “sub-tweeting.”  They thought of it as a passive-agressive form of messaging.  As I understand it, you post on Twitter or some similar site a message that does not refer to a specific "other person." However, the context allows a group of others - or a specific other - to understand that the message is directed at a particular person, perhaps themselves.

I was surprised that the students seemed to agree that this strategy was a variant of cyberbullying, a tool to attack.  It strikes me, old 20th-century romantic that I am, that sub-tweeting could just as easily be employed as a subtle form of flirting. A digital version of "Check yes or no" that carries the kind of deniability so important in the fragile early years of dating: “Huh? Me? Sub-text to whom? Are you nuts? Oh. You think she does? Really? Cool!”

So fun. Maybe. But still the "hide intimacy in plain sight" strategy is based on accepting the idea that privacy really is impossible on the Internet. You accept that there is no way on the Internet to send a love letter or a sonnet - or, for a more prosaic example, a private message exploring a possible new job at a different company. Every Internet message, it seems, runs the risk of becoming a public document that can be hacked and distributed to people who can then turn it to whatever intention may please them.   

The second - and to many of my students utterly alien - solution is to actually write a message on a piece of paper. Then you put the letter in an envelope, write the name and address of the person for whom the letter is intended on the envelope. Buy a stamp. Put the stamp on the envelope. And put the letter in a mailbox.  Actually finding a mailbox may be a bit of a challenge. If you have a physical mailbox where you get shopping flyers and political junk mail you can usually mail things from there as well. Put the letter in the mailbox and raise the little flag on the side.  That will tell the mail carrier that there is a letter there to be picked up. They will be surprised. If your mail comes to a bank of mailboxes - look for one that says “Outgoing Mail” or something like that. Put your letter in there.   

I know it sounds silly to provide those step-by-step instructions for mailing a letter, but a friend told me that he had posed a similar "how do you send a private message" question to his students. They had come to the same "snail mail" conclusion. After class a young woman came up to him and asked for more information because she had never actually mailed anything in her entire life.

Oh, and another thing to remember about this whole "put it in an envelope and mail it" thing - it all has to be done by hand.  Once you turn on your tablet, phone or computer and start typing you have created a digital version of your letter. It is harder to hack that kind of "on my own machine" message than it is to hack a post on social media, but it is far from impossible. Remember, the question was “What do you do if you want to send a message to one other person, and be sure that they are the only person who will have access to that message?” 

We find ourselves forced to the conclusion that attempting intimate communication in digital space is a risky proposition, no matter what your tech guru or personal teenage consultants tell you. To make a message digital is to make it public and hackable, as so many of our politicians and celebrities continue to discover. 

True love and deep friendship visit rarely. It seems quite sad to think that we live in a world where the "new normal" channels of expression for the sharing of those precious emotions are fragile and untrustworthy. That realization may, in itself, be sufficient to chill the urgings of a cautious heart. 

Yet there may be good news here, not to mention a dearly needed uptick in business for the US postal services. The purveyors of fine stationary, fountain pens, calligraphy teachers, and sealing wax manufacturers likewise may take heart. Remember the second option.  

You take a piece of paper. You pick up your pen .  .  .   

On Computers and Chess and Go

On Computers and Chess and Go

The latest edition of New Scientist [October 21, 2017] reports that Google's super computer DeepMind no longer needs human modeling to devise ultra-sophisticated strategies in the ancient Japanese board game Go. This comes on the heels of myriad laments regarding the apparent impotence of human chess grand masters when confronted with computers like the newly crowned Komodo which according to ExtremeTech [March 15, 2016] "can reach an Elo rating as high as 3304 — about 450 points higher than Kasparov, or indeed any human brain currently playing chess." No, I don't know what an Elo rating is, but I assume I should be impressed. 

The implications in stories such as these are that we should worry that computers in league with Artificial Intelligence will relegate humanity to the sidelines of meaningful advances in, well, in what? Confronting computers in board games? Seriously now, how often do we do that? Light a fire in the hearth, open a nice bottle of brandy and invite R2D2 over for a nice game of chess?

Our paranoia regarding man versus machine is well entranced in our folklore. The ballad of John Henry tells the tale of a "steel-driving man" who successfully raced a steam-powered steel-driving engine. The victory however was short-lived as just after having been declared the winner, John Henry "laid down his hammer and he died."  Incidentally, John Henry is declared by a number of local residents to have been a real steel driver working for the Chesapeake and Ohio railroad's Big Bend tunnel in West Virginia. But that is not the point. The issue here is what do we ask of our machines, and should we be worried when they do it?

Behind a barn on my cousins Dean and Lori's farm in southeastern South Dakota is a "horsepower gear." It is a machine to which 1 to 4 horses could be hitched. The horses would walk around in a circle. The gear would translate that circular power to rotational power that could drive belts that could power a variety of other machines on the farm - conveyor belts, mill wheels, water pumps, etc. Machines like the horsepower gear shifted the need for muscle power from humans to horses and then to engines. So machines are tools designed to do the tasks that human beings don't want to do, or if we chose to do those tasks, would be an incredible waste of human muscle or brain power.

Now, there is no denying that throughout history machines have replaced human jobs. The Luddites broke up weaving mills, not because the technology was inherently bad. Actually quite the opposite, the mills were so efficient that they would replace the less efficient human weavers. Contemporary robots are replacing assembly line workers in factories like Tesla's "secret second floor" where the robots moved at such high speeds that their arms needed to be built from carbon fiber instead of steel. [Wired Backchannel 10.18.17] Robots like these will obviously reduce the number of human workers who can safely and efficiently move about a factory floor. 

The point is that we have always built machines that perform the jobs we don't want to do, or can't do simply because of our innate physical limitations.  To begin to judge our human efforts by the capabilities of our machines stands rationality on its head. I will never be able to compute the value of pi to several thousand places in less than a second. And why would I want to? Can we outrun a car, even a bicycle? Swim faster than a jet ski? Hoist more than a forklift? And let's not even think about airplanes, rockets and ocean liners. 

