Cave Creations

Archaeologists and spelunkers have discovered many examples of ancient cave art created by our human precursors, deep in the inky blackness of caverns. These drawings were done on the walls of the caves, tens of thousands of years ago.

Those who are privileged to look upon these drawings are profoundly impressed and emotionally moved by their quality. The artists obviously revered the animals they drew, and rendered stunning likenesses that are deeply stirring. They knew their subjects well—which is attested to by the realism of their work. Some of these primeval masters even used the undulating contours of the cave walls to accentuate the bulge of a deer's chest, or the muscular projection of a bear's shoulder.

It is amazing that they could have accomplished their creations, deep within the pitch-black recesses of these caves. They entered spaces that were in total darkness, bringing in some form of light (most likely oil lamps), in order to illuminate their rocky palettes. The work had to have been a sacred task, which was also quite dangerous.

Why did they retreat so far back into these caves? Were they looking to create art that would last thousands of years? That's not very likely—given their understanding of time. Was it because they could safely compose their works and expect them not to be defaced? Why would they create such magnificent drawings, that would be seen only by a tiny select few? These were not creations that were for display—but for very private purposes—even sacred intentions.

I find it fascinating that these cave artists never created drawings of humans—except in the form of primitive stick figures. While they drew beautiful and vivid portrayals of animals that create strong emotions in the viewer, they seem to have ignored humans, other than applying hand stencils. What a strong contrast to today's obsession that sees people constantly taking selfie photos, wherever they go. While contemporary humans seem enraptured by their own images, the ancient cave artists featured the animals of their world.

This seems to say something interesting about our modern priorities. Will future humans, some 40,000 years from now, excavate specimens of our world and ponder why we chose to be so narcissistic? Of course, this assumes that our ephemeral creations would last that long—an unlikely premise. More likely, those future archaeologists will be discovering our plastic trash.

Individual Inquiry

I have written before (February 2012) about how Thomas Merton—the American Trappist monk—employed a kind of personal dialectical process in his search for a deeper understanding of what it means to lead a spiritual life. Merton was exploring this technique in the mid-20^th century. His use of this approach was a bit unusual, because the dialectical method usually refers to when two or more disagreeing parties discuss their positions, in a cooperative search for a greater truth.

I find that using a personal dialectical activity can be an excellent way to work my way through philosophical questions, such as: What's most important to me? What's the meaning of life? How do I find happiness? What is my true nature?

Briefly, the personal dialectical process is: (1) Come up with your best answer to the question (called a thesis); (2) sit with your response for a while and ponder it; (3) play the devil's advocate with yourself and criticize your thesis; probe its weaknesses; seek opposing thoughts and ideas, and then offer a contradictory point of view (the antithesis); (4) sit with and ponder the two apparently incompatible responses of thesis and antithesis. Is there any common ground? Is there a truth which is deeper than either?; and finally, (5) formulate a new hypothesis that is better than the original and contains aspects of both opposing views (called the synthesis).

This use of the dialectical process as a type of individual or personal inquiry is not easy to employ. It calls for a high degree of honesty, as well as the ability to let go your treasured beliefs and open up to contending beliefs. That is especially hard to do in today's polarized atmosphere, which urges us to think that there is only one truth: that of one side or the other. We live in our silos, while viewing those who inhabit other silos as completely foolish and wrong. The gap between them is wide and seemingly absolute. Thus we come to believe that there is no common ground; no third or novel possibility. 

On the contrary, the dialectical process demands that we find a way to listen to the opposition—not to convince them that they're wrong and to see it our way—but to discover with them a new truth more valid than either of us previously would have conceived.

The personal dialectical process also calls for us to sincerely engage in it, not by creating a counter argument that is dishonest and a sham. When we do this, we come up with a phony thought that we can easily refute and destroy, in a disingenuous attempt to validate our initial thesis. This is not a way to grow, but a way to harden our initial belief. 

I think that my career as a scientist helps me to see the value of the dialectical process—whether it is between two opposing points of view of disagreeing individuals or is used as a personal growth technique. In fact, I find the scientific process to be quite similar: (1) it ponders a question, (2) it offers an answer in the form of a theory or hypothesis, (3) it puts it to test, either by experiment or by engaging with others who have different interpretations, (4) it engages in debate, and then (5) comes up with a new hypothesis, or synthesis.

This concept of stepping back and looking for gaps or weaknesses in your theory was expressed very well by an Islamic scientist (Ibn al-Hytham) over a millennium ago, when he wrote “The duty of a man who investigates the writings of scientists, if learning is the truth of his goal, is to make himself the enemy of all that he reads... attack it from every side. He should also suspect himself as he performs his critical examination of it, so that he may avoid falling into either prejudice or leniency.” That was 600 years before the European Renaissance!

