Most of us periodically suffer from what is termed “cognitive dissonance.” Its official definition is that uncomfortable mental tension we experience when our beliefs and our actions are in conflict; when there is a discrepancy between them. For example, if I believe that lying is wrong, I will get an uncomfortable feeling when I don’t tell the truth.
There are other forms of cognitive dissonance, but I’d like to focus here on those cases where our actions come up short of our values—those occasions when we would like to have done better but didn’t. Speaking for myself, I often find a gap between what I hold to be good behavior and my actual behavior; and my conscience will bug me about those shortcomings.
So how might we deal with that mental tension, that insistent conscience that is caused by the discrepancy? As long as the gap remains, I will continue to suffer from it. So the straightforward approach is to try to narrow the breach between my beliefs and my behavior. I can do that in several ways—some are healthy, some are pathological. One unhealthy way to attempt to close the gap is to weaken my belief, my values. For example, I know that lying is wrong, but I may try to justify it by telling myself that a little white lie is OK, under certain circumstances. Or: I may believe that causing harm is unethical, but I might rationalize a little damage now and then by telling myself that some situations allow violence. The tangled webs we weave!
This process of diluting my belief doesn’t necessarily have to be deceitful or dishonest, however. It may be possible that my belief is too idealistic and unrealistic, and needs some downwards adjusting, towards reality. If I believe, for example, that I can cure my cancer simply by imaging a healthy body, I may be in for a bad fall. If I think all lies are always evil, I will be a perpetual fraud.
Possibly the most common way to deal with the cognitive dissonance gap is not to try to close it at all, but find ways to rationalize one’s deficient behavior. “I was just following orders.” “I would have done right, but Joe stopped me.” If I can justify or deny why my actions fall short, I may not feel so bad.
Although the feelings surrounding cognitive dissonance can be unpleasant, the experience can be very useful; it can be a motivator for positive change and growth. When I feel the discomfort of dissonance, I can face it, honestly admit my shortcomings, accept them as the cost of being human, and pledge to do better. It will help if I can cut myself a little slack, while simultaneously asking what I might do differently next time, to close that gap a little—to learn from my shortcomings.
If I can let go of expecting easily or quickly to eliminate the dissonance, but instead put energy into figuring out a game plan that brings a steady improvement in my behavior, I may in time get my priorities straighter. One of my main reasons for living as a hermit is to give myself more opportunity to put attention into finding ways to improve my behavior, as well as maybe have a better chance at choosing valid beliefs. I find it’s easier for me to do that from outside society’s tempting mainstream.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Life Out There
Ever since humans have known that all the stars out there are suns somewhat like our own, the question has posed itself: Is there life out there? All types of people—writers, scientists, sky gazers, religious thinkers—have wondered if we’re maybe not alone. The answer to that question—it will likely come some day—will have a profound impact on our worldview.
I sit in the outdoor tub and gaze deeply into the night sky. I see many stars—both faint and bright, individually and clustered. The longer I gaze at them, the more I wonder about them. How many of them, like our sun, provide their neighborhood with life-encouraging energy and warmth? How many have planets circling them? How many of those planets might be temperate and friendly enough to support life? How many of those stars have been around long enough and are stable enough to have allowed life the required time to evolve into sentient beings? Are there planets out there, upon which someone might be gazing in my direction, wondering if life exists elsewhere?
No one to date knows the answers to these questions. It’s not clear when—or if—we’ll know, but we get closer every day. Astronomers are making impressive strides in discovering other solar systems. Just a few years ago we had no idea of either the presence or prevalence of planets around other stars. Now we know that dozens of them do—and we’re just getting started on the hunt!
It’s not too difficult to spot a monster planet around a nearby star—although even that feat was beyond astronomers until recently. (Most sightings are accomplished by noting a brief and periodic dimming of a star’s light, as a planet moves in front of it.) It’s far harder to spot smaller, Earth-sized planets—but the technology is getting there quickly. In the next few years we’ll have those sightings.