Similarly, why would I want to play chess or Go against a computer? If two human beings faced off across a game board and one could look up all the best moves and strategies in a huge database while the other had to relie on just their memory and instinct would we consider that match a fair assessment of their respective abilities? Of course not. But that is essentially what goes on when a human plays a computer. So by the normal rules of fair play, the computer is cheating. The results are no contest. The victories are meaningless.

And that is the point. We should not lament the fact that our machines surpass us at doing the jobs we don't want to do anyhow. It should not depress us if human beings lose games to machines designed to be "super cheaters" capable of not only stealing our playbook, but every playbook ever written.

Perhaps a better lesson to be drawn from these human versus machine events is not a consideration of how we might design ever better game-playing machines. Instead we might consider a deeper reflection on what fields of endeavor are uniquely human, beyond the ken of the most clever coder. 

I am uncomfortable with the Turing test that measures the ability of a computer program to trick human beings into believing that they are interacting with another human being and not a computer. To what end? To make our "in home personal assistants" like Siri and Alexa sound more human? Perhaps. And there may be value there, but not if we continue to treat these powerful machines like carnival attractions: Guess your weight! Tell me what cup the pea is under!

Here is a thought. Rather than trying to build a computer that can deceive our notion of humanity, why not seek to articulate notions of humanity that are utterly alien to the computational power of these machines?  Here are a few that spring to mind.

1. The soul. Despite absolutely no data to confirm the notion, most major faith-based communities espouse something like a "soul." Something that has - as of now - no discernible physical properties but is essential for a meaningful existence.
2. Life after death. Another belief with no objective data to support it that is widely spread throughout human society.
3. Love. Again we have, at best, only indirect evidence of its existence. Yet love is universally acclaimed as, if not the most powerful of human motivations, then certainly among the most powerful emotions that shape human behavior.
4. Creativity. We are constantly pushing the origins of human creativity further back in our time on the planet. While we quickly utilize every emerging technology in service to our creative impulses, the impulse to create, to express our feelings and perceptions exists independent of our machines.

There are undoubtedly more areas of human interest and concern that transcend the ability of our machines to manage or manipulate, let alone "understand" in anything like the human notion of understanding. That is not to say that we cannot harness the impressive power of our machines in service to these uniquely human arenas. But it strikes me as imperative that we need to reassess the relationship between the machines and their makers and mentors. I really don't care too much about the raw power of chess or Go playing computers. I care very much about how that power is harnessed in service to humanity. I am all in favor of the technological advances that free me from the mundane activities of everyday. So AI,  please, go ahead. Find my keys. Better yet, drive my car. Do my taxes. Wash the dishes, do the laundry. Even diagnose illness, compound medicines, perform surgery. We have human mentors who can guide you in those important tasks.

That leaves me more time to write and draw and listen to music, to go for a walk. That frees me up to reflect on all those uniquely human concerns that, I'm sorry Alexa, you just don't understand. And Siri, with all those "in service to humanity tasks" on your plate do you really have time to be playing chess?

Walking the Peaceful Path

Dear Friends and Family  - 

I finished writing this the day before the horrific manifestation of insanity that ripped the nation from Las Vegas during the first days of October.  My initial inclination was to hold off sharing it with you as a sign of respect for those whose lives were torn apart in that eruption of violence. On further reflection it occurs to me that this might be exactly the right time to send it. We are living in a time when our culture, our politicians, even our entertainment seems to glory in violent divisiveness. Perhaps if there were more expressions of serenity to surround us, little bits of sanity, our world might slowly reconfigure itself as a more gentle and compassionate place. It is in that hope that I offer the following post. 

- Peace, 

RLS

Walking the Peaceful Path

A new “imagining” has presented itself to me over the last few weeks. Actually it isn’t completely new, it is rather sort of an extension of a previous mental construction. I have written before about using the image of the front porch of the house in which I was raised as a meditation device to get rid of the clutter of the day, easing me out of the waking world into sleep for a nap or through the night. 

For the “porch sessions" I employ either classical music or my favorite tracks from Naturespace along with noise canceling headphones to block the external world. Next, I imagine the porch with a host of tennis balls scattered about. The tennis balls are, of course, the phone calls, meetings, obligations, and irritating individuals that I have encountered during the course of the day. I take the conveniently available broom and chase the tennis balls off the porch chanting, “Get off my porch! Get off my porch!” Sometimes a ball or two prove unusually resistant. In those instances, I simply grab a new broom, which .  .  . well, you know, sweeps clean. 

One night, I had finished sweeping the porch while listening to the Naturespace track Stream of Consciousness. No big surprise there, it is a recording of a rushing but still sonorous stream. Anyhow, I had cleaned the porch and found myself at the front door of the house. I usually never go inside - not really sure why.  I’ll have to think about that. But this time I did.  Nothing terribly surprising inside. The familiar upright piano rested against the wall immediately to my left. The sofa claimed its spot between twin windows that faced the street to my right. The large oval braided rug where we would race marbles around the ridges covered the center of the floor. The cobblers bench with the drawer where playing cards, jacks, little rubber balls and other small games were stored, anchored the center of the rug.  Dad’s collection of pipes hung above the bookcase that sat next to the easy chair by the vintage gas fireplace along the far left-hand wall. Beyond the fireplace a stretch of waist-high built-in bookcases completed the wall. They held my parent's books. Weighty tomes with dark spines, titles writ in small letters. I remember none of them.  

But the wall opposite me - that should have looked out across the driveway to the neighbor's house next door - was wrong. There was a large door in the right-hand corner of the room, where no door should be. Even now I’m not exactly sure what should have been along that wall. TV set in the corner I think? Record player? Bookcase? Maybe all of those. But now there was just this door. Naturally, I opened it and stepped through.  