The work of one's personal growth—either spiritually, as in Merton's case, or scientifically or philosophically, in order to arrive at a deeper truth—is demanding. But when did enlightenment ever come easily?

Challenging Choices—Part 2

An insidious process that sometimes is presented to us when evaluating options is the relativization or normalization of unhealthy choices. When ethics and quality gradually decrease over time, society's standards gradually fall. A generation ago parents could have some confidence that their kids wouldn't be exposed to excessive violent or sex scenes on TV or at a movie. Today, a parent stands little chance of avoiding such harmful exposure. Years past, people could be expected to be reasonably polite to each other, while today we face online attacks if we post anything slightly controversial. Another stark example of relativism: Donald Trump makes George W. Bush look almost acceptable.

A situation that can make our choice more difficult is when we are faced with a binary or dualistic offering. We in the West tend to think dualistically, so a choice is often posed as right or wrong, good or bad. With such a clear distinction, it ought to be clear which is the better selection. For example, we in the US most always have only two voting choices: either Democrat or Republican—when often, in fact, neither candidate would do a decent job in office. Furthermore, an equally-divided, polarized society seems to offer only two choices in any given situation—either of which is anathema to one side or the other.

Finally, when pondering the many choices we are faced with, it is important to recognize that, in many cases, not all people have a choice at all. Or, equally unjust, all choices are bad for them. How does a parent in a poor neighborhood find decent food or a school for her kids? How does a person with mental health problems get counseling, if they are homeless? What kind of suitable job can a person find, if they live in a rundown, crime-ridden part of a city? What does someone suffering from a debilitating disease do, when they can't afford health insurance, or it has just been capriciously canceled on them? What does a person threatened by and running from gang violence in El Salvador or the Democratic Republic of the Congo do, when safer countries refuse to let them in? For those of us who are advantaged enough to be able to make choices, what responsibility do we have to those who can't?

Yes, life is an unending series of choices. Evolution has favored those who made good choices. They usually go on to reproduce and pass that ability in their offspring. For simple animals, it is often genetic luck that enables them to choose wisely—the luck of having inherited fortunate genes.

For us humans, the challenge can be far more difficult, given that our society is so complex. We can add to the difficulty by mistreating each other and being deceitful. That's a prime reason why I left city life many years ago and chose a simple life in the country. Out here I am faced with far fewer equivocal and spurious choices.

Challenging Choices—Part 1

One could describe life as a continual process of choices. All people and all creatures face interminable choices—every moment of every day. Should I go this way or that? Should I believe this person or that one? Should I eat this food or that one? Should I mate with this individual or another one? We inherently know that we face choices which will have a major influence on our future well-being, so it behooves us to make intelligent choices, if we want to happily inhabit that future.

Animals don't possess the cognitive capabilities of humans, and thus face simpler choices than we do, for which evolution has often provided them with fairly clear options. They are not burdened with a mind that complicates the alternatives—either from convoluted thinking or from the double-think indecisiveness that we often experience, when faced with choices.

As we humans weigh our choices, we often encounter a variety of questions. What future consequences might I face, when I select a given option? Which choice will be best for me or someone else whom I care for? Do I have enough information to make an intelligent choice, and if not, how do I get more facts? Do the alternatives placed before me make sense, or might there be a better way? What choice is the more moral one?

That last question can be a crucial one to ask. A source of hesitation we can feel when choosing is that none of the options is a clear winner—let alone even a moral one. For example, when we enter the voting booth today we frequently know that neither candidate would really do an honest or ethical job. So the challenge we encounter in a case like this is, which choice is the least immoral? We too often are faced with selecting the lesser of two evils.

When we're shopping we're often faced with a similar dilemma: Aside from quality, which product is more principled (if either one actually is)? Do I buy organic potatoes or factory farmed ones? Do I buy commercial or cage-free eggs? Can I trust the seller that his claim of organic is true? Do I buy a product made in the US or select a Chinese-manufactured one? Which news source can I rely on to give me honest coverage?

Many times it can help, in sorting through all the complex aspects surrounding a choice—especially when it's not clear which one is actually honorable—to ask which is the least immoral.

But there's another way to deal with the challenge of making a choice, when none of them feel right: to ask myself, do I need to make a choice—particularly, right now? What's the rush? It may sometimes be imperative to decide quickly, but often we don't have to choose right now—especially if the choices all appear questionable. If I can delay making a choice, as I ponder the situation, I may find that a better choice soon enters the picture. Maybe, if I pause to reconsider, I can figure out a better way. Maybe I will even find that, by careful consideration, other options can be found—options that may have been there all along. 

