Mind and Brain

“A biological analysis of a deed is like a chemical analysis of a painting.  It is not false, but it does not account for what makes the paints into a painting.  It stops before the essential part of the story starts.”  (Leon Wieseltier, 1952-- )

While teaching a class of psychiatry residents, I wrote this quote on the blackboard.  “The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.” (John Milton from Paradise Lost) 

A week later, the quote remained on the board but underneath someone had scrawled, “Not true!!  Mind is Brain.”  Obviously, my quote pushed someone’s button.  I am almost sure that this uninvited editorial comment was written by an enthusiastic and aspiring scientist-to-be.  There is a growing belief among many researchers that mind and brain are equivalent. The way to better understand the mind is to better understand the brain. 

I wanted to let the young scientist that I strongly disagreed, and I wrote in response, “How sad and how absurd.”  The mind is more than just a brain. A mind is not understood by understanding brain parts. Love, a state of mind, is not understood by understanding chemicals of the brain.  Oxytocin and endorphins may significantly influence the perception of love, but to know this chemistry is not to know ‘the chemistry’ of love. 

I wanted to find out more about the person that wrote on the board.  I wanted to hear their perspective.  And I wanted to debate. 

I wanted to point out to this unknown editorialist the absurdity of the assertion that Mind is Brain. Remember if A=B and B=C then A=C. If mind is brain and brain is chemicals then mind is chemicals.  And if mind is chemicals and chemicals are atoms, then mind is atoms.  And so on and so forth into reductionistic absurdity. How little is revealed about the mind in this process! 

If I had met this person face to face, I would have asked if they thought the following statements to be true or false:

·         Hamlet is English words

·         Mona Lisa is brushstrokes on canvas

·         Beethoven’s 9^th is notes and chords

Of course, there is no Hamlet without English words.  There is no Mona Lisa without brushstrokes on canvas.  There is no Beethoven’s 9^th without notes and chords.  And there is no mind without brain.  So, the statements are true, but they tell us very little and convey nothing of the essence of the play, the painting or the music.  An analysis of the brain does not account for what makes the brain into a mind.  “It stops before the essential part of the story is starts.” 

If like the aspiring scientist-to-be you disagree with what I’ve said, pay this blog no brain.

Behavior Mod

“Give me a child and I’ll shape him into anything.”  (B.F. Skinner, 1904—1990)

Rewarding a desired behavior increases the frequency of that behavior.  This is the core principle of behavior modification, demonstrated by Harvard Psychologist B. F. Skinner in the mid-twentieth century.  This is the core principle of behavior modification (‘behavior mod’ for short), that continues to be demonstrated daily by animal trainers, teachers, parents, and electronic game designers, to name but a few.

If life is a laboratory, then the arcade at Chuck E Cheese was my laboratory for learning about behavior mod.  I remember observing children putting their tokens into the games.  If a child won the game, then tickets were automatically dispensed.  Kids collected and counted their tickets eventually exchanging them for prizes.  In the language of behavior mod, kids were conditioned (or trained) to spend tokens (desired behavior) on games (stimulus) in exchange for tickets (reinforcement).

Rewarded was token spending behavior.  Not rewarded was curiosity, creativity and risk-taking. Often avoiding the more challenging games, children sought out games with the best ticket payout.  A game that did not reward generously was a game ignored.  Kids loved spending lots of tokens on games in pursuit of tickets.  No amount of tokens completely satisfied and when the tokens ran out, kids became irritable.  Ultimately, tickets were exchanged for worthless trinkets.  From what I observed in the lab, the influence of behavior mod was powerful.

Behavior mod is not just for kids. In a different laboratory, an adult version of the Chuck E. Cheese arcade, I observe grown-ups playing the slot machines. A slot machine (the stimulus) is basically an electronic game, requiring zero skill, that offers a monetary payout. For every dollar put into a slot machine (the desired behavior), the machine returns, on average, 96 cents (the reward).  Doesn’t sound like such a good deal.  However, the casino owners know that the longer you sit in front of the slot machine, the more money you spend, and the more the casino profits.  Through the power of intermittent reinforcement, attractive visual displays, and occasional ‘jackpot’ payouts, vulnerable adults become addicted to the slot machine.  They can’t stop spending.  Some lose far more than they can afford.  The influence of behavior mod is powerful.

I make the following offer (the stimulus) to any of you who might be interested.  Send me your money (the desired behavior) and for every dollar I receive I will gladly return 96 cents (the reward), minus the cost of postage and handling.  Behavior mod can be powerful . . . especially in the wrong hands.

Brains

One famous philosopher speculated how different the world must seem to a bat than to a person.  Another famous philosopher speculated how different the world must seem to a dog than to its owner.  Bat, dog, person; each is wired differently.  Each has a very different brain, thus to each their world is very different.  All that is seen, heard, smelled or touched is interpreted in the brain.  What I know of the world is determined by and limited by the wiring of my particular brain. 

Trying to understand the relationship of the world I know to the ‘real world’ out there, I consider this analogy:  the brain is to the universe as the record player is to the record. Now, my attempt to explain.

What is a record without a record player?  A record consists of waves and patterns etched into a continuous vinyl groove.  A record is potential not yet realized.  Without a record player there is no music. It is the record player that interprets the patterns etched in the vinyl, subsequently turning it into music.

Suppose aliens found a vinyl record.  Would they detect the waves and patterns?   Would they build a machine and try to solve the mystery and meaning of the patterns?  What if their machine started at the end of the record and played backwards, or played at the wrong speed?  Chances are an alien record player would play a different tune.  Perhaps aliens would build a machine that interpreted the patterns as pictures or smells and not sounds.  What if aliens had altogether different sense organs?  The record might then be played in ways we cannot even imagine.