Returning to the question of life out there: every planet we discover increases the odds that life did not originate on Earth alone. The more common we find planets to be—and that seems to be the direction we’re headed—the more likely it is that life is out there. We know there are billions of stars in a typical galaxy and billions of galaxies. How many planets does this imply? That sheer number alone suggests that Earth is not the only planet to have hit the jackpot of life.
But for now, we don’t know. I find it exciting that we get closer to an answer every day. When it comes (if it does) it will shake up a certain segment of humanity. Not me… I’m ready. In the meantime, I’m content to lie back in the tub, gaze deep into that star field overhead right now, and muse on it. I wonder if any being is looking my way.
I sit in the outdoor tub and gaze deeply into the night sky. I see many stars—both faint and bright, individually and clustered. The longer I gaze at them, the more I wonder about them. How many of them, like our sun, provide their neighborhood with life-encouraging energy and warmth? How many have planets circling them? How many of those planets might be temperate and friendly enough to support life? How many of those stars have been around long enough and are stable enough to have allowed life the required time to evolve into sentient beings? Are there planets out there, upon which someone might be gazing in my direction, wondering if life exists elsewhere?
No one to date knows the answers to these questions. It’s not clear when—or if—we’ll know, but we get closer every day. Astronomers are making impressive strides in discovering other solar systems. Just a few years ago we had no idea of either the presence or prevalence of planets around other stars. Now we know that dozens of them do—and we’re just getting started on the hunt!
It’s not too difficult to spot a monster planet around a nearby star—although even that feat was beyond astronomers until recently. (Most sightings are accomplished by noting a brief and periodic dimming of a star’s light, as a planet moves in front of it.) It’s far harder to spot smaller, Earth-sized planets—but the technology is getting there quickly. In the next few years we’ll have those sightings.
Returning to the question of life out there: every planet we discover increases the odds that life did not originate on Earth alone. The more common we find planets to be—and that seems to be the direction we’re headed—the more likely it is that life is out there. We know there are billions of stars in a typical galaxy and billions of galaxies. How many planets does this imply? That sheer number alone suggests that Earth is not the only planet to have hit the jackpot of life.
But for now, we don’t know. I find it exciting that we get closer to an answer every day. When it comes (if it does) it will shake up a certain segment of humanity. Not me… I’m ready. In the meantime, I’m content to lie back in the tub, gaze deep into that star field overhead right now, and muse on it. I wonder if any being is looking my way.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Satellite Struck
Sitting in the outdoor tub, gazing upward at the night sky, eyes adjusted to the dark, there are many thrilling celestial delights that I view. The stars themselves are, of course, the main show. They provide the unvarying but constantly fascinating backdrop for various transient visitors: planes, planets, meteors, but most especially, satellites.
A satellite looks just like a star—a point of light—except that it moves. It’s as if a star took a sudden notion to yank itself from its fixed location and soar across the sky. My fancy takes flight with it. A typical satellite circles the planet in about 90 minutes, so it can take some 10 minutes or more to cross a small viewing field.
You need a pretty dark sky to spot satellites. City lights mask most of them. Out here in the woods they are common—especially on clear nights. On any given night, if I gaze into the sky for five minutes, I can expect to see a satellite cruise overhead. So an hour’s soak in the tub can treat me with as many as a half dozen of them.
Like the moon and planets, you can see a satellite only because it reflects sunlight. So it’s the ability of them to bounce sunlight down to you that governs their visibility. A satellite can be quite bright for awhile, but then suddenly wink out, as it passes into the Earth’s shadow.
There are several types of satellites I’ve seen. Some are steady points of light that drift relentlessly along. Some blink on and off, as they tumble—and like a moving mirror, send their reflected light in diverse directions. The most spectacular satellite is the International Space Station (ISS). It’s as bright as Venus. There are a few websites that, when you put in your site, list when the ISS will pass overhead. They give the time and sky location when the space station first will appear in your neighborhood. It’s a thrill to look up at that patch of sky and suddenly see this very bright light pop into view.