I’m not really sure what to call the space into which I stepped. Technically it was a loggia, which Wikipedia tells us is "an architectural feature which is a covered exterior gallery or corridor usually on an upper level, or sometimes ground level. The outer wall is open to the elements, usually supported by a series of columns or arches.” That pretty well defines it. It was a long white corridor, but quite dim since it was night. The stream ran along the open right-hand side, clearly audible, but out of sight and seemingly below the floor level. The open wall was supported by simple white pillars, every eight feet or so. Several paces down the corridor a table lamp cast a warm glow over two easy chairs gathered around a small white wicker table identical to the one behind me on the porch.  I could see that the pattern of "dark path leading to illuminated resting space” was repeated as far as I could see. "Very cool,” I thought as I wandered down the corridor listening to the stream. I would occasionally stop and sit down.  There must be some couches along the way, because sometimes I would lie down and doze off.

This mental construction is, as I said, an extension of the front porch meditation. But the effect is almost the opposite. The porch is an exercise in mindfulness.  The loggia is an exercise in mindlessness.  Let me explain.

The porch allows me to call to mind the irritants of the day, identify them with their unique tennis ball, and smack them off the porch, maybe not resolved, but hopefully out of sight and out of mind.

The loggia is simply a peaceful path. There are no books or magazines on the tables. The chairs and sofas are without resistant surfaces.  I float on them. The only sound is the stream. Beyond the loggia there is an occasional hint of light off water. There is the slight taste of cool air wafting in from the calm space beyond. The mind drifts untethered. Occasionally, a series of connected thoughts intrudes. Remnants, perhaps from the battle on the porch. Like unruly children, they seem oblivious to the rules of behavior that govern this space.  I arise and meander on down the loggia until I leave their quarrelsome yapping behind. The stream again asserts itself. The easy chairs beckon. I sit. It reclines. Calm rules. Thoughts drift off down the path. I am at peace.

Naturespace URL: [http://www.naturespace.org/]

Metaphor, Supersymmetry and the Original Singularity

I lie in bed.

Birds serenade the sun.

The day begins.

I gather the thought carefully.

Deep within the center of my consciousness.

Molding each particle of power to Zen-like purity.

I fling the command into the universe.

“Coffee! Make thyself!”

Silence. Failure. Despair.

The semester begins and I fight a more than normal disorientation.  With the exception of teaching my online course, I have been pretty much "off the grid" for the last two months. We have been vacationing and visiting friends and family - West Virginia, Kentucky, Illinois, South Dakota. No doubt some Wall postings will spring from those rambles. But in the midst of them, often the richness of immediate experiences overwhelms any directly related musings.  Instead, when I drift off into Alternia - that cotton-swathed land that hovers somewhere between the sleeping and the waking world - my thoughts tend to be even less firmly tethered than usual to the reality churning before open eyes.  These are some of them. 

The third tenet of Distilled Harmony, Distill Complexity, derives from the assertion - based on my own observations and the far less subjective work of others in a variety of disciplines - that often what initially appears complex is actually far less so. Consider E=mc².  Einstein's five symbols fundamentally altered our perception of the universe. We most often interpret them as five symbols that point the way to comprehending the incredible complexity of the physical reality in which we exist. Yet, it strikes me that perhaps that notion results from looking through the wrong end of the telescope leading us to that conclusion: "E=mc² reveals the awesome complexity of the universe." A glance from the other end of the telescope may yield a more helpful perspective: "The awesome complexity of the universe points us to the refreshing simplicity of E=mc²." We should move from the complex to the simple, not the other way around.  Distill complexity. 

Reflecting on life from the perspective of “complexity distilled” leads to some interesting reflections. Consider, for example, the relationship between metaphor and reality. A colleague of mine used to warn against "getting stuck to the metaphor." It is a concern that grows naturally from the extensive use of metaphor in teaching. Because of our real world experience with spiders’ webs, using the "World-Wide-Web" as a metaphor for the Internet creates a powerful representation of the connectedness of the Internet. Similarly our experiences on highways allows the metaphor of "the information superhighway" to capture the dynamic notion of how information both flows over, but can also become congested on, the Internet.  These are indeed helpful metaphors.  But the warning not to get “stuck” on them grows from Korzybski’s general semantics assertion that "the word is not the thing, the map is not the territory."

Maybe so, maybe not.  Consider the extent to which the global positioning system - aka the gps - actually has become the territory. The little screen often takes precedence over the “real” world passing by outside the vehicle even when we know "she" (No, I don’t know why the voice always seems to be female.) is wrong.  The “reality” of the gps may signal a similar, more widespread rise in the dominance of the metaphor. This makes me wonder if the traditional idea that "the map is not the territory" aka "the metaphor is not the reality" may be giving complexity unwarranted precedence over a more distilled option. 

OK. It's going to get a little strange now. Bear with me as I consider the relationship between metaphor and supersymmetry.  Supersymmetry is a concept in theoretical physics.  More specifically in quantum mechanics, that posits a specific set of related particles. If you have particle A, supersymmetry demands that particle B must exist to "partner" particle A.  And that is really as far as I am going to go with supersymmetry in its normal world of particle physics. I am more interested in what supersymmetry may teach us about metaphor and "reality."  

Remember the reason for metaphor.  Metaphor, when properly constructed, distills complexity. It makes the complicated clear. I wonder if there is more to metaphor than that, something far deeper.  Just as the complexity of the universe points to E=mc², perhaps all the metaphors that clarify a particular reality, are also a part of that underlying reality. And that each of those clarifying metaphors, being an actual part of that underlying reality, can increase our understanding of the underlying reality. This asserts that a kind of supersymmetry unites those related metaphors, and that by "getting stuck" to any one of a group of supersymmetrical metaphors allows us to further distill the underlying reality - to approach the "E=mc²" - that unites that cluster of metaphors. So each metaphor can become an actual tool for understanding and utilizing the underlying reality. Just as the physics and geometry of various flying and gliding creatures aid in the design of planes, drones, gliders, etc., the "sticky" parts of each related metaphor help us to better understand the underlying reality of the supersymmetrical metaphor cluster. 