If the universe is, like the record, a series of waves and patterns, then different brains will interpret waves and patterns differently.  A dog and I exist in the same universe, yet my world is filled with sights.  A dog’s world is filled with smells.  Same universe, but a very different tune.  The title of a onetime bestseller, “Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus,” suggests that even for the sexes; same universe, different brains, different tune.

I’ll take the analogy one step further.  If there were no waves and patterns, but only random irregularities in the vinyl groove, then the record being played would just make noise and not music.  But the patterns and waves in a record are not random.  They are unique to the artist's music.  So too, the universe is not random, but has its interpretable patterns and waves.  Our brains as record players, our minds the listeners, we recognize there are patterns.  Every day we see, hear, smell and feel the music of our universe.  Is it possible that there is an 'artist' responsible for this patterned universe?

If my analogy seems hard to follow, not to worry.  I am aware that many of you are too young to have ever listened to a vinyl record.  I am pleased to see that, in this world, records and record players are making a comeback..

Golden Rules

It is possible to be a well-disciplined person and an otherwise despicable human being.  I recently wrote about the importance of raising self-disciplined children.  I failed to mention one thing.  It is important to raise self-disciplined children AND it is important to raise them with a moral compass.

As a psychiatrist and therapist, it was not my place to tell people how to believe, but it was well within my domain to ask them to articulate what they believed.  I often asked patients and parents to describe their family values, what for them was the measure of ‘good behavior’, and what values made them proud to be a member of their family.

I often asked children and adolescents to explore their values, their behaviors and their choices according to the feelings that follow.  “If you choose to do such-and-such, how will you feel the next day?”  I suggested to them that, when faced with important decisions, they use a ‘mirror-test’.  “Choose today in such a way that, when you look in the mirror tomorrow, you are proud of who you see.”

I often asked parents how they conveyed their beliefs and values to their children.  I asked parents to consider if their behaviors were consistent with their professed beliefs.  As my wife is fond of quoting, “if you don’t model what you teach, you’re teaching something else.”  I reminded parents that it is not enough to just correct children’s misbehavior.  Parents must provide children with the language for understanding moral choice and behavior.

For parents struggling to find the right words to say, I suggested The Golden Rule as a good starting point.  Whether secular in origin or God-given, The Golden Rule is a universal principle for moral discourse and behavior.  Some iteration of The Golden Rule is found in almost every culture and religion. 

Some iterations focus on moral intent. “Love your neighbor as yourself.” (Leviticus 19:18). 

Some iterations focus on moral restraint. “Do not do unto others what you do not want done unto you.” (The Analects of Confucius).

Still other iterations focus on moral action. “As you would that men should do to you, do you also to them.” (Luke 6:31)

Intent, Restraint, Action . . .  I recommend that parents teach their children the I.R.A.’s of moral behavior.  It's a good investment.  Parents can expect to receive good dividends.

Challenged

Many years ago, I met someone who was born deaf.  “Deaf” was the term of choice back then.  The hearing loss was profound and probably due to complications from maternal rubella.  Nevertheless, this person had learned to speak fluently and confidently.  And, she had graduated valedictorian, at the top of her professional class.

I had the opportunity to talk to her mother and ask how she had taught her daughter to speak.  Her mother first told me about the older and unimpaired sibling.  “With our first child, we had to repeat a sound four or five times.  With each repetition he took in more information, until he could accurately repeat what he had heard.”

“With our younger daughter it was different.  First, we had to recognize that something was wrong.  Once the proper diagnosis was made, we had to get her fit with the best hearing aids available.  Even with that, she had only one or two percent of normal hearing.  Then came the hard work.”

“Instead of repeating sounds five or six times, we had to repeat sounds 50 or 60 times.  But, if we did this enough, if we persevered, she too got enough information in to be able to imitate and repeat our words.”

This story is filled with important lessons that I shared with many patients and parents.  First, a problem must be recognized and acknowledged, then followed by a thorough evaluation.  Proper treatment begins after an accurate diagnosis is made.

I compared the hearing aid to medication.  The hearing aid was not a cure.  Often, neither is medicine, especially when prescribed for conditions like ADHD.  The hearing aid created a window of opportunity, an increased receptivity to sound.  It made learning sounds possible.  Like the hearing aid, ADHD medication is prescribed in order to create an increased opportunity for learning. If medication allows more information to get in, more efficiently, then more learning is possible.

I reminded parents that the hearing aid did not make the hearing perfect, but it helped.  Medication does not make things perfect, but often it helps.

I pointed out that had the mother tried to teach speech without the use of a hearing aid, all the hard work would have been for nothing.  But if there had only been the hearing aid, and not all the hard work and diligent teaching, nothing would have been gained.   I cautioned parents that medication is not the end point, only a beginning.  The hard work of diligent parenting and teaching must follow.

I encouraged patients and parents to remember that this young girl’s deafness was a daunting challenge, but it was never allowed to become her excuse.

November 22nd, 1963

November 22^nd,1963, my tenth birthday, was marked by two great occurrences, one of great historical significance, one of great personal significance. 

It was lunch hour at school.  I’d finished eating and was outside for recess.  My friend Paul lived nearby.  He’d gone home for lunch.  When he got back to school, he immediately looked for me on the playground.  He told me that President Kennedy had been shot. My initial reaction was disbelief. I told Paul that I didn’t appreciate his humor, especially on my birthday.  However, I soon realized he was not joking. Something serious had happened.  We returned to class.  The teacher was in tears.  A black and white television was set up for us to watch.  We heard that President Kennedy was dead.  We continued to watch the news quietly, until it was time to go home. 