I’ve occasionally watched satellites cross each other’s path. Recently I saw two of them almost appear to crash into each other. I couldn’t help but wince. Once I saw three closely-grouped satellites chase each other, like some migrating constellation. They were headed east—towards the Earth’s shadow. One by one, they winked out. Another time I lay on my back, looking into the deep sky with binoculars. (I love to view the sky this way—seeing far more stars than my naked eye can.) Suddenly a very dim satellite swam across the field of view! I’d never have seen it without binoculars.
Satellites can be more fun than stars. They move. They attract the eye. But that constant backdrop of real stars engages my imagination more than satellites. Stars are truly heavenly—not just a manmade piece of hardware. Stars are much more mysterious. They speak to my mind, more than to my eye.
A satellite looks just like a star—a point of light—except that it moves. It’s as if a star took a sudden notion to yank itself from its fixed location and soar across the sky. My fancy takes flight with it. A typical satellite circles the planet in about 90 minutes, so it can take some 10 minutes or more to cross a small viewing field.
You need a pretty dark sky to spot satellites. City lights mask most of them. Out here in the woods they are common—especially on clear nights. On any given night, if I gaze into the sky for five minutes, I can expect to see a satellite cruise overhead. So an hour’s soak in the tub can treat me with as many as a half dozen of them.
Like the moon and planets, you can see a satellite only because it reflects sunlight. So it’s the ability of them to bounce sunlight down to you that governs their visibility. A satellite can be quite bright for awhile, but then suddenly wink out, as it passes into the Earth’s shadow.
There are several types of satellites I’ve seen. Some are steady points of light that drift relentlessly along. Some blink on and off, as they tumble—and like a moving mirror, send their reflected light in diverse directions. The most spectacular satellite is the International Space Station (ISS). It’s as bright as Venus. There are a few websites that, when you put in your site, list when the ISS will pass overhead. They give the time and sky location when the space station first will appear in your neighborhood. It’s a thrill to look up at that patch of sky and suddenly see this very bright light pop into view.
I’ve occasionally watched satellites cross each other’s path. Recently I saw two of them almost appear to crash into each other. I couldn’t help but wince. Once I saw three closely-grouped satellites chase each other, like some migrating constellation. They were headed east—towards the Earth’s shadow. One by one, they winked out. Another time I lay on my back, looking into the deep sky with binoculars. (I love to view the sky this way—seeing far more stars than my naked eye can.) Suddenly a very dim satellite swam across the field of view! I’d never have seen it without binoculars.
Satellites can be more fun than stars. They move. They attract the eye. But that constant backdrop of real stars engages my imagination more than satellites. Stars are truly heavenly—not just a manmade piece of hardware. Stars are much more mysterious. They speak to my mind, more than to my eye.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
Earlier Gardeners
I get a kick out of scientific findings that run counter to the accepted view. Darwin, Galileo, Newton, and Einstein all discovered a more accurate way to comprehend our universe. They each ran counter to their predecessors. (And all of their theories subsequently became amended.) Their descriptions shook up accepted beliefs. It’s the way that science should go.
I also get a kick out of ruminating on the ramifications of new and unexpected scientific findings. I like to play around with how they might alter our current worldview. One recent example is a research finding that human cultivation likely began much earlier than previously thought. The current belief is that our ancestors began to evolve from hunter-gatherers to horticulturists about 10,000 years ago, and then transitioned into an agrarian culture some 5,000 years ago. These recent findings show, however, that we entered our horticultural period much earlier—maybe as long as 20,000 years ago.
If true, this suggests that we were gardeners for far longer than we had been believing. That struck me as possibly quite meaningful, as far as helping to interpret our modern behavior, and giving me some optimism. How so? Well, as horticulturists we began gardening by simply poking a hole in the ground and dropping a seed in it. It was work that required little physical strength. Women could do it, while the men went on the hunt. In horticultural societies the contributions of women and men were equally valued. Our religious sense also began to bloom during that period, so our deities tended to be both male and female.