And that's not all! Stranger still! Don't forget entanglement! If we hop over to quantum mechanics for a moment, we learn that when two particles become "entangled," a change to any property of one particle is instantly reflected in the other particle regardless of the distance between the two particles - Einstein's "spooky action at a distance."  Chinese scientists recently demonstrated entanglement over a distance of some 1200 kilometers.  Look in one end of that telescope and the complexity is overwhelming.  I mean how can that be? How do the two particles know how to change? If the information regarding the change travels from one particle to the other “instantly” the information must be traveling faster than the speed of light and that is the Mother of all physics no-nos. 

But if we look in the other end of the telescope - distilling the complexity - a different reality comes into focus: there aren’t really two particles.  There is only one particle connected in ways we do not yet understand. We will understand how eventually, and scientists of that future will wonder how we overlooked such a simple connection. 

Perhaps the same kind of simple connection underlies the supersymmetrical metaphor cluster. There is only one reality being described by the cluster. We fail to recognize it because looking in the complexity inducing end of the telescope reveals what appears to be a complicated scattering of metaphors. It is only when we peer through the distilling end of the telescope that we see the unified reality. And, that takes me to the last, and perhaps most outrageous conjecture of this post. 

Again, bear with me. We fail to see that what we believe to be two entangled particles are really one particle because we can manipulate their physical properties in such a way that our measuring devices report the existence of two particles which nevertheless act as one. Metaphors also appear to describe varying realities that nonetheless appear to act as one. In both situations we appear to have identical realities that somehow became separated.  

But what if they haven't really become separated - but rather have been stretched to such an extent that they appear to us as separate? And where might they have been originally unified - upstretched?  At what where/when point of compression of information was the underlying reality and all its related metaphors “unseparated,” “unstretched?” Yes, I'm afraid that is where I am heading. Back to the original singularity before the Big Bang.  It was the Big Bang and the resultant instant of inflation of the universe that drove everything, particles, the realities underlying metaphors, everything apart. So, it was the birth of the universe that created the illusion of separateness, and the resultant mask of complexity. 

And what was the reason for the instant of the inflation of the original/ singularity? And will the universe continue to expand? Or will the expanding universe eventually meet the expanding edges of other universes and coalesce into new more informed singularities that continue to compress until some concentration of information demands a new inflation? And again and again and again, universes without end. 

So what? I hate it when I go rushing through this torrent of suppositions and come to what seems a logical insight only to be faced with the wet towel of "So what?"  I have a bit of an answer that seems to fit with the current torrent: Things are not as complicated as they seem. Look for what makes reality - people, ideas, beliefs, philosophies, facts - the same. Look for commonalities, not differences. Distill Complexity. 

Egocentrism: The Stage Piaget Forgot

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Jean Piaget's inclination to base his theory of cognitive development on the progressive stages he observed in the behaviors of his own children pretty well guaranteed that everyone past "a certain age" would get passed over by his system.  Not only was he never able to observe his kids when they were older than he was - a bizarre but interesting notion - but, in addition, back in the early 1900s, there weren't many people old enough to have entered this proposed fifth stage as part of a natural developmental progression.

I began to become increasingly aware of the "egocentrism stage" as my own father moved through his 80s and 90s on his way to the century mark.  The egocentrism stage is marked by an increasing certainty that you are right about everything. But, unlike politicians and religious fundamentalists who often make these claims regardless of age, "egocentrists" don't make their claims in the absence of data. Rather their claims are based on the notion that their own longevity has exposed them to all the necessary data to support whatever claims they chose to make. No further data is required. Been there, done that. My unique data is sufficient to support my assertion.

A couple of examples:

When Dad was into his eighties - maybe even a touch older - we were playing golf.  The foursome behind us drove a ball fairly close to our position. Golf etiquette calls for a glance back at the following group, who usually wave and non-verbally indicate "Sorry!" And the game goes on. That tradition was observed. But after we teed off on the next hole and the following foursome of middle-aged business types approached Dad remarked in his finest professorial voice, "Hit that one a bit close, eh, boys?"  Sort of a "tradition be damned, I'll decide when comment is necessary" perspective. Under ideal conditions I would have invited them to play through, but the course was already pretty crowded so it wouldn't have made any difference. Instead, I just quickly waved, and as I was driving the cart, sent us scurrying down the fairway. 

Around that same time my wife and I took Dad to one of our favorite galleries, sadly now much altered, in Long Grove, Illinois.  Dad seemed to be enjoying himself amidst the paintings, sculpture and jewelry.  But then he paused before an admittedly rather strange contemporary piece hanging on the wall. After a moment of reflection he announced in a voice that easily carried to the owner at the front desk - and anyone in between: "Well. I wouldn't hang that in my toilet!" His notion seemed to be that if you hang it here, I have every right to tell you what I think of it. And loudly.

But the egocentrism stage rests not so much on intentional rudeness, as it does on an inclination to give the knee-jerk certainties in our head free access to our vocal cords.  And at the same time, giving little if any thought as to how our words might impact others. Most often it is not a good thing.

Toddlers, as they move blithely through Piaget's earlier stages, have to be taught how to be civil in society - another concept that currently seems sadly much altered. But as adults, who are all hopeful of reaching the age when egocentrism rears its unpleasant head, we need to consciously confront looming egocentrism. At mere months shy of 69, I occasionally feel its early stirrings. I mean, I'm right. Right? :-) The challenge, as implied in the previous paragraph, is to not give those egocentric certainties unfettered access to your vocal cords.

The fourth tenet of Distilled Harmony - Oppose Harm - speaks to this issue. When we consider opposing harm, we most often think about confronting the "bad guy."  However, in this instance - to quote Walt Kelly's famous 1971 line from Pogo - "We have met the enemy, and he is us!” Hence, in this instance, opposing harm can benefit from an ancient concept, now often attributed to Thumper the rabbit in Disney's 1942 classic Bambi: "If you can't say something nice, don't say nothing at all." 

Being pleasant isn't always easy, and apparently it becomes more difficult when the "certainties" we acquire over an increasingly long life come into conflict with the differing perceptions of others. We all have a friend or acquaintance deep in the throes of egocentrism. My advice is to keep them in mind, listen to the words that come out of their mouths, especially the ones that bruise. Do not speak those words.  Do not become that person.

