Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Monday, January 12, 2009
Reading Something Into It
We humans have a quality that most other creatures don’t: an inclination to interpret our sensory experiences through the use of symbols that we create in our heads. While most animals interact in a very direct way with their environment, we translate our experiences into symbolic terms that get stored somewhere in our brain. It’s those symbols we deal with, not necessarily the real thing itself.
For example, I look at the full moon and I see craters and maria—casting different highlights across the moon’s disc, creating patterns. My mind—particularly my cultural mind—tends to interpret those patterns in a certain way. An animal, in contrast, just sees patterns. If I was told as a child that what I see is a “Man in the Moon,” I learn to interpret those features as a face. It becomes so familiar to me, I periodically have to remind myself that what I’m seeing is a lunar landscape, not some open-mouthed visage in the sky.
I was an adult before I became aware that other cultures saw something quite different in the full moon. Some see a rabbit, some an old woman, etc. Several years ago I tutored a Mexican-American young lady during her high school years. Together we once explored a book about Mexican mythology and read about the “Rabbit in the Moon.” I explained to her my culture’s perspective. She tried hard but could not see the man. With practice, I began to see her rabbit.
There are, of course, countless examples of contrasting perceptions of different cultures. Even within a particular culture people of different backgrounds will carry disagreeing interpretations. Someone from a high-income bracket will tend to look upon a welfare mother quite differently than a social activist will. A Pakistani Muslim perceives Mideast problems very differently from an American mainstream Christian. A Wall Street banker’s cut on our economy differs from a factory worker in Ohio. A common thread through these contradictory perceptions is the symbolism we’ve been taught.
The viewpoint of any one of us is fragmentary; our senses register only a portion of the reality of our world. We grasp that fragment of reality, transform it into a symbol, make up a story about it, and stash it into our imperfect memory. When we repeat this a few times (often ignoring an increasing amount of reality as we do), our symbols, our stories, get cast in erroneous concrete. When we encounter someone from a different background, we’re often struck by how strange and misguided their symbols and stories are. It can be very hard to let go of our beliefs, to accept that they are not necessarily the correct or complete ones.
So I sit and gaze at the full moon, trying to see the rabbit as readily as I see the man. Sometimes I think I can even make out the old lady.
For example, I look at the full moon and I see craters and maria—casting different highlights across the moon’s disc, creating patterns. My mind—particularly my cultural mind—tends to interpret those patterns in a certain way. An animal, in contrast, just sees patterns. If I was told as a child that what I see is a “Man in the Moon,” I learn to interpret those features as a face. It becomes so familiar to me, I periodically have to remind myself that what I’m seeing is a lunar landscape, not some open-mouthed visage in the sky.
I was an adult before I became aware that other cultures saw something quite different in the full moon. Some see a rabbit, some an old woman, etc. Several years ago I tutored a Mexican-American young lady during her high school years. Together we once explored a book about Mexican mythology and read about the “Rabbit in the Moon.” I explained to her my culture’s perspective. She tried hard but could not see the man. With practice, I began to see her rabbit.
There are, of course, countless examples of contrasting perceptions of different cultures. Even within a particular culture people of different backgrounds will carry disagreeing interpretations. Someone from a high-income bracket will tend to look upon a welfare mother quite differently than a social activist will. A Pakistani Muslim perceives Mideast problems very differently from an American mainstream Christian. A Wall Street banker’s cut on our economy differs from a factory worker in Ohio. A common thread through these contradictory perceptions is the symbolism we’ve been taught.
The viewpoint of any one of us is fragmentary; our senses register only a portion of the reality of our world. We grasp that fragment of reality, transform it into a symbol, make up a story about it, and stash it into our imperfect memory. When we repeat this a few times (often ignoring an increasing amount of reality as we do), our symbols, our stories, get cast in erroneous concrete. When we encounter someone from a different background, we’re often struck by how strange and misguided their symbols and stories are. It can be very hard to let go of our beliefs, to accept that they are not necessarily the correct or complete ones.
So I sit and gaze at the full moon, trying to see the rabbit as readily as I see the man. Sometimes I think I can even make out the old lady.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Immature Worldview
The dictionary defines worldview as “a comprehensive, personal philosophy or conception of the world.” The worldview of any creature is a direct function of its consciousness level. The worldview of a squirrel is more rudimentary than that of a human being. As we mature, our worldview usually expands: the personal philosophy of an infant is more limited than that of an adult.
To a large degree, our actions are guided by our worldview. How I interpret my world—what I think about it—will directly influence what I do. If I see my surroundings as threatening, I will behave more fearfully and aggressively than if I believe my world to be benevolent.
The worldview of primitive peoples was rather limited; they knew their immediate natural area stunningly well, but often classified humans in a dualistic, “my tribe-your tribe” manner. Each person knew that his well being often hinged on supporting his tribal members, and perceived outsiders as threats or competition. Other tribes’ members, in fact, were even seen as non-human. This worldview can be described as “ethnocentric.” In the context of this primitive worldview, it’s understandable that violence and even ethnic cleansing could occur.
In contrast, the worldview of the saints is far more inclusive and peaceful. Enlightened people see their world as sacred; everything and all creatures are revered. These folks emanate love and nonviolence. They serve as beacons to us, as examples of the elevated consciousness level that humans can achieve. Their worldview can be described as “worldcentric.”