When our ancestors became serious about farming, we moved from being horticulturists into the agrarian period—a much more intensive form of agriculture, when animals were used to plow and plant. Agrarian work required more strength, so it fell largely to men. Women couldn’t risk miscarriage, so they turned the hard labor of farming over to men. As our skill at farming grew, food surpluses came into being for the first time. This allowed some people to take on non-food jobs, such as priests, scribes, politicians, and artisans. Since men were now in charge, the specialty jobs were filled mostly by men. Women gradually came to be viewed to be of lesser value, even eventually to become demeaned and abused. Children often suffered similar mistreatment in an agrarian culture.
Since the agrarian period is closer to us, we are more familiar with its customs and viewpoints. In fact, modern culture contains many vestiges of patriarchy, in the way we continue to demean women and children. We are struggling to overcome that agrarian worldview. Much more growth awaits us.
But if we were horticulturists for twice as long a period of time than we previously thought, maybe the equal valuation of men and women that prevailed during that period is deeper in our bones than we thought.
Evolutionary science tells us that many of our actions are guided by the extremely long time that we were hunter-gatherers (for as much as 500,000 years). We may have acquired a big brain along the way, but a lot of our unconscious behavior is still patterned after our deep hunter-gatherer ancestors. If so, I welcome the news that we were gentle horticulturalists for much longer than we’ve believed. Maybe that will make our work of getting past our aggressive, patriarchal, agrarian outlook a little easier. We’ve already begun the transition—maybe we’ll succeed sooner than we thought.
I also get a kick out of ruminating on the ramifications of new and unexpected scientific findings. I like to play around with how they might alter our current worldview. One recent example is a research finding that human cultivation likely began much earlier than previously thought. The current belief is that our ancestors began to evolve from hunter-gatherers to horticulturists about 10,000 years ago, and then transitioned into an agrarian culture some 5,000 years ago. These recent findings show, however, that we entered our horticultural period much earlier—maybe as long as 20,000 years ago.
If true, this suggests that we were gardeners for far longer than we had been believing. That struck me as possibly quite meaningful, as far as helping to interpret our modern behavior, and giving me some optimism. How so? Well, as horticulturists we began gardening by simply poking a hole in the ground and dropping a seed in it. It was work that required little physical strength. Women could do it, while the men went on the hunt. In horticultural societies the contributions of women and men were equally valued. Our religious sense also began to bloom during that period, so our deities tended to be both male and female.
When our ancestors became serious about farming, we moved from being horticulturists into the agrarian period—a much more intensive form of agriculture, when animals were used to plow and plant. Agrarian work required more strength, so it fell largely to men. Women couldn’t risk miscarriage, so they turned the hard labor of farming over to men. As our skill at farming grew, food surpluses came into being for the first time. This allowed some people to take on non-food jobs, such as priests, scribes, politicians, and artisans. Since men were now in charge, the specialty jobs were filled mostly by men. Women gradually came to be viewed to be of lesser value, even eventually to become demeaned and abused. Children often suffered similar mistreatment in an agrarian culture.
Since the agrarian period is closer to us, we are more familiar with its customs and viewpoints. In fact, modern culture contains many vestiges of patriarchy, in the way we continue to demean women and children. We are struggling to overcome that agrarian worldview. Much more growth awaits us.
But if we were horticulturists for twice as long a period of time than we previously thought, maybe the equal valuation of men and women that prevailed during that period is deeper in our bones than we thought.
Evolutionary science tells us that many of our actions are guided by the extremely long time that we were hunter-gatherers (for as much as 500,000 years). We may have acquired a big brain along the way, but a lot of our unconscious behavior is still patterned after our deep hunter-gatherer ancestors. If so, I welcome the news that we were gentle horticulturalists for much longer than we’ve believed. Maybe that will make our work of getting past our aggressive, patriarchal, agrarian outlook a little easier. We’ve already begun the transition—maybe we’ll succeed sooner than we thought.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
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