If I recall correctly, this took place on a Friday afternoon.  I am told that memory is quite unreliable, yet my recollections from that day feel very real to me. 

I got home.  Our television set was on.  A birthday celebration had been planned, but my parents were unsure what to do.  We ended up going out for a birthday dinner.  I remember the restaurant being very quiet, the employees and customers very somber. A television set was on for all to watch.  After dinner, there was a muted celebration. Relatives came to the house, presents were opened, and birthday cake was served. 

The day Kennedy was assassinated marked the end of “Camelot”, a period of national optimism and innocence.  What followed was the tumult that characterized the remainder of the ‘60’s. 

November 22^nd, 1963 was also the day my parents gave me a microscope.  It was not a plastic toy microscope.  It was a Swift student microscope, the kind used in the high schools.  It came in a heavy locked wooden cabinet.  It was anchored to the cabinet by a bolt, so it couldn’t slide around and get damaged in transport.  It had built in illumination and could magnify up to 600X. 

Over the next months and years, I built a small laboratory in the basement.  I did some primitive dissections, mostly on insects and worms.  From my specimens I prepared some primitive slides.  However, my favorite ‘experiment’ was examining drops of pond water under the microscope to see otherwise unseen creatures; daphnia, paramecium, and amoeba. 

Around then, I read Microbe Hunters by Paul De Kruif.  I learned about Louis Pasteur and Robert Koch, scientists who used the microscope to discover killer bacteria, heroic discoveries that subsequently led to cures and the saving of countless lives.  These famous scientists became my inspiration.  As it turned out, the day I got my microscope marked the beginning of a personal journey, culminating in my medical degree. 

November 22^nd, 1963, was my tenth birthday. It was a day of great historical significance.  And it was a day of great personal significance.  I remember that day well.

Discipline

“True freedom is impossible without a mind made free by discipline.”  Mortimer Adler (1902—2001)

When children and adolescents came to the office with out-of-control behavior, it was rarely for lack of punishment.  Many had accumulated years and years of punishments.  They’d been spanked, grounded, and yelled at.  They’d lost privileges and had possessions taken away.  Some had even been to court, in juvenile detention or on probation.  Most of these youngsters were over-punished and all were under-disciplined.

Mistakenly, impulse-ridden acting-out children are often labelled ‘willful’ whereas it would be more accurate to label them ‘will-less.’  They are not making ‘bad choices.’  There is no act of decision making.  Without self-discipline they don’t stop to think and choose.  They react.  Like tapping on a knee, their behavior is reflexive, not reflective.

It is important to know the difference between discipline and punishment.  Discipline comes from the Latin root ‘Discipulus’ meaning pupil.  Discipline is process of teaching that emphasizes hard work, the practice of good habits over time, setting long-term goals, and accepting delayed gratification.

Take for example a child learning to play a musical instrument.  Discipline is the 15 or 20 minutes spent practicing every day, even when they’d rather being doing something else, even when it feels boring or hard.  It may feel like punishment, but it’s not.  At first the music sounds clunky.  Scales are no fun.  But stick with it for a few months and they begin to play some melodies.  Stick with it for a few years and they begin to play and create beautiful music.

Punishment is getting yelled at or grounded for not practicing.  Punishment gets you no closer to the goal of mastery.  Practice does.  Inevitably a parent asks, “What do I do if my child refuses to practice.”  I reply, as in the movie Apollo 13, “Failure is not an option.”  “If your expectations are clear, your child will practice.”  (By the way, it is estimated that 1,200 hours of practice are needed to become 'good' on the violin.  6,000 to 8,000 hours of practice are needed to become a concert violinist.)

There are important keys to raising a disciplined child.  It takes a caring and committed parent, willing to instruct and to model.  The parent must teach the value of delayed gratification and help their child to set long-term goals.  The parent must motivate, conveying the belief in their child’s capacity for ultimate success. 

Disciplined, a child learns to postpone immediate gratification for more distant goals.  Disciplined, a child acquires the self-confidence that comes from hard work and achievement. Disciplined, a child grows prepared to assume adult responsibilities to family and to community.  Disciplined, a child is prepared to face life’s trials and challenges with courage and with character.

The Giving Tree

A popular children’s story begins, “Once there was a tree and she loved a little boy.”  When I first read The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein, I didn’t understand its wide appeal.  I thought it was an awful story about a self-centered child and a tree who couldn’t say ‘no.’  I thought that the story might as well have been titled The Taking Boy.  The tree gave without restraint, and without any expectation that the boy give back in return.  She gave until there was no more to give.  The boy initially loved the tree as a child might love his mother.  But as he grew, the tree became his object to use and exploit.  She freely gave, and he selfishly took her fruit, her branches and even her trunk.  He wasn’t concerned for the tree’s well-being.  He visited her only to ask for more.  He never said thank you.  He didn’t call on weekends.  He never brought his family over to visit.  Had the tree ever said no to the boy’s request, I believe that the boy would have left and never come back.

Over the years, as I’ve reread The Giving Tree, I’ve come to believe that there is a great deal of subtlety to the story, subtlety that I did not originally recognize.  If the story is heard as a charming parable of loving and giving, then I believe that the meaning is missed.  If it was intended as a children’s story, it is a children’s story without a happy ending.  The illustrations in the book are telling.  The pictures are sparse, lines drawn in black and white.  The little boy becomes an unhappy, withered and worn out old man.  The tree is reduced to nothing more than a stump to sit upon; nothing left to give, nothing left to offer to a new generation.