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Beauty Part 2

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I have been thinking about the word "eustress" for awhile.  It is one of those words that almost never comes up in conversation, but for which you can imagine lots of possible uses:

"While excavating a new subway line in Rome, workers were stunned to encounter a remarkably well-preserved 3000 year-old Eustressian Temple.”  or

"Scientists at NASA discovered that when placed under extreme pressure between diamond plates, eustress will form precise layers of crystals with unique characteristics."

In reality it has a very different meaning: eustress is "good" stress. Stress that makes you feel good, even exhilarated.  I have a friend whose daughter is an accomplished  "rock climber." I have seen videos of the teenager hanging by her fingertips above empty spaces that make me more than a little queasy. But the youngster is obviously delighted. Hence, the same situation engenders polar opposite reactions in two individuals - eustress for the young climber, distress in me.  

So it seems to me that I had short-changed the notion of beauty in my previous post about "enable beauty."  I would still assert that beauty is the stuff of dreams, while a variety of artists create "art" more suited to our nightmares.

But I would short change beauty if I were to ignore the fact that beauty also can be divided into two parts: tranquility and exhilaration.  And exhilaration is where eustress comes in. My own strong inclination to tranquility makes it more difficult for me to imagine an artwork that I find "eustressian" - exhilarating.  In the world outside of galleries the examples are rampant - thunderstorms, waterfalls, fireworks, and for some, I understand, roller coasters.  So, as I think about it, it strikes me that I have missed some of these exhilarating works within the traditional realm of the arts: Architecture -  Frank Gehry’s works.  The Anasazi constructions in the four corners area of the American Southwest.  Sculpture also springs to mind. The Winged Victory of Samothrace and Michelangelo's David.  Music - well, of course. The myriad of works that set our feet tapping, or move us to some "air guitar," or even "air conducting." Yes, eustress lives there.  Another yin-yang duality circling within the yang of beauty proposed in the previous post. 

I'll continue to think about it.  Your suggestions are always welcome :-)

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I'll have Beauty - Hold the Beast

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The second tenet of Distilled Harmony is "Enable Beauty."  I occasionally need to point out - to myself as well as others - that it is not "Enable Art."  

I am on a wide variety of “art” lists, so, throughout the day, dozens of images of “artworks" vie for attention upon my screen.   

The images reflect an incredibly “yin yang” perception of the world.  And if you want to fall into a really deep rabbit hole, google “yin yang.” I did.  When I came up for air, the definition that seemed to stick with me was one that asserts that the concept grew out of observations of nature in which '"Yin" originally referred to the shady side of a slope while "yang" referred to the sunny side.”  Both were necessary for a balanced existence.  The Star Wars catalogue sharpens the divide somewhat, splitting "The Force" which drives existence into the Jedi’s Light or Good side, and the Dark Side of the Sith which reflects Evil.  But that is another rabbit hole for another time. The point is that “art” can focus our attention on either the light or the dark side of existence with equal facility.  

If one aspect of my psyche has remained relatively constant as I approach the beginning of my 70th year [for those of you who know me well and are scratching your heads, technically, you begin your 70th year when you turn 69] it is that I do not “do" dark.  This is a characteristic - perhaps genetic, if my older daughter can be used as evidence - born of a belief that “real life" provides more than enough evidence for the Dark Side.  Hence I have no need to explore its artistic representations. That attitude reflects a kind of hypersensitivity to those narratives that depend upon the existence of violence, hatred and evil to make the protagonist necessary - but then strangely allow the protagonist to behave in precisely the same manner as the villain, the sole difference being that the protagonist is on “our side.” So violence and mayhem are acceptable if exercised in the name of “good.”  Unless, that is, you just don’t do dark. 

In the spirit of full-disclosure, I need to confess that I have come to enjoy some “dark side” narratives, both in terms of mystery novels, detective TV shows, etc.  But only those in which the “fiction” is completely obvious.  When the darkness begins to seem “real,” asserting that evil really does lurk around every corner - or when children or dogs are put in harms way - I tune out, usually literally.

OK, to circle back to Enable Beauty.  When you encounter artistic representations of the dark side you can simply put down the book, walk out of the movie, or turn off whatever “digital device” you employ to stream your entertainment. But the artifacts - the pictures, paintings, sculpture, etc., with which you choose to surround yourself - on your walls, table tops, bookcases, etc.,  - these create the world in which you live.  I simply cannot understand why one would choose to “do dark” in that self-constructed world. Therefore, I find it remarkable that any of the dark images that parade across my screen in the name of art find a home anywhere. Perhaps the very wealthy would purchase those dark works in the spirit of social or political solidarity and put them in a closet somewhere. But display them so they would greet you everyday? More than a little creepy.

It is undeniable that the “beast” side of art as a medium for social protest has a long and storied history.  One of my "art sites" - Artsy.net - recently ran an editorial discussing why Picasso's Guernica retained its powerful anti-war message 80 years after its creation. Critics continue to explore the bizarre imagery of Hieronymus Bosch 600 years after the artist's death. I am not about to fling myself into either of those discussions. My question is far less complex: Would you want to hang Guernica or Bosch's The Garden of Earthly Delights in your home? Assuming, of course, that you had the significant amount of wall space they both require? 

The question is not one of the works' place in art history. The question is the place of the images' place in your head.  These are dark works. To shoehorn them into a definition of "beauty" would require significant intellectual contortions.

The second tenet - Enable Beauty - is closely tied to very measurable reactions when viewing the artifacts: your pulse eases, blood pressure drops, you smile. You become calm.  Your interaction with the work is pleasurable. Allowing yourself time and space for these observations, surrounding yourself with such works, is to enable beauty.

There is, of course, the other side of the equation: the role of the artist as creator as opposed to consumer.  When we doodle or draw or paint or sculpt or write, we do so with some intent.  Again yin and yang provide alternate pathways. Yin may well “rage rage against the dying of the light!”  But remember that Dylan Thomas also wrote in Under Milkwood: "It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobbled streets silent and the hunched courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea.”  