It's one thing to ponder a choice that I've presented to myself, such as, Do I ask a favor of Fred or Joe? It's quite another, when society has presented me a choice. Do I vote for Fred or Joe? Which movie will I select tonight? Which brand of cell phone should I buy? Maybe neither Fred nor Joe would make a good representative. Maybe both movies are excessively violent. Maybe my current cell phone does a fine job, and if I think about it, it might make ecological sense not to get another phone. Even if I try to recycle my old phone, I may discover that it can get sent to Malaysia, where someone becomes exposed to toxic fumes, when they try to recover its useful materials.

In many situations like these, the most moral choice for me could be a refusal—a decision not to make a choice at all. I often wonder what would happen if they held an election that offered two unethical candidates, and nobody voted for either one? What would happen if we consumers opted not to consume in certain situations—especially when none of the options are moral? What if two outrageous websites that offered equally shallow and false information, had no one visiting them? We do not have to compliantly go along with corrupt alternatives. We can say no.

More choices next time…

Routine, Ritual, or Rut?

While preparing for my outdoor, wood-fired tub the other evening, I found myself once again immersed in a preparatory routine that I've followed for well over a couple of decades now. I have enjoyed something on the order of 2,000 hot tubs—each one involves cleaning and filling the tub, splitting the wood, carefully monitoring the water temperature as I add wood to the stove, as well as carrying out several other steps in the process. It’s a lengthy and rather complicated process.

As I was into the regimen, I thought about all the many routines we humans follow every day, from first coming awake and crawling out of bed, until we once again retire later that night. Yet even throughout the night we still follow routines, as some of us engage in a repetitive dream, or arise in the wee hours to pee.

Why do we devise and follow routines? Turning to the dictionary definition of routine, I find: “a sequence of actions regularly followed; a fixed program.” The root of routine is the French word rute, for route or road. If it's a “sequence of actions regularly followed,” it occurs to me that a routine must have proved successful over time—otherwise, we'd be pretty foolish to follow it regularly.

So a routine implies some procedure that we've fine-tuned over time—a procedure that works for us. The routine I follow these days in setting up the tub bath is not the one I used 10 years ago. I have modified it over time, and gradually improved it. My current routine leads to an outcome that is both predictable and mostly successful. Having been a scientist in my former life, I realize that establishing a routine that works is similar to the scientific process: you start with a theory (“This is how I think I'll prepare my tub.”), and then test it out and improve it over many trials. In time, the procedure mostly brings about fulfillment of the objective you're working toward.

So how does a routine compare to a ritual? They differ, I think, in that I develop and perfect my own routine—it's a procedure that I've built over time, often by trial and error. In contrast, a ritual is a ceremony created by someone else. My dictionary defines ritual as “a religious or solemn ceremony consisting of a series of actions performed according to a prescribed order.” In fact, the root of the word ritual is the Latin word ritus, meaning “religious usage.” 

Many rituals are age-old customs laid down long ago and steadfastly followed ever since. Religious rituals are a good example. A time-tested ritual is also not something to modify but to adhere to, often in order to bring together a group of believers; to create a community of practitioners. So that's a key difference between routine and ritual: we hone our personal routines, while we tend to “religiously” follow rituals laid down by others. 

So how about ruts? Can following either a routine or a ritual lead to one becoming stuck in a rut? The dictionary defines rut as “a habit or pattern of behavior that has become dull and unproductive, but is hard to change.” We fall into a rut when a routine or a ritual is repeated mindlessly. I have watched people in church perform a ritual that has lost its meaning—as parishioners rush through a prayer almost out of boredom. Similarly, a self-created routine can degrade into an unpleasant chore, if I'm doing it just to get through it, or I daydream about the myriad other things I'd rather be engaged in.

If we can let go the desire to be someplace else and engage fully and mindfully in the routine or ritual that we're currently performing, it can take us to a very different mental place. As our body is involved in the work, our mind can roam freely through the universe, playing with various ideas. We go into a sort of automatic mode, wherein our subconscious mind tends to the task at hand, while the conscious mind can be freed up to brainstorm. In this way, even a rut can be transformed into a fertile and inventive activity.

Vicarious Pleasure

It is noble to feel compassion for a person (or an animal) when we see them suffering, or struggling with difficulty, or dealing with misfortune. It is especially noble when we feel the urge to help them out. Countless saints have served as models of compassion—demonstrating it and teaching us its importance for a healthy and moral society. 