The Giving Tree is a classic best-selling children’s book.  What is its appeal?  Perhaps, each of us has wished at some time or another for a giving tree, a source that gives without end and that asks nothing of us in return.  The brilliance of the story is that it does not romanticize this fantasy.  Instead, Silverstein shows us the ultimate emptiness of mindless indulgence.  Some wishes are best left not granted.  Sometimes it is important for parents to set limits, for children to hear, “Enough!”  The story is as much for parents as it is for children. Who among us as parents wants to raise a taking child?

American History

There are no facts, only interpretations.” (Friedrich Nietzsche, 1844--1900)

History is not objective.  There is no such thing as “what really happened.”  History is made of facts selected, facts ignored and omitted, facts interpreted and ultimately facts arranged into a narrative. Histories are written, rewritten, and perpetually revised often reflecting the tenor of the times in which they are written. Though built upon facts, History is a subjective story that mirrors the historian’s bias and agenda.

My high school American History textbooks were written in the 1950’s or early 60’s, pre-Viet Nam, in the congratulatory post-WW-II years. My textbooks were full of facts to be memorized. The narrative was patriotic.  The focus was largely on events involving presidents, politicians, generals, explorers, industrialists, inventors, and an occasional scoundrel.  With a few token exceptions, American History was largely about the achievements of our nation’s notable white males.

A few months ago, I read These Truths: a History of the United States by Jill Lepore (2018).  It is a history of America from colonial through modern times.  With the facts she selected, omitted, interpreted, and wove into a narrative, this female historian has authored a new, credible, yet very different American History.  Her narrative is filled with facts about the often over-looked; African-Americans, Native Americans and women. Her history is full of facts, but it is a very different history from what I was once taught.  It is a more nuanced and questioning narrative that includes both this country’s epic achievements and its epic short comings.

I can’t help but wonder how today’s news will one day be recorded in the history books.  In real time, based on the same daily ‘facts’, there is no agreed upon narrative. There is a FOX narrative and there is a CNN narrative.  There is a GOP narrative and a Democratic Party narrative.  There is a narrative from those who are rabidly pro-Trump and a narrative from those who are equally adamant that Trump must go.  Fifty years from now who will tell the story?  Who will be the interpreters of these times?  Who will decide what facts to include and what to omit in the high school textbooks?  What will be the agenda?

Fifty years from now, these turbulent and troubled times will be written about and remembered.  But not objectively, not “what really happened.” There is no such thing.

Memories

I visited an old friend today.  His kid sister and niece were there too.  I did a lot of talking, recounting many memories of our growing up.  We go way back together.  I met Marc through a common friend when I was in second grade and he was in third.  I remembered that we went to Ash Grove Elementary school.  I remembered that I lived on Monaco Street and he lived on Ginger Court.

I talked about memories of the many adventures we shared over the years.  I recounted tales of our prowess playing touch-football. I recalled our competitions on the tennis court, at the poker table and over the chess board.  I remembered, when we were a bit older, the many times we skied together at Loveland and Winter Park. 

I remembered the times we got together at my house to ‘jam’, Marc on the violin, me on the guitar, our friend Paul on the piano and another friend Steve on clarinet.  Marc’s sister reminded us of the times at his house where we brought our stamp collections together to barter and to trade.

Marc and I once drove together to California to visit a friend.  I remember on that trip camping at Yosemite among the bears and camping at Lake Tahoe among the casinos.  Coming home, we camped at the Maroon Bells among the aspens.

When I was in medical school and Marc was in law school, we shared a house.  If I remember correctly, our total monthly rent was $121.72.  I remember that Marc disliked my cooking, especially my turkey soup made from a leftover carcass.

I remember being there for each other as we weathered the ups and downs of girlfriends and dating.  Eventually, I introduced Marc to my cousin, and they got married.  The same cousin introduced me to my wife-to-be.

Today, I shared with Marc my memories of last night, when I attended his daughter’s wedding.  I shared with him how in love his daughter and son-in-law appeared to be.  I told him that his other children seemed well and that his grandson looks just like him.  I told him that he could be very proud of his family.  I assured him that even though he wasn’t at the wedding, he was not forgotten.

Today, I was flooded by memories.  I needed to tell the old stories.  Marc had no stories and no memories to share.  About eight years ago his family noticed some subtle changes in his personality.  Now, he is in a nursing home due to his advanced dementia.  Marc has tremors. He speaks but a few words and can barely stay awake.  Marc was a good man and a dear friend.  Why this?

Marc no longer recognizes me.  For a few moments he seemed to recognize his sister and she was able to get him to smile, a smile from the past that I remember very well. 

Ecclesiastes

One week ago, on the holy day of Yom Kippur, Jews prayed that they be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life.  How odd that one week later, on the harvest festival of Sukkot, the biblical book of Ecclesiastes is read in which a disheartened author questions life’s significance.  “I thought the dead more fortunate than the living.  Better off than either is he who has not yet been.”  Last week we prayed for life.  This week we ask, “Why?”

Koheleth, the author of Ecclesiastes, raises fundamental existential questions. What is the point of our lives?  What is purpose of human events?  Like many of the modern existentialists, Koheleth finds no obvious answer.  To him the world appears stale and unalterable.  “There is nothing new under the sun.”  He comes to doubt the divine attributes of justice and mercy in a world where those who are evil prosper and those who are righteous suffer.  He finds nothing of substance in the pursuit of knowledge, power, wealth or pleasure.  All is for naught.  The wise and the foolish, man and animal, share the common fate of death.  Better never to have been born.

“Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.”  This familiar refrain, from the poetic English of the King James Bible, echoes throughout Ecclesiastes.  However, a more accurate translation of the Hebrew word hevel is not vanity, but breath or vapor.  “A breath of breaths.  All is but a breath.”  Ecclesiastes is not about vanity.  It’s about the elusive and illusory nature of our lives.  All is transient, like a breath exhaled, visible momentarily and then gone.

Despite doubt and disillusionment, Koheleth teaches a pragmatic philosophy of happiness.  Know that the cycle of life and death is inescapable, “a time to be born and a time to die.”  Therefore, understand and accept that which is inevitable.  Don’t pursue what is futile, because that leads to despair.  Instead, savor if you can the good fortune that comes during the brief span of life.  Live life in moderation.  “Do not be over-scrupulous.  Do not be wicked either.”  There is solace in the words of Koheleth, reassuring us that we don’t have to be perfect.  “There is no man so righteous that he always does what is best and never makes a mistake.”  Enjoy youth, appreciate good health, and rejoice in life’s bounty.  Seek companionship and “enjoy life with the woman you love all the fleeting days of your life.”

Why is Ecclesiastes read during the joyous harvest holiday of Sukkoth?  Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, the Days of Awe, have just passed.  Perhaps Ecclesiastes marks the beginning of a new spiritual cycle.  Yom Kippur and Sukkoth. . . “To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven.”  A time to repent and a time to question.  A time for faith and a time for doubt.

Middlemarch

“I can’t bear fishing.  I think people look like fools sitting watching a line hour after hour – or else throwing and throwing, and catching nothing.”  (from Middlemarch, by George Eliot)


A few weeks ago, at my wife’s prompting, I began reading Middlemarch a British novel, written in 1871 by Mary Anne Evans, better known by her pen name George Eliot.  I read her short novel Silas Marner in High School and hated it, but what the heck.  Middlemarch is a highly regarded classic, considered by some to be one of the great British novels of all time.  With that in mind, I set out to fill a significant hole in my reading resume.   

Having found an edition with sufficiently large font, I began the journey, page one.  Usually, by page 50 I can tell if I like a book.  Page 50 is my point of no return.  If I don’t like a book, I stop at page 50 and go on to something else.  Otherwise, I feel committed to finish what I’ve started.  With its flowery and difficult to understand Victorian English, I wasn’t loving Middlemarch, but neither was it so bad that I stopped at page 50.  I kept on reading.

As I read, I was aware of George Eliot’s craftsmanship with language, her ability to generate memorable and quotable phrases (like the disparaging comment about fishing cited above).  But as I read further into the novel, I realized that I couldn’t have cared less about the well-intentioned but highly dysfunctional protagonists Dorothea Brooke and Dr. Tertius Lydgate.  Meanwhile, I was struggling to keep track of a rapidly expanding list of bland and mostly unlikeable characters.  And to make it all-the-more challenging, Middlemarch is filled with obscure references to 1830’s British politics, which can only be understood with the addition of frequent annotations.  And I hate reading footnotes.

Middlemarch is a dauntingly long novel, running over 900 printed pages.  I made my way to about page 400, and then started making excuses for putting the book aside, reading less and less each day.  I was not enjoying Middlemarch and there were so many other books I would have rather been reading. 

There is a great psychological truth:  the larger the investment, the harder the defeat.  A good deal of my time was invested in this book, 400 pages read.  However, more than 500 pages to go.  It wasn’t going to happen.  I could go no further.  Admitting defeat, I surrendered.  I felt horrible that so much of my time and effort had been squandered. And for what?  But I decided that it was time to cut my losses and move on to something different.

Fortunately, I didn’t feel horrible for too long.  I had an idea.  With an investment of only thirty-minutes more of my time, I finished Middlemarch chapters 43 through 86 and the finale, learned what happened to each of the characters, found out how the story ended, and was able to put the book up on my shelf with no guilt or regret.

Thanks to SparkNotes online.

Fasting

"Who is strong?  One who governs his urges."  (attributed to Simon ben Zoma, circa 100 AD)

“. . . that which is decisive is not the performance of rituals at distinguished occasions but how they affect the climate of the entire life.”  (Abraham Joshua Heschel, 1907—1972)


Throw most hungry animals a morsel of food and they will fight to get it first.  They don’t pause to say thank-you.  They don’t offer to share the morsel with the others, and the morsel is quickly wolfed down.  Flavor matters little and one morsel doesn’t satisfy.

Endowed with a capacity for choice, humans are unique among animals.  We can decide to share bread together and to pause for a moment to say thanks.  We can refrain from eating, until we are sure that everyone has been served.  We can choose to eat unhurried, aware of our food, tasting and enjoying each bite.  We can eat with restraint and moderation, rejecting gluttony.

Many religions have rules to eat by.  One purpose of the rules is to foster self-control, and it is through self-control that we distinguish ourselves from the animals.  Beginning as instinct-driven we learn to become self-disciplined.  From reflexive we become reflective.  When no longer captive to our impulses and appetites we acquire the power to freely choose.