It is easy to imagine Thomas raging his way through a bottle of single malt as he crafted Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night. But the same artist would, it seems, experience a significant drop in blood pressure when penning Under Milkwood or A Child’s Christmas in Wales. 

The point is simply this: The second tenet of Distilled Harmony points to beauty, whether we are the creator or the consumer. Like everything in Distilled Harmony the objective is harmony, not discord.  Distilled Harmony does not advocate a gullible, "Pollyanna-esque"  view of the world. Rather it acknowledges the sad fact that in our culture, politics, art and literature, the Dark Side often overwhelms the Light and needs no succor from us.  We choose the nature of our personal environment and the themes of our creations. So, to maximize harmony in my life, as I said, "I’ll have beauty - hold the beast."

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Life is a Beach

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I sleep, and in that sleep I dream. 

A dream that stacks days of lifetimes 

Scattered like shells across  

The seemingly vast beach  

Of my existence. 

The pretty pebbles of childhood 

Riddled with veins of laughter and tears. 

A tangled weir of driftwood  

All roots and polished branches 

Drifted in from someone else's shore. 

I wonder how it came here. . . 

Lover's shells, pearlescent spirals. 

Their gleaming chambers glow 

And echo the roar and murmur  

Of the waves that break all round. 

Shorebirds dance in the sparkling foam 

Knit up of remembered laughter and 

The scattered remain of some small creatures, 

Lost and forgotten plans or unmet aspirations. 

Victims of an unfortunate shift of the tide. 

The breeze flirts with becoming a wind. 

Threatening to send my hat aloft, 

It carries a tang of salt, a sigh of memory, 

And yet a hint of promised tomorrows. 

I make my way across an arch of beach 

That fronts dunes anchored by sea grass. 

Fragile tracks that etch the sand  

Mark the paths of vanished creatures 

With better claim to this mythic space than I. 

Gulls stitch the sky, 

Raucously declaring a synthesis  

Of yesterday, today, and tomorrow. 

I chance upon an unexpected pine 

Whose twisted trunk and wind-sculpted 

Shadow o'er reach all three. 

Beneath its sheltering boughs 

Silken sand invites me to recline 

So I stretch out, again to sleep, 

Perchance, once more, to dream. 

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Talking the Talk - or Fostering Harmonic Language

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The first tenet of Distilled Harmony is Foster Harmony. It is important to realize right up front that “fostering harmony" is inextricably woven together with our use of language. You cannot manifest harmony while using the language of anger or hatred, suspicion or fear. Harmony demands the language of caring, of affection - the language of love, if you will - since those vocabularies articulate harmony while blunting the discord of anger, hatred and fear.

Harmonic speech is a type of artistic expression. And like any other art form, it requires attention and practice - especially if your personal or cultural experiences have been rooted in a language of confrontation or conflict, a reality which is, unfortunately, rather common. Dealing with dysfunctional relationships - including the language employed in those relationships - keeps thousands and thousands of therapists in business! Not all that surprising given that, for the most part, we live in a competitive culture. We tend to focus on winners and losers. There are certainly benefits to be derived from this "meritocratic" perspective. Ideally, it leads to a general improvement in the culture, better education, better science, consumer products, medicine, etc. But there is a dark side to the meritocracy. And the Dark Side sees people as winners and losers as well.  And the language of “I win, you lose” leaves at least half of the conversation feeling anything but harmonic. And, of course, bullying and internet trolling both rest firmly on the use of discordant language. 

Stay with me here on what may seem an unrelated diversion. Crafting a harmonic vocabulary, springs from a harmonic view of life. Both require a delicate existential balance. To over-compensate for the often harsh vicissitudes of life by declaring that everybody is a winner results in "participant ribbons" and the distortion of the very real line between ordinary and exceptional.  Better, I think, is to realize that we are all “differently-abled.”  I like to think of life and our place in it as a jigsaw puzzle. We are each a unique piece of the puzzle.  Our abilities and inabilities form the contours of our individual puzzle piece.  In a perfect world, we blend with all the other pieces of the puzzle to create the picture on the front of the box.  And that would be lovely - but we see little evidence of such a global harmonic consolidation. A less intimidating objective might be to try to fit with the pieces in our immediate vicinity. And this implies dialing down the notion of individuals as winners or losers, and focusing instead on the value of our differing abilities. I mean its not much of a puzzle if all the pieces are square, right? But I’m letting the analogy steer the ship here. So let’s back up a bit. 

The challenge in Fostering Harmony is to explore the ways in which our real and very valuable differences can fit together to create a harmonic whole that is truly greater than the mere sum of its parts.  And that is where harmonic language plays its part. Prayer and its secular cousin, poetry, are the most obvious forms of consciously harmonic speech, but outside of a religious institution or a Shakespearian play, they are rarely used in everyday conversation. Try conversing with someone on the street in prayer or iambic pentameter and folks begin to edge away from you or fake a call on their cellphone. However, there are other ways to practice harmonic speech that will not only increase your skill in the art form, but will also allow you to more successfully Foster Harmony.

Here, again, we find ourselves on a bit of a balance beam.  Harmonic language, and harmonic conversation in particular, is driven by a legitimate interest in and at least a potential agreement with the other.  Unfortunately, politicians, salespeople and advertisers have discovered that appearing to be interested in, and in agreement with, voters or customers is also the most effective way to achieve personal and often selfish goals. Honest harmonic language rests on a foundation of actual interest in, and a sincere desire to seek agreement with the other.  And both of those characteristics rest on a genuine curiosity about the other and a willingness to accept that the other may know more than you about a given topic. 

Pragmatically that means that in the course of a conversation words and phases like, “Yes” and “That’s interesting” and “What do you think about .  . “ need to come out of our mouths more often than “No” and “What you need to do is . . . and, “Well, I believe .  .  .“  That does not mean that you simply abdicate your beliefs, values or attitudes. Rather, part of the artistry of harmonic speech is exploring how your beliefs, values, and attitudes can find common ground with the beliefs attitudes and values of the other. And that brings us to a consideration of the aesthetic component of harmonic speech. 