The worldview of most people today is somewhere between that of a selfish child or a primitive person, and that of a saint. We are spread out all across that range. Unfortunately, a significant proportion of humanity falls towards the ethnocentric end of the spectrum. Violent acts towards the world and other tribal members are all too common.
We need to grow up. Our world is in trouble. We badly need a massive consciousness level raising. We need to begin to move towards the saint’s worldview: it’s all reverential. When we see the world as sacred, we will treat it with care, rather than disdain.
To a large degree, our actions are guided by our worldview. How I interpret my world—what I think about it—will directly influence what I do. If I see my surroundings as threatening, I will behave more fearfully and aggressively than if I believe my world to be benevolent.
The worldview of primitive peoples was rather limited; they knew their immediate natural area stunningly well, but often classified humans in a dualistic, “my tribe-your tribe” manner. Each person knew that his well being often hinged on supporting his tribal members, and perceived outsiders as threats or competition. Other tribes’ members, in fact, were even seen as non-human. This worldview can be described as “ethnocentric.” In the context of this primitive worldview, it’s understandable that violence and even ethnic cleansing could occur.
In contrast, the worldview of the saints is far more inclusive and peaceful. Enlightened people see their world as sacred; everything and all creatures are revered. These folks emanate love and nonviolence. They serve as beacons to us, as examples of the elevated consciousness level that humans can achieve. Their worldview can be described as “worldcentric.”
The worldview of most people today is somewhere between that of a selfish child or a primitive person, and that of a saint. We are spread out all across that range. Unfortunately, a significant proportion of humanity falls towards the ethnocentric end of the spectrum. Violent acts towards the world and other tribal members are all too common.
We need to grow up. Our world is in trouble. We badly need a massive consciousness level raising. We need to begin to move towards the saint’s worldview: it’s all reverential. When we see the world as sacred, we will treat it with care, rather than disdain.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Voices in the Creek
Running next to our outdoor bathing tub is a wet weather stream. Half the year it’s dry (in the summer, when thirsty tree roots drink the water). After heavy rains it can become a frightening torrent that once washed the tub downstream, bashing it to a pulp.
When the creek is dry or the water flow is just a trickle, the stream is quiet. On those nights I can sit soaking and listen to faint animal sounds deep in the forest. In contrast, when the flow is a torrent, the stream emits a constant roar that drowns out even airplanes.
The most fascinating sounds come from the stream when it is in mid flow—when it’s in babbling mode. It has three types of voices then. One is a high-pitched “shhhh,” reminiscent of wind through the pines. It provides a constant background drone. A second voice, a low-pitched basso rumble is created by numerous little falls and drop-offs here and there. These two voices are steady; they provide a continuous murmur in the creek’s choir.
The third voice—an irregular babble—is the most interesting one. It comes from numerous locations along the creek bed, as water trickles and swirls around and over small obstacles. The sounds of this melodious voice are: bloops, poots, reeks, dinks, burps, glubs, bleeps, plaps, teeples, klunks, blops, blips, and ruckles. These random watery syllables are flung into the air, mixing and creating a sort of cocktail party chatter.
I can be soaking in the tub, deep in reverie, when suddenly it seems that I hear a human voice nearby. Out of the creek’s incomprehensible babble an almost comprehensible word or two unexpectedly emerges. It’s startling—almost as if someone is walking nearby, chatting quietly with a companion, and one or two nearly-intelligible words rise above the mumbling. Just as quickly I calm down, realizing it’s the unwitting creek. It continues babbling incoherently—only to tease me again a little later with another fanciful word or two. Is there a message here, if I were to pay a little more attention?
When the creek is dry or the water flow is just a trickle, the stream is quiet. On those nights I can sit soaking and listen to faint animal sounds deep in the forest. In contrast, when the flow is a torrent, the stream emits a constant roar that drowns out even airplanes.
The most fascinating sounds come from the stream when it is in mid flow—when it’s in babbling mode. It has three types of voices then. One is a high-pitched “shhhh,” reminiscent of wind through the pines. It provides a constant background drone. A second voice, a low-pitched basso rumble is created by numerous little falls and drop-offs here and there. These two voices are steady; they provide a continuous murmur in the creek’s choir.
The third voice—an irregular babble—is the most interesting one. It comes from numerous locations along the creek bed, as water trickles and swirls around and over small obstacles. The sounds of this melodious voice are: bloops, poots, reeks, dinks, burps, glubs, bleeps, plaps, teeples, klunks, blops, blips, and ruckles. These random watery syllables are flung into the air, mixing and creating a sort of cocktail party chatter.
I can be soaking in the tub, deep in reverie, when suddenly it seems that I hear a human voice nearby. Out of the creek’s incomprehensible babble an almost comprehensible word or two unexpectedly emerges. It’s startling—almost as if someone is walking nearby, chatting quietly with a companion, and one or two nearly-intelligible words rise above the mumbling. Just as quickly I calm down, realizing it’s the unwitting creek. It continues babbling incoherently—only to tease me again a little later with another fanciful word or two. Is there a message here, if I were to pay a little more attention?
Saturday, January 3, 2009
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