Yom Kippur is approaching, and as I have done every year of my adult life, I will again choose to observe a 24-hour fast.  In contrast to daily need-gratifying behavior, during the fast I choose to live with my hunger.  I am reminded, when fasting, that I am not enslaved by appetite.  I am reminded to feel compassion for those who have no choice but to go hungry, and to feel grateful that I may choose.  During the fast of Yom Kippur, on the day of atonement, I am asked to look deep within myself, to acknowledge the hurts I have caused, and to seek forgiveness.  No animals, only humans, can abstain from physical nourishment in pursuit of spiritual nourishment. 

Weakened by fasting, I become stronger.

Prayer

“This act is prayer by which term I understand no vain experience of words, no mere repetition of certain sacred formulae, but the very movement itself of the soul, putting itself in personal relation of contact with the mysterious power of which it feels the presence.  Whenever this interior prayer is lacking, there is no religion.  Wherever this prayer rises and stirs the soul, even in the absence of forms or of doctrines we have living religion.”  (William James, 1842—1920)

“Prayer may not save us, but prayer makes us worth saving.”  (Abraham Joshua Heschel, 1907—1972)

 “Ideas about God come and go, but prayer, the struggle to find meaning even in the darkest circumstances must continue.”  (Karen Armstrong, 1944-- )

 “Prayer opens eyes to wonder.  Prayer opens hearts to gratitude and compassion.  Prayer opens souls to that which is greater than the self.  Prayer is the music and lyrics of religion.”   (GB)


It is Rosh Hashanah.  How does an agnostic pray?  For the agnostic, a prayer spoken does not mean a prayer heard.  I am agnostic.  Prayer does not come easily.

I have prayed sitting in services, as part of a congregation, but at those times I often felt disconnected, removed from the prayer.  The words come out in monotone, lacking meaning, and I am left feeling disingenuous and empty.  Now, when attending services, I bring a book.  I read and study while others around me pray.

I have prayed from the heart when, metaphorically, I’ve been in the foxhole.  When I feared for myself or the well-being of my loved ones, I found it easy to pray.

I too rarely remember to recite prayers of thanks and gratitude.  I should do so more often.  If unhappy, I try to remind myself of the good fortune in my life.  Perhaps this self-talk is a kind of prayer.

At holidays and family gatherings I have blessed my children and grandchildren bestowing upon them the ancient prayer, “May God bless you and keep you.”  That prayer comes easily.

I wrote a prayer that hung on my office wall.  It was a prayer for children, especially for those children whose parents came seeking my help and advice.

                Grant this child health.

                Grant this child peace.

                Grant this child courage, love and dignity.

                Grant this child the blessing of a life well lived.

I know where my prayer came from.  I was often humbled when faced with my limitations.  I saw many children for whom health and healing required a power and knowledge far greater than mine.

I don’t know where prayers go.  I said my prayer for children unsure to whom or what it was directed, doubting, yet hoping  that it was heard.

My Vacation

“One great thing about fly fishing is that after a while nothing exists of the world but thoughts about fly fishing.”  (Norman Maclean, 1902—1990)

I am now one week back from my car trip through Colorado.  I set out with three goals in mind; to learn about the geology of the land, to see Colorado’s four National Parks, and to fly fish in as many rivers as possible.  Mission accomplished.

For anyone travelling to Colorado, I recommend September in order to avoid the summer hordes of tourists and in order to enjoy some of Colorado’s finest weather.  In September the rivers are low and the fishing is generally good. The elk are mating.  Mule deer and moose are plentiful.  Late in September the Aspen’s are beginning to turn colors.  Travel in September and you will observe the migratory behavior of the Baby Boomers.

Regarding geology, my trip took me from a craton, to an orogeny and back again to the craton. The middle part of the U.S. sits on the Great Craton, a rather inert expanse of the earth’s crust where little activity has occurred other than oceans rolling in and out over millions of years.  This accounts for the flatness of Kansas, and the sedimentary nature of its rocks.  An orogeny is a rather sexy sounding word meaning ‘mountain forming’, the Laramide Orogeny occurring about 70 million years ago when molten igneous rock pushed upwards into layers of sedimentary rock, leading to the formation of much of the Rocky Mountains.

Each of the four National Parks (The Great Sand Dunes, Mesa Verde, Black Canyon of the Gunnison, and Rocky Mountain National Park) is geologically distinct and each merits a visit, but for anyone who’s never been there, I highly recommend Mesa Verde National Park in Colorado’s southwest corner. Beautiful scenery and stunning vistas combine with the archaeologic remnants and the cliff dwellings of an early Native Pueblo civilization dating from 700 AD until 1400 AD.  Not only is it a national park but it is a designated UNESCO World Heritage Site.

As for fishing, I stood in the Arkansas River, the Animas, the Uncompahgre, the San Miguel, the Gunnison, and the Colorado River.  I stood in the rivers fishing, not necessarily catching.  Trout are finicky eaters and it took me time to figure out that a trout’s September diet is different from its summer diet of mayflies and caddisflies. In September, Colorado trout eat grasshoppers and ants that fall into the water as well as very tiny midges that hatch under the water.  I was eventually able to catch and release some nice fish, catching my last two fish near Sprague Lake on the east side of Rocky Mountain National Park.  My penultimate fish was a mere inch-and-a-half brook trout.  My final fish was my best catch of the vacation, a twelve-inch scarlet cutthroat trout.

Vacation has come and gone. Time is a strange thing.  From the perspective of geology, time is measured in millions, even billions, of years.  From the perspective of archaeology, time is measured in hundreds or thousands of years.  A lifetime is measured in decades.  A vacation is measured in days and weeks.  And from the perspective of fly fishing, time temporarily ceases to exist.