In an earlier post, The Wonder of Words, I wrote about how “long form” compositions were far superior to texting,  SMS posts and Tweets because they allowed for a more complete expression of a thought. It is probably worthwhile to note that it is not simply the number of words that informs harmonic speech, it is the aesthetic quality of those words.  In that post I point out that when we had "art" in 3rd or 4th grade we would pull out our trusty Prang water colors - 8 basic colors in a shiny black metal tray.  And that was the extent of our "palette." Nowadays, in the bright digital world of Photoshop et. al., we have come to expect millions of colors to be available at the beck and call of a clicking mouse. An examination of language reveals the same variation of breadth and depth.  This aesthetic component of harmonic speech draws upon the second tenet of Distilled Harmony - Enable Beauty.  It is patently obvious that there is a universe of difference between “Me Tarzan. You Jane.” and “My Love is like a red, red rose, That’s newly sprung in June.”  Yet both articulations are driven by the same emotion. The difference is that Tarzan is working with Prang’s eight color palette, while Robert Burns is speaking Photoshop. 

Enriching our aesthetic linguistic palette requires effort, especially in the popular digital environment that seems to privilege compositions of 140 to 160 characters - a convention that would seem to advantage Tarzan: "I ❤️ u J!” while leaving Burns struggling to decide which words in his poem are - after all - superfluous: "My ❤️ is a nu flr” ? Definitely something lost in translation there.  To construct a rich linguistic palette, it is perhaps best to leave the struggles with emojis and phonetic truncation alone, and return to three dependable, though time-consuming, strategies: read, listen, perform.

Reading is the first among equals.  To use a word, you have to know the word, and while you can come to know a word by hearing it, or speaking it, reading the word has a significant advantage: the word does not move. The experience of hearing a word ceases when the sound waves no longer strike the ear to be carried to the brain. Speaking the word ceases when your vocal cords lie still. The written word, lines and curves, or bumps on a page stay there, allowing you to reflect upon it. Study it in the context of the other words that encircle it. Speak it if you choose to do so. Absorb it.   

So read and read widely. My biases? For power and precision read Hemingway from the 1920s and 1930s. For linguistic complexity, Jane Austin and Charles Dickens. For American brashness and humor - Mark Twain, and not just the novels.  For words and attention to scene that are rarely present in contemporary works try popular novels from the late 1800s and early 1900s: James Oliver Curwood, Gene Stratton-Porter, Louis L’Amour, Zane Grey. None of this last group are ever seriously considered for inclusion in the canon of great American novelists - except maybe if there is a sub-category for Westerns where both L’Amour and Grey should get a nod.  Also, if you are unable to separate the novels from the time in which they were written, you will find them chock full of “cultural insensitivity” - as was the world in which they lived - so parts of the works may make you uncomfortable. But if you simply ignore them because of those chronological foibles, at least part of your palette gets short-changed.  And then read everything. Magazines, fiction, non-fiction, news sources, blogs, poetry.  Stuff as many colors into your palette as you can.  You probably noticed that my reading recommendations are from days gone by.  That is intentional.  I remember when I was young, if I wanted to learn how to write or speak “proper English” I would go to a book. I didn’t know it then, but I was trusting the editors to make sure that the basic rules of grammar, spelling, etc., were being followed. If there were intentional deviations, our attention would be drawn to them by quotation marks: “quittin’ time, y’all!” or something like that.  While I’m sure today’s editors still struggle to protect the language from flagrant abuse, I am “a’feared” that with the flood of self-published works they may be fighting a losing battle.

Listening is the easiest palette builder in the 21st century.  With streaming video, audio books and podcasts available on our computers, tablets and phones, it would seem that we need never listen to the sounds of silence or another commercial.  But with all this linguistic wheat out there, it is inevitable that there is even more chaff.  Remember, we are trying to augment our aesthetic harmonic linguistic palette.  The purveyors of digital content realized long ago that as a culture we will still listen to the commercials if they are embedded in content we find entertaining or informative.  In May of 1961, Newt Minnow, then Chair of the FCC said, "When television is good, nothing — not the theater, not the magazines or newspapers — nothing is better. But when television is bad, nothing is worse.” The same holds true for today’s Internet and video streaming options.  And unfortunately it is mindlessly simple to find the linguistically discordant. Ranting podcasts, “self-help” shows that are the audio equivalent of cage wrestling, “news" programs built along the same lines, endless dramas featuring dysfunctional families, and of course, crime dramas each episode of which places the world as we know it danger from the “terrorists d’jour.”  Hard to bake good bread from all that chaff. 

Still, almost all those good options I listed up there under “reading" exist in audio versions. Our public library has a wide variety of audio offerings that you can download to phones, tablets, etc.  Great for trips. In addition there are wonderful podcasts available in the both the arts the sciences.  They may not be the first options you stumble across, but they are out there if you look for them - so look for them. Listen for the words, listen for the sounds of cooperation, of harmony.

Performance is an option we often tend to ignore.  I came to it quite early, and I am not really sure why.  However, my sister has provided me with photographic evidence of my playing Peter Pan to a Captain Hook played by a girl much taller than I. Beverly C something? Copenhagen? Nah, couldn’t be. Anyhow, 2nd grade? Maybe 3rd?  I recall similar photos from a 1950s Wittenberg College production of Mrs. McThing - in which I played the dual role of “Howay” and “Boy.”  Casting for which I hold my father responsible.  However, I have to take responsibility for my choice to recite - in maybe 4th grade?- Stephen Vincent Benet’s very long poem “The Mountain Whippoorwill: Or How Hillbilly Jim Won the Great Fiddler’s Prize,” which was at least partial inspiration for the Charlie Daniel’s hit "The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” The poem was the inspiration - not my recitation of it, which, no doubt, bored my classmates past all understanding.  