Compassion is similar to empathy, which is the ability to understand and share the feelings of another. Yet there's a key difference: compassion does not mean we have to  understand another's feelings—just that we experience some distress at their suffering; even a sense of responsibility to assist in some way. Empathy, however, means that we literally share the emotions of another, to the point that we comprehend their feelings. Additionally, compassion stems from observing another's suffering, while empathy does not have to arise from that suffering—it simply means being able to “step into their shoes” and share their feelings.

Therefore empathy can also be felt when the other is happy; when they experience good fortune. In this case, it is the ability to feel joy on their behalf. And that can sometimes be a greater challenge for us. It's not very hard to feel some pity for that unfortunate soul who is in misery, but it can sometimes be a challenge to feel elated when Lady Luck has smiled upon them. Sure, I can celebrate when my kid or my spouse gets lucky, but how about that guy next door? When fortune smiles upon him, I may instead feel envy or resent his pleasure.

This is similar to the relative manner by which people judge their satisfaction with their income level. Psychological research has demonstrated that we pay less attention to the amount of money we earn, than to how it compares with the incomes of our compatriots or rivals. If I take home more money than my similar-status neighbor, I feel good about it. But if I find out he earns more than I do, I can resent him. It's not my absolute pay, but how I compare relatively, that matters.

So there's something special about the person who can share in the delight of a neighbor's good luck—especially if that neighbor didn't seem to deserve it. To do so, calls for a definite degree of selflessness; a sentiment that doesn't come easily. There is a Buddhist meditation that helps promote this kind of altruism. You begin by desiring those close to you to be well, happy, and peaceful. May they be graced. Then you gradually widen the circle of your care, step by step, until you are wishing all beings to be well, happy, and peaceful... even that lucky guy next door, for whom you've felt a little jealousy, from time to time.

Survival Smarts

A secondary question popped into my mind recently, as I was pondering a related primary question. I find this often happens to me: I find myself mulling over a primary question for which there seems to be no immediate or obvious answer. As I continue to contemplate that question, a secondary question often comes to mind. When I shift my attention to that second question—which is usually a more profound one—clarity sometimes comes.

The initial question that spoke to me recently was “What should I be doing right now?” At any given time, we face choices. We must choose what to do or how to respond to something, hundreds of times a day. Our response is most often an unconscious one, and we do quite well with most of those kinds of choices. They are also usually rather straightforward and don’t require a lot of attention on our part. 

There are other times, however, when it's not at all clear what we should do… when things get complex, and we find ourselves wrestling with the issue at the conscious level. This can be especially true, when we've had a question bother us for some time, and we've just not been able to come up with a good answer. Often it's because the primary question that appears before us is not really digging down to an essential level; it’s not getting at the real issue.

So, as I pondered my primary “What should I do?” question, a secondary one came to mind. I realized it was more fundamental: “What do I need to know?” I think this secondary question came to mind, because I feel that knowledge must often precede action; in order to do something right, I need to have the appropriate knowledge first. 

We need to have some basic kind of knowledge, in order to choose wisely; to thrive, or even to survive. If I have a reasonably accurate knowledge about something, then my response—my action—will be smarter. In contrast, I can't expect to do things well, if I'm confused or deluded. Thus that more fundamental question came to mind: “What do I need to know?” Maybe I was getting somewhere.

In fact, this more basic question is an appropriate one for any creature. Every critter wants to survive, to stay alive, and therefore needs some crucial knowledge about how to do so. For example, any animal “knows” it needs to avoid eating poisonous things. A bee “knows” how to locate pollen. A bird “knows” to avoid hawks. And those creatures who have acquired the necessary knowledge (by surviving) pass it on to their offspring. This is an excellent example of the process of evolution, as well as the origin of natural intelligence.

While most animals naturally respond to what they need to know and thus what they need to do, we humans have been granted a more advanced level of cognition. So, rather than respond inherently and immediately, we ruminate on the question. We imagine various alternatives and envisage the future. We try to factor many possibilities into our choices. We are driven by the fact that we not only want to survive—we want to thrive. This is a special quality we humans have. It has brought us to the dominant position we occupy today.

All this cognitive power of ours can lead to complications and problems, however. Some of us, when we wonder about what to do, decide to try to seek control. A major objective of our technologies has been to deliver that control—whether it be over Nature or each other. Technology has given us the power—we believe—to secure our welfare and safety. The danger is that, although we've gained some command over our existence through the use of technology, it often becomes a greater threat, which may come to control us. Technology has a way of getting out of hand. It’s not necessarily a smart way to survive.