Enablers

In the jargon of family therapy, the word “enabler” has a special meaning.  An enabler is the family member who assumes responsibility on behalf an under-functioning, often addicted, other. The enabler rescues the other from the consequences of bad behavior. The enabler makes excuses on behalf of the other. There may be a little nagging every now and then, but really the enabler demands and expects very little from the other. Understandably, the enabled other willingly accepts this all-too-comfortable arrangement.

The actions of the enabler imply, “Since you aren’t functioning, I will do for you.”  The enabler conveys the covert message, “You are incompetent and irresponsible. You need me!”  An enabler and the enabled other enter into a mutual pact that inadvertently, but effectively, stifles incentive to change and to grow.  The resulting relationship is not one of mutuality and shared responsibility.  The relationship is instead a self-perpetuating cycle of dysfunction, dependency and codependency.

Enablers are not only found in the context of families.  As I see it, for many, government has become the great enabler.

Almost sixty years ago, the nation was thrilled by the inaugural speech of newly elected president John F. Kennedy.  Every grown-up and child knew the words, “And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you -- ask what you can do for your country.”  No such words, not even tepid approximations, are heard from current leaders and politicians.  None would dare to do so.  Instead, amidst an ethos of entitlement, we hear over and over ludicrous promises of massive government handouts, while simultaneously ignoring a ballooning national debt, a crumbling infrastructure, international nuclear proliferation, threats of cyber-warfare and catastrophic man-made climate change.

For a democracy to function there must be an expectation for personal, and not just governmental, competence and responsibility.  I don’t want to see our country led by enablers who feel compelled to function on behalf of an under-functioning populace.  In the election year to come, I will not vote for a candidate who speaks only about “what your country can do for you.”  I will listen for a leader who speaks to us, rich and poor alike, as “my fellow Americans,” and who like President Kennedy will call us to task, asking us to consider what we must all do as competent and responsible citizens for the sake of our endangered country.

SIlence is Olden

“All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.”  (Blaise Pascal, 1623--1662)

“Mental reflection is so much more interesting than TV it’s a shame more people don’t switch over to it.  They probably think what they hear is unimportant, but it never is.”  (Robert Pirsig, 1928 --2017)



The Chosen, written in 1967 by Chaim Potok, is a story about silence.  One of the characters, Danny, is brilliant but with an unfeeling heart.  His father knows he must teach his child to feel for others, and to do so imposes a difficult father-son silence.  Potok narrates the pain of silence, both for the father and for the son.  But as the story develops, we witness Danny’s transformation of character, the process of growth catalyzed by his father’s silent discipline.  As the story ends, Danny, with a broken yet now compassionate heart, begins a new journey, to study Freud.

Sigmund Freud appreciated the transforming power of silence.  In Freudian psychoanalysis, the therapist maintains a silence, instructing patients to report uncensored any and all thoughts and feelings that enter awareness.  In the supportive environment of the analyst’s office, patients are instructed to do the hard work of self-reflection in order to begin their journey of personal growth and discovery.

The transforming power of silence may also have been recognized in biblical times.  After the exodus from Egypt, Moses and the Israelites wandered in the desert for 40 years.  The Bible tells us of the journey’s beginning and the journey’s end but says little about the 38 years of wandering in the middle.  A biblical commentary says that God and Moses were silent during those years, but we are not told why.  Was it silence in anger?  Was it silence as punishment?  Or was it silence that helped transform a wandering generation?

Thirty-eight years of silence was hard discipline imposed upon a people who needed to turn inward in order to begin their journey of growth and transformation.  As slaves they were conditioned to wait passively for their master’s instructions.  Once freed, they had to learn to listen to their own inner voice.  Free will and moral choice come not from obedience to a master, but from an ability to feel, to think and to reason.

And where there is no silence?  Authors such as Orwell, Huxley, Bradbury and Vonnegut imagined dystopic future worlds where people are enslaved not by the lash, but by constant noise.  They imagined worlds in which minds are filled and controlled by the constant drone of meaningless chatter, gratuitous imagery and programmed misinformation.

In my quiet and contemplative moments, I worry about the noise that occupies our children’s minds.  Developmentally critical hours are spent bombarded by fast-paced, action-oriented, mindless noise.  Children come to school transfixed in their electronic virtual reality.  Glassy eyed, they come numbed and unprepared to do the hard work of thinking and learning.  Children need silent time in order to develop their minds, their imaginations and their emotions.

In a modern world, we are all bombarded by electronic sights and sounds.  In contrast, silence is olden.  But we need silent time.  It doesn’t take 38 years.  Just a bit of time to silently wander, every now and then, would do miracles.

Limitations

I am haunted by this short story:

“Once a fiddler played so sweetly that all who heard him began to dance, and whoever came near enough to hear, joined in the dance.  Then a deaf man who knew nothing of music, happened along, and to him all he saw seemed the action of madmen – senseless and in bad taste.”  (from Tales of the Hasidim, by Martin Buber)

There are those who hear what I cannot hear,

There are those who see what I cannot see.

Often, the poet hears that to which I am deaf.

Often, the artist sees that to which I am blind.

There are many who have helped me to hear a little better, and who have helped me to see a little clearer.

There are times when I can do no better than to recognize and accept my deafness and my blindness.

Before judging others, I must recognize and accept my limitations. 

There are those who imagine what I cannot imagine.

There are those who understand what I cannot understand.

There are those who feel what I cannot feel.

These limitations I recognize and accept . . . reluctantly.

This is Pickleball

My wife and I are learning to play pickleball.  Recently introduced to the game by my in-laws, we watch instructional videos and play once or twice-a-week, gimpy knees and all.