I was in a number of plays in my high school which was blessed with an excellent drama department, and went on to major in Theater in college. While there I performed in - which, remember, meant both memorizing and performing the words - a variety of roles from Arthur Miller to Shakespeare.  And I have come to realize that the process of memorization and performance is perhaps the best way to add entire new families of colors to your aesthetic linguistic palette.  So give it a whirl. Community theater, your local version of TED talks, storytelling.  Or just read Shakespeare aloud - probably at home, by yourself.  “Gather ye palettes while you may.” 

In conclusion, If we were to pull the third tenet of Distilled Harmony - Distill Complexity - into this rambling discussion of talking the talk of harmony, we might well compress the whole post into a slightly edited version of an aphorism that we have all encountered: If you can’t say something nice, and nicely, then don’t say anything at all.

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A Mini-Wall - Poetry

A Mini-Wall - which is a mind worm that will not let me sleep until I write it down, 

Poetry

Poetry is less  

a depiction of a reality  

perceived by the eye,  

and more  

the creation of a reality  

conceived in the mind.  

There, in the  

nooks and crannies  

of the cerebellum,  

lives a world of  

aching beauty  

wanting only the  

liberating touch of 
language. 

Metamorphosis

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I had a question from out there on the Schrag Wall blog about the Distilled Harmony perspective on an Afterlife, specifically: "Does Distilled Harmony advocate something like reincarnation?"  Interesting question. Here are my thoughts: 

First, Distilled Harmony doesn't advocate any specific series of conclusions. Rather it seeks to define a harmonious framework within which each of us can explore a variety of questions and reach our own conclusions about living a harmonic life.  So Distilled Harmony defines a path, not a destination.  Hence, all I can really share are the places that I encounter along my own path. 

That being said, do I believe in reincarnation?  Not so much reincarnation in the sense of being born into a new life in this locale, even though some intensely harmonic relationships present an emotional/intuitive argument for “having known you in another place and time.” But I am a bit uncomfortable with a rebirth that seems tethered to this third rock from the sun, or a heaven or paradise similarly linked to our current existence. If, as the chord theory extension of string theory implies, our physical being, our essential chord, is comprised of infinitesimal strings, tuned as best we can to the overarching music of the universe, it seems rather short-sighted to restrict any subsequent expression of that chord to our little tiny corner of the Milky Way.  

Rather, I am inclined toward the notion of a metamorphosis, a transition from our current existence to another. Again, to point to String Theory, a kind of phase transition. The analogy of a moth or butterfly arising from cocoon is helpful: this life - while precious in its own right - is also preparatory to other existences to come, existences not necessarily tied to our current cosmic here and now.  We might well emerge from our mortal cocoon anywhere in the universe and in forms - that while quite “normal” in that "post-emergence reality" - would be inconceivable to us in our current existence. 

I was listening to the National Gallery of Art Podcast “Flights of Angels: The Heavenly Orders in the Renaissance" the other day.  I was fascinated to learn of the hierarchical intricacies that Renaissance artists brought to their depictions of angels - their attempts to visualize entities they had never seen from a place they had never experienced. We are, I would hazard, equally hard pressed to imagine a post-metamorphosis existence. That does not render such an existence impossible, or even improbable.  Again, if we peek at the notion of metamorphosis through the lens of physics we still see nothing to remove metamorphosis from the realm of the possible. The first law of thermodynamics argues against the destruction of matter, but does allow for its transformation - at least within a closed system like the universe.  So shuffling off the Bard's "mortal coil," certainly allows for the notion that we may be shuffling onto another, transformed, coil.  Given the total lack of any scientific data for or against an afterlife; that's my harmonic stance of the moment. 

So, if that is my position, I need to treat it as reality, and consider the issues it raises. One of obvious significance is consciousness. Can we be conscious of previous existences? Or is that not possible in this current "cocoon"? But might we, however, acquire such "multiple-existence consciousness" as a post-metamorphosis butterfly?  Or are some folks - those who have attained "grace" or "enlightenment" or whatever - already able to exercise "multiple-existence consciousness?”  It is a capability some cultures ascribe to shamans, and other “holy figures." 

A less obvious, and somewhat stranger consideration, derives from our current search for "life" in the universe. We seem to be focusing on chemical signatures that indicate either the potential for life, or its presence. But what if "evolved consciousness" is a more accurate measure of meaningful existence in the cosmos than any physical traces of "life as we know it?"  What "signatures" would reveal such consciousness? How would we look for them? And would the ability to find them constitute a kind of time travel, as we might encounter entities that had been cocoons here, but had already emerged as evolved consciousnesses elsewhere and "elsewhen?" 

I don't know.  But then I didn't promise answers; but rather a consideration of the issues that lie along my particular harmonic path. So I'll just keep plodding along. Should I encounter any promising answers, I'll let you know :-)

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What It Means to be Human

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I was watching a National Geographic program last night while cleaning the kitchen. With hushed narration, it contemplated the future of a brave new world that included androids whose neural net processors would blur, if not erase, the line between natural and artificial intelligence; between humans and humanlike machines. The program went on to pose the question, almost fearfully, of “What does it mean to be human?"

The question stayed with me as I wiped off the counters, put the leftovers away, and turned off the TV.  The images of IBM’s Watson beating the best chess and Go players in the world, and a beautiful, helpful, but still kind of creepy android named “Bina48” who self-identifies as “human,” stuck with me throughout the evening, and not in a pleasant way.

But now, at 2:54 AM - according to my very helpful, but not at all human, iPad - the question of what it means to be human seems far less daunting. The answer, in fact, is rather prosaic. Being human is not programmable, because “human-ness" is neither a process or a product. Being human is a feeling. We will never learn to program "compassion." We may well be able to program androids like Bina48 with "artificial compassion," able to mimic compassionate behaviors. And it will be easy to anthropomorphize such creations, as a child imbues a beloved stuffed animal with human qualities.  But, until The Velveteen Rabbit actually becomes "real," draws breath, hops about, and feels human emotions all on its own, even the most wondrous of our creations will remain but pale imitations of the glorious entity enclosed within the fragile wrappings of our skin. 

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