For several years, I’d heard of the game.  I was put off by the name.  Pickleball just sounded too silly.  I was put off by the characterization of pickleball as tennis for old people.  In fact, there are a lot of old people playing the game.

A pickleball court is 1/4^th the size of a tennis court, so there’s less court to cover. The game is usually played with a partner, which further cuts down on the running.  The game is played with an oversized ping-pong paddle and a wiffleball.  Compared to tennis, when hitting the ball there is less torque on the arm, which means less chance for injury.  Still, playing pickleball is a surprisingly good workout.

The scoring is a little confusing at first.  Each game is played to eleven points.  You only get a point if you’re serving.  With each point you serve you must call out three numbers; your score, your opponent’s score AND a server’s number, either one or two.  If you want to check your mental status, you can also call out the date and day.

The net is at the same height as tennis.  The baseline is 22 feet from the net.  There is also a line 7 feet from the net.  Anything inside of that line is called the kitchen, and with a few notable and confusing exceptions, even if you can stand the heat, you must stay out of the kitchen when hitting the ball.

The serve must land in the opposite opponent’s half of the court, beyond the kitchen line.  The ball must bounce before being returned.  Unlike tennis, the ball must bounce again on the return of the return.  Only then can the ball be hit from the air.  Beginner’s strategy is simple, play it forward.  Get yourself and your partner up to the kitchen line after the third hit, and then try your best to keep hitting the ball over the net.

There is a group of mostly elderly pickleball players, men and women, that meet Monday through Friday, 7:30am at the local pickleball courts.  My wife and I warn them we are beginners, and we are nevertheless welcomed.  We rotate teams, different partners each game.  Even the very skilled players have been kind and patient with us.

During one game, my wife apologized for a missed hit.  She was informed, “This is pickleball, no need to apologize.”  Between games, my wife and I sat on the sidelines, watching two notably better players warming up.  They invited us to play.  Being newcomers to the sport, we declined.  One of them looked at us and said, “You’re missing the point. This is pickleball.  You're supposed to be social.  Get out here and have some fun.”

And we did.

Reading and Writing

“We must learn to feel addressed by a book, by the human being behind it, as if a person spoke directly to us.”  (Walter Kaufmann, 1921—1980)

“Maybe we understand, in some way, that books represent the permanent part of us that can “shed” the body and live on for a time in the new form of words.”  (Roger Kamenetz, 1950--)

Is reading my hobby?  No more so than eating and breathing.  It’s my sustenance.  I am driven to read by unquenchable curiosity.

I am a bibliophile. I treasure books, real books, not ebooks. When I read a book, I need to hold it, turn each page, underline and make occasional notes in the margins.  At times, I find books oppressive.  Books unread remind me of my finiteness; how much I don’t know, how much I still want to learn, how little time there is.  Mortality forces me to choose and prioritize, to read some and to put aside so many others.

Sometimes when I read great books and essays, I imagine I'm listening in on a great conversation, ideas being discussed and debated, back and forth defying barriers of time and space.  When I write, I pretend that I am no longer a passive listener, but a small contributor to that eternal dialogue.

Is writing my hobby?  No, it’s my creative outlet and my therapy.  The best self-help book I’ll ever read?  The one I’ve yet to write.

It’s easy for me to read. It’s hard for me to write. The more I write, the more I fall behind in my reading. I find excuses to not write. It takes time and effort.  It takes a willingness to be vulnerable; a willingness to accept the scrutiny and criticism of readers.  Perhaps hardest is wanting the writing to matter, fearing that it will not.

I write for my children. I want them to know me for my beliefs and ideas, for my occasional humor and my occasional wisdom. And if they happen to read what I’ve written, I hope they hear my open invitation to join me in a great conversation.  Here are my thoughts and beliefs.  Now, I want to know, what are yours?

This is my 50^th blog post.  Time out while I catch up on some reading.

Plausible Truth

“. . . we know truth not only through reason but more so through the heart.  It is in this latter way that we know first principles, and it is in vain that reason, which plays no part in this, tries to combat them.”  (Blaise Pascal, 1623—1662) 

Many believe in the truth of God.  Many believe that, in truth, there is no God.

Many believe in the truth of a transcendent source of good and evil.  Many believe, in truth, that humans alone decide the measure of good and evil.

All truths follow from unprovable first principles.  Many believe that, in truth, we live in a material world made of matter and energy only, explainable by the properties of matter and energy alone.  This is the prevailing presumption of the sciences.  Many others believe that, in truth, the world is made of matter, energy and something more.  ‘Something more’ has been called sentience, spirit, creative force, oneness.  Most commonly ‘something more’ has been called God. This is the prevailing presumption of religion.

It seems to me that there are truths, perhaps some of the most important truths, that defy proof.  Yet, they are the truths that stir great passion, conviction and devotion. Let’s call these plausible truths.

Plausible truths have been reasoned, witnessed, experienced and believed by many.  Plausible truths have also been denied, disputed and disbelieved by many others.  People have argued, fought, killed and died for their plausible truths.

Plausible truths are built upon unprovable first principles, principles that are accepted in faith. Reason then must explore and question the implications of these first principles.  “It is not certainty which one acquires so, only plausibility, but that is the best we can hope for.”  (Milton Steinberg, 1903-1950)

Plausible truths can neither be proved nor disproved. Don’t try to convince me of that which can’t be proved.  I won’t dispute with you that which I can’t disprove.  I live with plausibility, not certainty.  I have my truths.  You have yours.